And at first we found one, and then we found more As we marched on our foot weary way By which I mean wives, as proud as could be With their red golden hair and buttermilk skin They lightened our hearts as we went on our way For no farm was complete without stock and a wife And we knew we must nearly be there. Did Gunnar prove true?
Aye, surely he did For look where we sit for this tale. Look round at the house with its heather thatched roof And great timbers that hold up the sky And see by the fire, who stirs up the pot But a redheaded maiden who smiles And see where the fields spread golden and green By a river that foams like the sea And over us all are the hills dark and high Where clouds dash like the breakers on shore.
Some futuristic laser-gun type shooting action sequences, a damn cool foldaway desert bike, thrilling edge-of-the-seat aero-chases — all this notwithstanding, my biggest grouch would be that how could they make this sci-fi so boring? Read more. How can something so technical be so melodic, yet be so damn beautiful? She fancies herself a student of the Ayleids, although she sadly lacks any aesthetic instinct whatsoever. The ancient texts refer to this site only as "The High Fane". What can I do for you?
What a crossing we had, that brave band of men Who came cross the sea with Lord Gunnar. The grey sea she took us and tossed us around The widowmaker gnawed at our keel She harried and chased us and she blew and she swore Till we cried out for mercy and wept with our fear.
One of our band went mad with all and leapt for her arms And was lost. For the rest, we kept faith and we prayed to God Thor And we came at last to the land. What a grand land it was, with its deer and its wolves Its hunting dogs grey and so fast And clear-eyed, tall women Who fought with their men and died there with pride Though we all tried our best not to kill.
But the blood it flowed red and the fires burnt so bright And we swept our hard way through it all For Gunnar had a plan and a fine place to go And we followed his sword with our lives. We left our ship on the bone-strewn beach and we marched Our way inland.
We crossed heath and moor, deep vale and stream Till we came to the foot of a hill And here we stopped for a year and a day To rest, lick our wounds and clean our dull knives And grow fat with the meat of the land. I remember thinking of Cyrodiil as a vibrant world full of strange challenges when I first played.
I still got flashes of that—particularly when catching sight of the stainedglass windows in various chapels—but generally the world had a slightly muddy colour palette, the faces looked horrible and the objects were that strange combination of indistinct textures and jagged edges. Dialogue was generally entertainingly stilted and I do still have a peculiar soft spot for how unnatural and weird the speechcraft minigame is.
I spent my first trip through an Oblivion gate jogging backwards in circles while flinging fireballs at various villains. That was a failsafe strategy for every single fight—lure the scary person to the circular room with the walkway round the edge and then jog backwards, launching a fireball when my mana was charged enough. Anyway, something which has remained the same over the last decade or so is my desire to hoard.
unstersacomroe.cf: This Glorious Oblivion eBook: Lauren Antrosiglio, Reagan Schmissrauter: Kindle Store. "With 'This Glorious Oblivion', Lauren Antrosiglio bursts onto the landscape of American poetry with grace and bravado, illuminating the beauty.
I am currently overencumbered and will continue to be overencumbered at five-minute intervals for the rest of the game. Oblivion, you see, claims to be a game about thwarting a cult, but is secretly an ongoing quest to figure out how many wolf pelts you want to keep hold of at any given time. For me the answer is three.
And two skulls. And one tan jug. And a bear pelt. And two ribcages.