While we're waiting for 10

In case you've ever wondered what I do, when I should be writing, drawing or dancing like a monkey for your amusement, here it is. I run around shooting my friends, both with virtual bullets, and actual insults. I've been a part of a small gaming community for the last eight years, and I've wasted countless potentially productive hours playing around with them, and I don't regret a second of it.

While you're awaiting QTMC in what I can only assume is breathless anticipation, here's a little snippet of gameplay footage of a round of Battlefield 3 from yesterday, where my choice of weapon quickly got on people's nerves. So if you're a fan of impenetrable in-jokes and crazy accents, you should give it a click, and I'll just finish the next comic strip in the meantime.

I'm the one with the obnoxious laugh.

QTMC #8

Comic strips! You guys remember I used to dabble in that, right?

Well, I'm back, my beautiful readers, with the brand spanking new Quick Time Moral Choice numero 8, and for the first time, it's actually topical. By now I suppose all of you have heard of the ending debacle surrounding this year's most anticipated trilogy closer, Mass Effect 3, and that very ending which I won't spoil here, affected me so much that I had to make a comic about it. In short, I was severely dissapointed by the amount of plotholes and the lack of closure the last 15 minutes of the final game in my favorite games trilogy provided.

So, drawing this was a means of catharsis for me, and hopefully, for you as well. Unless you liked the ending of course. Then I'm happy for you. I'm still just as devasted. And yes, I know it bothers me disproportionally. There are alot of problems in th world which should take presedence, but it's Mass Effect, dammit! Damn BioWare for making me love too much, and then punch me in the face, as I closed my eyes and leaned in for the kiss.

Anyhoo, since alot of you may not have finished the game, and the comic strip spoils it completely, I've hidden it behind the link you'll find below. Promise me that you won't click it until you've finished the game. Promise!

You sexy thing...

Quick Time Moral Choice 8

Quick Time Moral Tales 5

Warning: Games spoiled in this blog post: None, as far as I can tell. 

Angel of the Battlefield

The smell was practically a corporeal entity in the small, yet densely populated cellar. A thick, invisible mist that tasted like sweat, smoke, weapon oil and alcohol revealed most of what you needed to know about the makeup of the slightly odd gathering. Every chair around every table was occupied, with singing, shouting, brawling soldiers celebrating a job well done. The skew was definitely quite male, with the few women present making sure to pull their caps as far down in front of their faces as possible. They knew what to expect from the laughing, fist-bumping congregation surrounding them, should they be caught wind of. The losing team, or noobs, as the winners referred to them as were also present, but apart from a few angry yells of cheating or foul play, they kept mostly quiet and to themselves. 

Just as another round of beers was being handed out, a thin, wiry man with a shamagh covering most of his face, and a long, intimidating bolt-action sniper rifle rested across his chest jumped up on one of the flimsy wooden tables, and stood there, silently, waiting for everyone's attention. He held his hands out to the side, as if politely asking for silence, as more and more heads turned towards him. When he felt a sufficiently large part of the crowd was looking at him, he finally opened his mouth to speak. 

"Bitches!" he shouted, and got a wave of laughs and raised glasses in return. He started pacing back and forth across the poor table, which looked about ready to topple over at any minute, like a rock star making his audience wait for their favorite song. 

"Most of you don't know me," he announced with a cocky grin camouflaged by the shamagh. "Most of you have never seen me before. But I know all of you," he said, and let a pointed finger run across the entire crowd, before resting his hand on his rifle

"I see you through the 12x ballistic scope of my M40A5 sniper rifle, and in the breathless moment before I take your life, I am closer to you than your mother, your father and a whole gaggle of your closest friends combined. I am a sniper, and though I may be acres away when I pull my trigger, I am right next to you when you die."

"You're full of shit!" came a call from the audience, which triggered a wave of laughter, and calls for the young sniper to get off the damn table. 

Instead of complying, he spun around in the direction of the man who had shouted at him, shifting his weight around so that the table didn't break underneath him. Then he waited for a moment, for his captive audience to settle down. As the silence descended, he expertly twisted his hand down to the rifle's bolt, and pulled it back in a motion so smooth and practiced, he didn't even have to look down as his gloved hand snatched the ejected bullet casing out of the air. With his eyes surveying the crowd, he held it up between two of his fingers, triumphantly. 

"This casing contained a 7.62x51mm NATO round, which left my barrel at 777 meters p/s, and 1.59 seconds and 1.239 meters later connected with its target, the right eye of my enemy."

"Thanks for the math lesson, professor!" came another call from the audience, and another wave of laughter. 

"No. Thank you for making my point," the sniper grinned. "Because whereas the rest of you Neanderthals run around clubbing and blowing up anything you see, I operate on a higher level. I am a surgeon among teamsters, and my rifle is my scalpel." 

As if to emphasize his point, the sniper slid the bolt back into place, making sure it made more noise than necessary. He lifted the rifle above his head, and held it there for a few seconds, silently allowing his rant to build to its crescendo. 

"I am the one who ends your existence when you feel the safest, I am the angel of Death stalking the battlefield, and I the one protecting my comrades when their hour is darkest. I am the one who can spot a target a nation away, and with a gentle tug of my trigger, unleash the magic shot. I am the one who creates the pink mist. I am a sniper, and the master of the battlefield." 

He had said enough. The audience shouted a hearty HOOAH! as the sniper jumped down, and cockily strode back to his seat. As he did, however, another man sitting two tables over, took a deep swig of his beer, and got to his feet, climbing awkwardly up on his own table. He had a long bullet belt hanging around his neck, and he carried a heavy, cumbersome machine gun between his hands. As the crowd noticed him, he cocked his head to the side, and threw a venomous glance at the sniper. 

"I'm sure we're all suitably impressed by our surgeon friend in the corner," he said with a mocking golf clap. "How many kills do you rack up during an encounter, doctor? Two? Three?" 

A loud metallic noise reverberated through the premises as he cocked his heavy firearm.

"In front of me, I'm holding the M249 SAW. Like the name implies, this bitch, when treated correctly, will shear a man in half. In the right hands, mine, I can lay waste to entire squads of enemies who try to fuck with me, or my team."

HOOAH!

The crowd was loving it. 

"I carry your ammo to the battle, and I keep the enemy from sticking his head of the hole he hides in. Keep your scalpel and your two kills, junior. This is a man's war."

HOOAH!

Before the machine gunner could even get off the table, another man, wearing a pilot's g-suit stood up, ready to grab the bragging baton. And so it continued. One after one, soldier after soldier, they all stood up to announce to their drunken comrades how vastly superior they were to all of them. Helicopter pilots, mine layers, commandos, mortar crews and anti-air personnel. They were all saluted with increasingly loud HOOAHs. Apart from the one guy who spent most of his time on the table slowly licking his knife. That just made everyone uncomfortable. Just as the tank driver was basking in his plaudits, the floorboards over in the darkest corner started creaking violently, and a slow, ironic clapping could be heard, as a beast of a man walked into the light, illuminating his scarred face. His steely, sunken eyes surveyed the room menacingly, as he stepped into the middle of the floor, still clapping, mocking the tank driver as he jumped down off the table. In the corner of his mouth, he was chomping on a small stub of a cigar. 

"Well done, all of you!" he barked ironically, in a voice so rasping, it could grate cheese. "Look at you. Never have I been in the company of such a collection of bad-asses. Such manly men among men. Fucking one-man armies, the whole bunch of you. So eager to maim and kill your enemies. No fear, no regret..."

"Who the fuck are you?" the sniper shouted angrily. 

"'Who the fuck am I'"? the man snapped, and walked over to the sniper's table, hovering over him, eclipsing the light hanging from the roof. "I saw your 'magic shot'. It must have been an impressive view through your scope. Nearly a mile away, and right through the poor bastards eye, right?"

The sniper nodded, hesitantly. 

"Wrong!" the big man shouted, and slammed both his huge hands down on the table, making the sniper jump. "You hit him in the head alright. Glanced off his skull right above the ear. Enough to make total, bloody mess of his head, but not enough to kill him. Not right away. Who am I? I am the one who could do nothing but hold his hand, and pump him full of morphine as he slowly and agonizingly died." 

He turned to face the rest of the room. 

"I am the one who runs into the machine gunners fire in a foolish attempt at saving the man he's just shorn in half. I'm the one who treats the third degree burns the bomber pilot has inflicted on a squad of unsuspecting boys in uniform. I am the fucking one who has to stuff the stab victim's wound full of gauze to stop the profuse bleeding your knife has caused. Would you stop licking that thing for one damn minute!? Everyone thinks you're weird."

The big medic took a deep puff from his stogie, and sighed hard. 

"You all make me sick. Every one of you. You don't give a second thought to the misery and the pain you cause, and leave to people like me to clean up. You fight in these endless conflicts, day in and day out, oblivious to the fact that nothing ever comes of it. There are no winners in this war. We finish one skirmish, and jump right into the next, and nothing ever changes. We are caught in an endless cycle of suffering and death, and no-one seems to mind."

The room went silent. No-one was singing or clapping, the sound of glasses clinking together had died down, and every head in the room sank towards the floor. For a split second, you could see a flicker in the medic's jaded eyes. Had he finally gotten through to them? Was this the start of something new, something better? Maybe the chance for co-operation and understanding, rather than this senseless conflict?

Suddenly the room erupted into another rapturous HOOAH! and the medic, dejected, had his answer. Everyone got on their feet, and started piling together to get to the exit as fast as possible. Above the large double doors, a neon sign had lit up, and a familiar countdown had started anew. 

The Next Round Begins In: 7...6...5...4 

       

Quick Time Moral Tales 3

It was my intention this week to take you on a journey into the weird and wonderful world of Electronic Arts' Soviet Strike, and its batshit crazy final level, but contemporary events have made me reconsider. This week, something happened. Something that both humbled me, and made me re-evaluate my deeply entrenched, cynical view of humanity as a whole. So take my hand and come along, as I lead you instead into the bleak and terrifying world...

...of Dark Souls. 

Warning: Games spoiled in this blog post: Dark Souls (PS3)

The Stranger in the Dark

I'm bleeding. 

I don't want to look down, but I can feel my blood trickling out between my fingers, clutched as they are around what may be my bane wound. My back is rested awkwardly against the cold stone wall behind me, and the only sound I can hear is the swishing of the heavy metal blades swinging back and forth, suspended from the roof above. I've managed to make it past them, and even now, they continue their monotonous dance, deadly traps, taunting you, daring you to try to make it past them. They are in plain sight. They don't need to be hidden, because they are just as deadly either way. I've made it this far, but I've paid a heavy price for my progress. I am practically at Death's door, and every healing remedy I had has been spent sustaining me for my trudge through this hideous place, this Sen's Fortress. 

Sen's Fortress.

I'd curse you to Hell; if I was convinced you aren't actually a deep, festering circle of it. It's been a while since I've heard the hideous hissing of the snake-headed guards who protect you from intruders like me. It's been longer still since I saw the last of the bonfires, the only safe havens that exist in this awful place. I set out in search of another one, hoping that I'd find one in here, but so far I've found naught but pain and misery. And though I'd like to push forward, I'm not sure I have the strength to do so any longer. Maybe I'll just stay here and wait to expire, cold and unremembered, punishment for whatever unforgiveable sins have banished me to this place. It almost seems preferable to venturing further into the darkness ahead. I slump down further, and my eyes begin to close.

No sooner are they shut, then they open widely in terror. I look around, my heart suddenly pumping three times as hard, and my senses alert to pick up the slightest sight, sound or smell. 

My world has been invaded. Another filthy wretch, much like me, probably driven to madness or desperation by the things he's seen and done, has forced his way into this world, with the intention of taking from me what little I have, to further his own futile attempts at making his way through this maze, to find the next bonfire, or even the promised land of Anor Londo, said to lie somewhere beyond this dreary ruin. It's happened before, and the bastards always get what they came for. They are always better equipped, better prepared or more skilled than I am. Why would this time be any different? Maybe I should just surrender, let him have what he came for, and allow him to end my misery without a fight. 

My eyes dart back and forth frantically. I have no idea where he'll be coming from, but I know he's headed this way. And then he appears. A solitary knight comes into view, an angry red hue outlining his silhouette across the bridge, as he disappears and re-appears behind the swinging blades between us. He starts walking towards me, with heavy, slow and yet deadly determined steps. This bastard is out for blood, and even the minute amount that I have left will sate his thirst. 

A grim determination comes over me. If I'm going down to this invader, I'm going down swinging. With fresh strength, I stumble to my feet and raise my giant shield in front of me. It covers me from the bridge of my nose to the bottom of my calves, but it won't do me much good once I'm too exhausted to lift it, which will probably be his tactic; he will throw blow after blow at my shield, until my arm gets too tired to hold it, and then he will murder me to death. As I look around for anything in the area that can possibly turn this encounter in my favour, I suddenly realize that he will have to pass through the blades. Not too difficult in itself. All he has to do is wait for it to pass, and then shimmy past it before it comes back again. But an armed and angry opponent on the other side might make this more challenging than he had hoped for. I stop a yard in front of the final blade, and I wait. 

He doesn't look like he's in much of a hurry, as he saunters past the first blade, and then the second and third. Only one left between us now. He stops in front of it, and just looks at me, and all I can do is imagine the evil, smug look in his eyes underneath his helmet. Slowly, he lifts his hand and my entire body tenses up, every muscle straining to make use of the little strength I have left.

He's waving at me...

Why is he waving at me?! 

This man is sicker than I could have imagined. Not content with coming into my world to kill me, he actually means to taunt me first. Does his cruelty know no boundaries? That's it! Just for that, I'm taking him to hell with me. As the blade between us once again swings by, he closes the final gap between us, and slips past it. Just as he stops in front of me again, I muster all my strength into my legs, and I kick him full on in the stomach, making him stumble and take a step backwards, just as the blade returns. I let out a roar of triumph as the invader gets struck, and falls off the bridge in a spray of blood. 

I did it! I can't believe I did it! I killed him.

As I rest my hands on my knees to catch my breath however, I get a glimpse of something moving down in the darkness below. Sweet, merciful God, he is not dead! He survived the both the blade and the fall, and now's he's coming for me again. There is nothing for it now. I have to move; try to somehow find the next bonfire before he gets his revenge. Panic is gripping at me as I rush up the stairs leading deeper into the fortress. I'm running as fast as my legs will carry me, all caution thrown to the wind. All that matters now is speed and luck.

Naturally, my luck runs out about 2 seconds later, when I'm suddenly staring down the hallway at yet another damn snake guard. I hate these abominations with every fiber of my being. What evil could have spawned this horror, with the body of a man, and the head of a snake? I run at him with my mightiest battle cry echoing down the dead halls and hallways of Sen's Fortress, and I shove my gigantic halberd right through the monster's chest, and I gag at the sickly, terrifying gurgle he makes as he falls over dead. As I pull my weapon from his carcass however, I realize the fight wasn't won as smoothly as I thought. I drop to my knees as a fresh wound in my side, in the shape of the serrated edge of my slain opponent's sword, seeps another stream of what little blood is left in my body onto the ground in front of me. 

This is the end. 

There is no going further from here. This is where I die, and leave only a simple bloodstain behind. I can hear footsteps behind me. The invader has caught up with me already. It takes a few agonizing moments before he comes into view again, and walks casually into the room, not stopping until he is hovering menacingly above me. And then he just stands there, looking at me, like a serial killer, basking in the fear and embarrassment of his victim, before he sticks the knife in. 

But the knife doesn't come. We simply look at each other for an eternity, before he suddenly does something that surprises down to the very core of my being. He holds out his hand to me. It takes me a moment for me to realize that he's actually offering to help me to my feet. Another small eternity passes before I dare to accept it, and with a firm yet careful jerk, he pulls me to my feet. We stand across from each other, and I am at a complete loss. What is this silent invader after?

Instead of running me through with the giant, intimidating sword he rests on his shoulder, he sets his feet apart, and bows his head deeply. Even though I'm still expecting to be cut down at any moment, I return the greeting. I don't want to be rude, after all. At least he has the decency to show me some respect before he kills me. I take some comfort in knowing that this man probably won't zip down his fly and relieve himself over my freshly deceased body once he's done his business. I adjust my posture and raise my shield again. I am ready to go. I am almost grateful that is appears that I shall be allowed to expire with a manner of dignity. 

Of course, the surprises keep on coming. Instead of landing his killing blow, my mysterious guest turns around and runs through the doorway ahead of me, while I, my confusion now complete, stay right where I am. About thirty seconds later, the invader returns, stops in the doorway, and patiently waves me over. At this point, I almost want to stop and explain to him that there is no need to lead me into any kind of trap or ambush. He already has me, dead to rights. All he has to do is end it. Still, he seems quite insistent that I follow him, so I choose to oblige, not sure what's going on. If this is some kind of deranged game he's playing.... 

So the two of us venture deeper into the fortress, him in front showing the way, and me a few paces behind, expecting an ambush around every corner. But he doesn't lead me into one. Instead, he stops and points, every time we get to a trap, every time we run across a snake guard, making sure I can either avoid them or get the drop on them. He never steps in to fight himself, but he makes sure I'm prepared to deal with them myself. With his help, I make it past boulders rolling down stairs; past pressure plates which if activated would have fired poisoned spikes at me, half a dozen snake guards and even a treasure chest that tried to eat my face. (True story.) I follow him closely, and I find myself slowly starting to trust him. Down another hallway, up a flight of stairs, and suddenly the bright clear sunlight assaults my eyes. The light is overpowering, and the relief is overwhelming. We've made it to the top of the fortress. I can even see the walls of Anor Londo towering above me. The invader waves me on, and I continue to follow, too shell shocked to do anything else. He stops in front of a small hole in the stone fence, and looks at me for a moment, before he jumps off. I run over to the edge, to see that there is actually a ledge underneath. 

And a bonfire! Safety at last! 

I jump over the edge, and just barely avoid falling off the ledge below. I don't dare touch the bonfire itself, as I notice that he is again standing there looking at me, and I imagine those predator eyes sinking into me again. If he is really cruel, this is when he does me in. Has he really taken all this time to take me by the hand and lead me through the nightmare that is Sen's Fortress, only to sink the blade in, when salvation is within reach?

A deep, respectful bow answers my question. Then he straightens up, and walks away. For several minutes, I stand, waiting for him to return, but he never does. Something tells me I've seen the last of this shady Samaritan, who though he stood to gain nothing from it, helped me through the dark hellhole, even after I'd kicked him off a bridge. I'll never know who you are or why you did what you did, but thank you for restoring a sliver of my dwindling faith in humanity. 

Praise the sun.  

  

    

Quick Time Moral Tales 2

Warning: Games spoiled in this blog post: Shogun 2: Total War (PC)

The Legend of Chosokabe Masayo

O Honored Brother

O Conqueror of Japan

Even as the walls of Kyoto crumble before me, and the screaming, wailing nobles of this once great city throw themselves at my feet, eager to grovel and gain favour with the man who in a few short hours shall be their new Shogun, Battle lord of all Japan, my heart is heavy. Heavy, for my general, my friend, my brother Masayo is not by my side to share with me this moment of truth and destiny for the Chosokabe clan. It is not my name that my Samurai shout as they flood the streets below the castle, cutting down the last brave men still standing beneath the tattered banner of the Ashikaga Shogunate. 

It is his.

When I was still an infant, my great father and Daimyo of the Chosokabe clan visited the construction site of the great port being built at the northern tip of Shikoku, the island we at the time shared with two other clans. As he rode the shore with his cadre of bodyguards, he suddenly chanced upon an elderly fisherman being harassed by a rabble of bandits, threatening the man to surrender his catch of the day to them. Though outmanned four to one, the man and his son who was also with him would not be intimated, and refused to give up the fish they had worked the entire day for. Armed with nothing but a paddle, the man's son held the bandits off, shrugging off the beatings and the cuts they managed to inflict on him every time they got near. My father watched from afar, and as the sun started to set, the boy was still holding them off. As the light of day disappeared, and the strength was finally ebbing from his body, my father decided to intervene, and unleashed his Samurai protectors, who made short work of the bandits. He rode up to the young man, who had collapsed to his knees in the mud, and asked him why he would risk his life for a small net full of fish, and not simply surrender it.

The young man Masayo looked at him with steel in his eyes and said: "My father worked for this fish. I would rather die than allow it into the hands of someone who has not earned it."

So impressed was my father by this answer that he took the boy with him back to the capital of Tosa, after swearing to the old fisherman that the boy would be given the best education available to anyone on Shikoku. A boy of such determination, integrity and character was surely destined for greater things than a fisherman’s life. My father had no idea how right he was.

Masayo took to his studies with vigor, but though he did his best, it was clear he was not cut out for scholarly work. It was in his martial training he made a name for himself, and when he came to my father the next year and asked to be given the right to carry arms in his name, he immediately had his wish granted. Not content with that however, my father enrolled him into the officer's program, a grueling ten year education which would see him leave Shikoku for Honshu, Japan's largest island. During his absence, I grew into a man, and my father started grooming me as his successor. By the time he returned a decade later, I had practically forgotten he existed. The scars on his face told me of the hard times he must have been through since I last saw him, but the dignity and grace with which he wore the clan's armour told me more. This man would play a large part in shaping not only Chosokabe's future, but the future of Japan herself. Years passed without major conflict, while Masayo slowly rose in rank. Eventually, he was given the right to use the clan name, and even married my sister. By the time my father decided that Shikoku was no longer big enough to support the presence of three clans, Masayo was one of the highest regarded field commanders in our army.

On the eve of the campaign, our old, sickly general breathed his last breath, and suddenly, Masayo was leading our troops east to conquer the cities of Awa and Sanuki. The results of this lightning fast campaign stunned even a battle-hardened old man like my father. During the course of a year and a half, Masayo, commanding a force of barely half the combined strength of his enemies, had brought both the Myoshi and the Sogo clans to their knees. The both sent representatives to my father, begging to be made his vassals, so their clans could survive in some form, but were flatly rejected. For in Masayo, my father now had a weapon of such intimidating strength, the old need for compromise was gone. The tranquility brought on by a united Shikoku would not last long. Not two years after the conquest of the island, the mighty Ito clan, eager to challenge the faltering Shogunate, went forth from the island of Kyushu in a bid to conquer Kyoto. That night my father called a war-council where he ordered Masayo to come up with a plan to stop the Ito from usurping the Shogunate, as it would interfere with his own long time plans to attain it for himself. A few days later, my father rode with Masayo to the small fishing village where they had met for the first time all those years ago. There, they found Masayo's father, by this time, a weak, sick man with weeks left to live at most. Though the old man could barely lift his head from his pillow, I could see the pride shining from his narrow, sunken eyes at the sight of his son wearing the armour granted only to Chosokabe's general. With a weak grip, he took a hold of Masayo's hand, and all that needed to be said between them was said, without a single word being uttered.

That was the last time Masayo saw either of the two men he had called father. What followed was a twelve year campaign, in which Masayo forged his legend, and put me in the position I am today, about to step into the Kyoto palace, and accept the surrender and ritualistic suicide of the old Shogun.

Instead of sailing west to confront the advancing Ito army on Honshu, Masayo left a small force under my command to defend our lands in case of counter-attack, while he himself took his host south, to invade Kyushu island, effectively putting himself directly in the wake of the aggressive Ito clan's march north. During the next couple of years, the reports started coming in from the front, telling of victory after victory. Slowly but surely, spring after spring, Masayo claimed every province on Kyushu for the Chosokabe clan. His reports were always clinical, to the point, but honest and unflinching; he made no attempt at hiding the horrors of his war behind fancy language. On midsummer's eve in Masayo's 53rd year, the army crossed the small sound between Kyushu and Honshu, and the final confrontation between Chosokabe and Ito finally drew close. Three more years it would take before the two great armies faced each other, for the battle of Tamba fields. The battle that would decide the future of Japan.

My father, the great Daimyo, had passed away a few years before, not having fulfilled his wish of seeing Masayo again before his days were numbered. A few months before the battle, Masayo sent word to me to meet him at his camp once the battle was over, so he could swear loyalty to me as his new Daimyo, and present the road to Kyoto to me himself, as it now lay open to me after years of bloody, unceasing war. The old war-horse never lacked for confidence, but at the same time, he had never given me reason to doubt him. I set out for his camp with my cadre of body-guards, hoping that we would make it in time to help. I arrived a few days too late.

The field was still strewn with bodies when I arrived, the smell was sickening, but the screams my father had told me could be heard from the dying and maimed long after the battle was over seemed to have silenced. We rode for hours before we finally escaped the hellish, ghoulish fields, where the only signs of life were the locals, burning the dead in gigantic pyres. It was late in the evening when we arrived at Masayo's camp. I immediately ran into his two sons, who despite having their armours covered in spots other men's blood, looked exactly like they had when I sent them off to join their father's army three years ago. They took me to the largest tent, where I expected to be led inside to meet Masayo, standing hunched over a table next to a roaring fire, plotting on his large campaign map the route for our triumphant march into Kyoto. Instead, what caught my eye was a small heap of animal furs next to the entrance. When I got close, it stirred, and Masayo's eldest rushed over to it, and took a hold of his father's arm. He had been sitting there, covered up for warmth, waiting for me. What I saw before me, was an old man, scarred and harrowed, who couldn't breathe deeply without breaking into a violent cough. There was no doubt my brother was a death's door, and it seemed only a tremendous force of will had sustained him this long. He got on his feet, and with the aid of his sons, took me for a short walk up the tall hill overlooking the camp. He struggled against shaking legs for an hour, refusing our pleas for him to turn around and go back to his tent. When we arrived at the top he sat down, and we looked to the east, where we could just barely spot the lights from Kyoto in the distance.

"My eyes fail me, my Daimyo," he said weakly. "I cannot see her from here. Tell me; is she beautiful?"

"She is magnificent," I replied, trying to hide the tremendous weight my heart was suddenly carrying. "And you have delivered her to me. Never shall Japan see a finer warrior than you, brother."

"Death came to me last night," he continued. "It is not the first time he and I have met. I have had many an interesting conversation with him as he has come to claim the lives of my Samurai. I have seen such humbling things in my life, my Daimyo. I have seen the raw, non-belligerent, but still merciless power of nature. I have seen ordinary soldiers perform feats of bravery I thought above mortal men. I've seen the bravest and noblest of warriors cry out for their mothers as life bleeds from their bodies, onto the frozen mud beneath them. Death has been my closest friend and my most hated enemy. Countless times he has come for the people I cherish. Last night he came for me. He told me my time had arrived. I bowed my head to him, and I asked if he could grant me one last wish. One more day, so I could see my Daimyo, the man who will be Shogun, and gift to him whatever semblance of wisdom my life has gifted to me."

He took a hold of my shoulder, and pulled me close, his eyes suddenly wild, vivid, alive. 

"I have known two fathers in this life, Daimyo. One good man who wanted a simple, honest life with his family. And one good man, who wanted to rule the world. I'd like to think I've helped both of them achieve that. But I won't be here to help you, brother. You will rule as Shogun without me. Be a good man, and by extension a good ruler, Daimyo.  There is enough suffering in this world. I know, for I feel I have seen most of it."

"Let us get you back to your tent," I told him. "Let us get you warm again."

"No," he replied, and waved me away. "I will sit here, until my eyes close for the last time. I will sit here, and contemplate the things I have achieved in this life."

"For that, brother, I'm afraid a single night will not be enough."

I started to walk away from him, but stopped before I had taken five steps. 

"Is there anything you wish me to tell your wife, my sister?" I asked him. He looked at me, and I think that for the first time since I had arrived, I saw pain in his eyes. I think he wanted me to apologize for not being there with her, but he never said it.

"Tell her 'thank you for my wonderful sons'," he said, and turned from me. We burned his body the next morning, and erected a shrine to his memory, and the memory of the men who died under his command at the site of his final battle. Underneath his name, etched into the stone, you can read his favorite poem. 

Sea vast and endless

sky reaches far past our sight

life fleetingly short 

     

QTMC #7

I did it. I may have slaved into the wee hours of the night, but Quick Time Moral Choice number seven is actually, believe it or not, finished. I'm really excited about this one, folks. It turned out exactly like I'd seen it in my head, and I feel the quality of the drawings is the highest I've managed so far. I really hope you enjoy it, and please, feel free to tell me what you think in the comments, or on twitter, because I'm dying to know.

Quick Time Moral Choice #4

I told you.

I told you there'd be cowboys. I'll be honest, and say that this one stayed in the pipeline for a long time. (Red Dead Redemption, Hjels!? Get with the times, grampa!)

But since I had been working on it for a while, I decided to finish it, even though looking at it now, I can say that I feel it is the least of my works on this little web-comic project of mine. But I am still quite happy with the outcome. As you can see, I am still trying to lock down the style of QTMC, and I wouldn't hold my breath for any greater consistence to my drawing any time soon.

When I'm happy with it, I'll stick with it, dang it!

Anyhoo; QTMC #4, for your viewing (and hopefully laughing) pleasure.

By the way, I shall start work with #5 almost immediately, and we'll be going back BioWare's games again. Not telling you which one, though.