Quick Time Moral Tales 4

Less of a campfire tale to delight and amuse, and more of a reckless tap-dance through a minefield this week, as I try to tackle the slightly controversial topic of women's depiction in video games. And let's be honest right from the start; it's quite sad, isn't it? Let's establish that right now. Apart from a few noteworthy examples, female characters are over-sexualized and passive or preternaturally bad-ass and extremely over-sexualized. Neither of which is good characterization in my book. 

(Oh really, Hjels? Mr. Never-been-published... Tell me more about characterization.)

A lot of bloggers have tackled this subject before, and probably quite a bit better than me, so instead of storming at it head on, I'll sneak around the outskirts, and focus this post around the thing that bothers me the most. Utility.  

Warning: Games spoiled in this blog post: Prince of Persia: The Warrior Within, Various Tomb Raider games, Mass Effect 1+2

The Quickest Way to a Woman's Heart

"The right tools for the right job." That's what my father taught me, when I was young. A mountain hiker wears sturdy, comfortable boots and layers of clothes to keep warm. A firefighter wears a helmet and clothes that don't catch fire even if it gets quite hot. A hockey goalie wears enough padding to not be killed by the small rubber missiles launched at him at 200 mph. These people all dress from utility. They dress so that they are equipped for the task they are faced with. With that in mind, could someone please tell me what task this young lady us dressed for? Take your time.

You back? Hey! Eyes up here, buddy!

That's right, that's Shahdee from Ubisoft's 2004 game Prince of Persia: The Warrior Within, and in my mind, a, if not the prime example of all that is wrong with women's depiction in video games. But instead of going into all the pandering atrocities this character consists of, let's get back to utility. What task is this woman equipped for?  It would have to be something indoors, seeing as she's hardly wearing anything at all. And given that the first time you meet her in the game, she's on the deck of a ship in a raging storm; I have an issue with this already.  She is obviously a warrior, so wearing some kind of armour is something I'd at least consider, but it doesn't look like she's... Oh no, wait, there is. I just couldn't see it without squinting. 

Now, I'm not going to claim to be any kind of armouring expert, but to a layman like me, it seems like the prime function of any kind of body armour would be to protect major organs, most of which are located in the human torso, something her metal bikini somewhat fails to do. Even the inside of her thigh, which houses one of the biggest arteries in the body, is completely exposed. And here we come to the heart of my problem.    

I cannot respect a character that is designed with a bigger emphasis on titillation than utility. Stylizing the character is one thing, and it can be done really well, but sadly, stylizing a female character these days just means giving them impossible proportions and breasts big enough to give the most adept yoga master back-pains for life.  I'm not even going to go further into the body design, because it's been discussed by smarter people than me before, and this little article isn't about that. But we should all be alarmed when even I, Hjels, a prototypical disgusting, hairy sweaty man who unabashedly enjoys ogling the many iterations of the female form, am embarrassed to talk about my hobby because it seems incapable of portraying women as anything but an object of desire for the male eye. 

Shahdee is the banner figure for a trend that if it continues, will prevent video games from ever growing up as an art form. But all is not hopeless. Occasionally, someone gets it right. And I will get to that in a moment, but first I'd like to discuss another character, one which you may disagree with me actually does a few things that should be applauded.

Namely, Lady Lara Croft. I completely understand if anyone with strong feminists sensibilities reading this just got a drop or two of their green tea down the wrong pipe just now, when I claimed that the prototype for the over-sexualized female character in gaming has any merit as an antithesis to what our friend Shahdee represents. Believe me when I say that I completely see that point of view. However, going back to the criteria I'm focusing on today, utility, Lara stands head and shoulders above most of her sisters. Some of the time. Well, at least, there is an effort involved.

She knows how to equip herself for any climate or environment. If she's exploring ancient Himalayan ruins in sub-arctic temperatures, she wears clothes that keep the cold out. If she's diving, she wears a wetsuit. If she's trudging through the tropics, she wears something breezy. Everything about the character does not work quite as well, though. She is clearly designed as eye candy to the player. In her first few outings she had an impossible large chest, which quickly became her key identifying attribute, which is a shame, seeing as she has a lot going for her. She is well educated, she is supremely competent and above all, she is driven. Not driven to find a man to protect her, but driven to seek out adventure. In recent games, ms. Croft has received a bit of a redesign, making her appear slightly closer to human, but she still has a lot of characteristics pandering to the lowest common denominator. But all in all, I'd say she is a step in the right direction. There is nothing wrong with an attractive character, as long as she has other redeeming features that ensure that she is not defined solely by her looks. I cannot respect a character like that. In the end, Lara doesn't quite get a pass. But a B for a manner of effort. 

Throughout recent gaming history, there have been a few really good female characters that don't cause the usual eye rolling I tend to experience when booting up a new game. Jade from Beyond Good and Evil, and Alyx Vance from Half life 2 are two examples that usually come up when this discussion arises. Me, I'd like to finish this article by going to one of favorite game universes, Mass Effect. The obvious place to go here would of course be the female version of the player controlled protagonist Shepard, otherwise known FemShep across the internet. Sure, FemShep is in many ways a good example of a strong female character, but there is one problem I have with putting her forth as the poster for the proper way to write a video game woman who you can respect. 

She was written as a man. 

The Mass Effect games give the player the option of customizing their Shepard character, down to appearance, back-story, personality and gender. But apart from the voice acting, which is stellar, there is nothing to give FemShep her own character traits to separate her from her male counterpart, because the character behaves the same way regardless of sex. This results in the character taking on a lot of masculine virtues and mannerisms, which isn't a bad thing, considering that Shepard is a supremely accomplished soldier with the fate of galaxy resting on her shoulders. But the mere fact that she is simply a female version of another character makes me want to look elsewhere. Like for example Dr. Liara T'Soni. Now I have to preface this part by saying that Liara is not technically a woman; she is an alien, from a species that... You know what, forget it. Liara is in every way a female character.

Now, what are the chief characteristics of Dr. T'Soni? When you meet her in the first Mass Effect game, she is working as an archeologist, specializing in the Prothean civilization, an extinct species which a strange relevance to Shepard's ongoing mission. Though she has achieved her doctorate at a young age, she comes across as somewhat naive and timid, and more or less remains so for the duration of the first Mass Effect game. She is a romancable option for the player character of Shepard, whether Shepard is male or female. It is in Mass Effect 2 that Liara really comes into her own, and more specifically the DLC called Lair of the Shadow Broker. When Shepard encounters Liara in the game, two years after the events of the first game, she has gone through some tough ordeals, which has led her to a career change. She is now working as an information broker, buying and selling information, one of the hottest commodities in the Mass Effect universe. It is immediately apparent that she has changed in a significant way. She nurtures an obsession. 

This may not seem like much, but to me, this is a truly refreshing bit of storytelling, because obsession is usually a character flaw seen 9 times out of 10 in male characters, very rarely in female ones. When Shepard asks Liara to come with him on his mission, she flatly refuses, and not until Shepard offers to help her accomplish her own goal does she agree to team up again. Utility. She doesn't drop everything that's important to her just because the handsome hero comes calling. She has her own agenda, one she even takes too far little while later. When Shepard gets knocked down in a fight with one of the villains, and said villain proceeds to flee, Liara gives chase, without even throwing a glance in Shepard's direction. Not a nice thing to do, but good characterization for a character like Liara and the place she is in emotionally. 

**Please note, I'm about to spoil the ending of Lair of the Shadow Broker**  

After a rip-roaring chase through a metropolitan skyline, and a brutal fight through the antagonist's hidden space station, Liara and Shepard find themselves face to face with the intimidating final boss. And it is Liara, not Shepard who takes charge. Shepard is along for the ride, and actually goes toe-to-toe with the boss at one point, but in the end, it is Liara who not only figures out how to defeat him, but also executes the plan. It is in every way her show, and she is the one who comes through in the end. And only after her enemies are conquered and his empire is now hers, does she let her shields drop, and you see that underneath, she still has all her insecurities and her doubts intact. She just doesn't succumb to them when the situation calls for her to hold it together. 

I'm pretty sure I lost my own direction at one point during the writing of this blog post, (I'll blame the fever I've been hallucinating my way through this past week for that) so let me return to the post's initial point. 

When creating a character, be they male or female; equip them for what they will be facing, physically and mentally. And if your character is going into a sword fight, for the love of God, put armour plating on them, no matter how tempting it is to show off her lovingly rendered cleavage. 

Because the quickest way to a woman's heart; it goes right through the rib cage, just like with the rest of us.    

ANOTHER slight delay.

Wow, that schedule I put up for my bi-weekly articles is really paying off, huh? I think I actually spend more time on this blog changing that, than actually writing or drawing. Anyhoo, this week's article will arrive during the weekend, probably sunday. It's a bit late, because it tackles a slightly controversial issue, and I'm a gentle soul who needs to concider every word I say on it.

To compensate you, my beloved reader, here is one of the characters from the infamous cancelled QTMC 5.

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.  

  

    

A slight delay

QTMT 3 will be one or two days late, due to a sudden emergency re-write. While you wait, here's Alessandro Del Piero:

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.

Housekeeping

I hope you all enjoyed the very first installement of Quick Time Moral Tales, our new bi-weekly padding segment we spew out in a desperate attempt at keeping your  interest while I try to get off my lazy ass to finish another comic strip. And let me tell you, my handsome/gorgeous friend, on the internet, that is pretty hard. There are alot of shiny things that want your attention out there. So from the bottom of my heart, whether you're a regular visitor, or someone who just stumbled in here by accident; if you find a sliver of enjoyment out of the dumb stuff I post here, I love you. So I hope that you'll check back in two week's time for QTMT number 2, which I've decided to call "The Legend of Chosokabe Masayo". Exciting stuff. And hopefully, I'll have finished QTMC 7 well before that. It really looks like it could be something special.

On a different topic, while you're wandering aimlessly around the intertubes, you might want to give Conjectural Figments, the new science-fiction e-zine a click. Curated by ninja master and author of the upcoming novel Knuckleduster Andrew Post, and features the short stories and poems of some truly talented people, like Jhon Z Baker, Dale Herring, Simon West-Bulford, Craig Wallwork and Rommel Luna H. You should also pay close attention to the stunning artwork of mr. Glenn Porter, twice the man I am in more ways that one. In addition, you get a fascinating interview with Simon Morden, author of the Petrovich trilogy, which I am currently racing through. And it's all free! It is a must for anyone who enjoys good science fiction.

Now, the cynics among you might notice that there is a name I've left out of the people contributing to the very first issue, namely my own. The really cynical among you might even go so far as to say: "Hjels, you self-promoting sack of crap, you just gave us that entire spiel to sell something you're a part of. How can we trust anything you say!?"  

To that I would say, whoa back up, buddy, I have feelings too, you know. And then I'd say this: Reading this issue, I felt like that one guy who gets cast in a movie because of his good looks, while the classically trained thespians in the cast look at him going, "how did this asshole get the part?" They operate on a different level than I do, and just being associated with these people is a tremendous honour for me.

So do yourself a favour and check it out. I guarantee you won't be dissapointed, or your money back.

Quick Time Moral Tales 1

Harvested: A tale of love, loss and daily produce

Warning: Games spoiled in this blog post: Harvest Moon: Back to Nature (PSOne). 

Believe it or not, but there actually was a time in my life where I wasn't a cynical, snarky jagg-off who made fun of my favorite video games in comic form. Before mowing down hordes of aliens/terrorists/zombies or whatever the hell those things in Bulletstorm are, had turned me into a manly space marine with scars on his face in place emotions in his soul.

No, before all that, I was a young boy with stars in his eyes and a song in his heart, just returning to his grandfather's home town after his death. I had spent many a joyous summer on his farm, but circumstances and time had taken us down different paths, and had it not been for a rather curious clause in the old man's will, I might never have set foot here again. The farm had fallen into a sorry state of disrepair and only if I managed to return it to its former glory in less than three years would I be allowed to stake my claim to it. Now, at the time I was a typical modern city boy, with soft hands and an expensive haircut, but after mulling it over for a while, I decided to pick up the gauntlet, and accept grandpa's challenge. Before I knew it, I was standing there with a hoe in my hand, and my dog Brutus by my side.

To all you city folk out there, this may come as a shock, but farming is damned hard work. Every day, I would get up at the crack of dawn, work all day, and then collapse into my bed in the evening, every speck of energy drained from my tender frame. It was several days before I even made it into Mineral Town itself, but at long last, a welcome shower of rain meant that I found the tiniest opening in my harrowing schedule so I could finally take the trip and introduce myself to my new neighbors. I instantly fell in love with all of them. 

There was Ellen, the kindly old, retired mid-wife, who'd always have a story to share; Mayor Thomas, who reminded me that Super Mario could have had a real career if he'd only applied himself a bit, and Doug, the gentle, old-fashioned innkeeper, who just wanted to see his daughter  married off to a good man, to name a few of the wonderful people who constituted this kind, close-knit community I was trying to best to become a part of. There were a few less idyllic fates among these people as well. Take Duke, the closet alcoholic and co-owner of the winery who drank to forget that his daughter no longer spoke to him. He kept his grief well hidden behind his warm, friendly eyes, but you knew it was there. And the bottle was there to help him cope. He too was part of the great tapestry of personalities that made this town special.  

Of course, being a young, virile man with charisma to spare, like all who know me would confirm to you, I couldn't help but notice the plentitude of young, single women of wooable age who lived in and around Mineral Town. But I also realized that though these were simple country folk, they wouldn't be all that impressed by this young upstart blowing into town to take over the decrepit old farm in its outskirts. I had to apply myself to gain the attention of any of these beautiful girls. So I walked back to my farm, with a bag of seeds on my shoulder, and a fresh determination in my step.

I first noticed her during the Tomato Festival that summer, standing quietly, listening to her friends' conversation but not really participating in it. She wasn't the most immediately striking woman I'd seen, with her purple vest, worn cut-off jeans and big sturdy work-boots, she was not the kind who'd immediately draw a man's gaze to her passing on the street, but should you give her a second look, you'd have seen a pair of eyes of so unfathomable depth, ships could sink in them and never be heard from again. So sharp and breath-taking were they, a battalion of poets could spend a century describing merely their colour.

They were green.

I knew right there and then that I would have to get to know this girl. From then on, whenever I wasn't working on my ever expanding farm, or slaving in the nearby mine, I took the trip to her family's store in town, often buying useless garbage I didn't need, just to catch a glimpse of her. She was dismissive to me at first, like she was to most people, but slowly but surely, I tore down the barriers she had built to protect herself from the world. Karen was her name. She had lived her entire life in Mineral Town, but she spoke with a confidence of a woman who had travelled the continent, and tasted a wide variety of the wonders the world has to offer. That was probably the reason many saw her as arrogant or assertive, but to me, she was nothing short of magnificent. Before long, I would spend all the free time I could spare in the store, discussing, conversing, arguing and laughing with her. She was opinionated, but always open to alternative views, even to her most entrenched preconceptions, as long as you offered her a compelling argument. She wouldn't smile just to make you feel better, only when you said something that really delighted or amused her. And at the same time she'd make you feel like the most important man in the world, because you were the one who tempted it out of her. 

I would enjoy this friendship for a year and a half before I noticed the initial signs that something more was growing between us. During that time, I'd had been less than covert with my affections for her, but she needed time, and I gave it to her, knowing in my heart that she was worth waiting for. My farm was doing well, I was becoming a respectable member of the community, and on a rainy day towards the end of summer, I felt her lips against mine for the first time, ran my fingers through her soft, delicate hair, and professed my undying love for her. 

I knew what I had to do. 

For the entire fall season, I slaved away on my regular chores on the farm during the day, but spent the evenings and nights working in the forest, cutting the lumber I needed for this most important project. On the first day of winter, I led her blindfolded to my farm, and as soon as she had stopped giggling that intoxicating little laugh you'd only hear when she was apprehensive but excited, I revealed to her the new wing of my farmhouse, the perfect fit for a fledgling little family. With tears of joy in the corner of her beautiful green eyes, she threw herself into my arms, and declared that she would of course marry me. 

As soon as the snow thawed, it was finally time to meet her at the altar, and exchange our vows of eternal love and companionship. The day was perfect. The entire town had turned up to share in our joy, and as Karen's father walked her up the aisle towards me, I knew that my life finally had purpose. To ensure that my bride had the life, the love and the opportunities she deserved. In front of the pastor, we swore to cherish and keep each other until both our days would end. Then I took her in my arms, and kissed her with all the passion stored up in me since the first time I saw her, and knew she had to be mine. 

And then, darkness...

I must warn you, dear reader, that it is as this point my story takes an abrupt metaphysical left turn. My screen had gone completely black, and as it stayed that way, and nothing seemed to happen, my initial belief that the PlayStation was merely loading all the assets for my wonderful new life slowly vaned. After half an hour, I decided to restart the console, and load the game back, confident that I would bypass this freak, once-in-a-lifetime bug, and be launched into the family bliss the game had so tantalizingly promised. Instead, all I got was more darkness. Six failed attempts at getting the game to run past this point later, I was getting worried. Was this some kind of cruel cosmic joke? Had I been led to the top of the mountain, and granted a look at the land of milk and honey, in the knowledge that I would never set my foot on it myself?

After a week of failed attempts, I was at my wits end, and I resorted to the one option that was left to me in the time before you could just run to the internet, and declare your outrage. I sat down, and wrote a physical, handwritten letter to the publisher, demanding an explanation, and more importantly, a solution. For weeks I waited, less than patiently for their reply and at long last, it arrived in my mail box. 

The answer was devastating. 

The letter basically told me that it was a bug they were familiar with, and that there was nothing that could be done about it, but they handily provided me with an address where I could send my copy of the game for a full refund. 

I was furious. 

I don't want your god-damned blood money, I want my wife back!   

Eventually though, I had to realize that the dream was over. There was nothing that could be done. Karen was gone forever. I felt like a young Bruce Wayne, standing at the graves of his parents in the pouring rain, wondering how it could all go wrong so fast, and fearing having to live the rest of my life without the one I loved. But there was no way around it. She was never coming back. 

So, like anyone whose backbone was worth the calcium it was made of, I decided to face my dark, unyielding grief like a man. By shaving my head, and murdering Nazis or Orcs or whoever stood in my way. Beats actually having to confront your feelings, am I right, men?

So here I am, thousands of lives of my conscience later, a grizzled, bitter old man, who remembers that young boy with the stars in his eyes and song in his heart only fleetingly, on the coldest, loneliest nights in the trenches of whatever God-forsaken conflict I've gotten myself involved with. I sometimes wonder how that life would have turned out, had I been allowed to live it. I wonder if I should have handled my grief differently. Maybe Duke had the right idea after all. Maybe the answer did lay at the bottom of a bottle. Then again, how could all the Krogan liquor in the galaxy do what slaughtering waves upon waves of Locust never could? Erasing Karen's face, looking lovingly at me whenever I close my eyes. 

QTMC presents: Quick Time Moral Tales.

I came to a conclusion recently. It was one I struggled against my own entrenched preconceptions to avoid. But there is no way around it, I now realise. You, my dear, dead sexy readers, who have been scientifically proven to have the hardest of asses and the silkiest of hair, are not going to be satisfied with me posting my stupid doodles in comic form every couple of months. You're not going to keep coming back, and gifting me with that which I crave most of all on this earth: more clicks. So, in a desperate attempt at pulling your mouse pointers in my direction, I hereby am proud to announce a new, and very special feature to my little blog I keep hidden away in the internet's basement. I mean, the fact the you've even found it, proves that you are a sleuth on par with Batman himself.

Anyway... QTMC and its creator, me, are proud to announce Quick Time Moral Tales. That's right, from now on I will actually write stuff on here, and not just dripfeed you the comics I provide you with far too seldomly. Quick Time Moral Tales will mainly consist of stories that have accumulated in my warped mind during nearly two and a half decades of video gaming. This bi-weekly feature will occasionally contain illustrations by me, Hjels, your humble servant, and to kick off, I will take you on a tragic and oddly metaphysical journey to the world of Harvest Moon, and a piece I call "Harvested: A tale of love, loss and daily produce."

Look forward to that sometime between christmas and new years, and keep checking back for the comic, which I will release as soon as it's ready.

Did anyone else get caught in that temporal anomaly? No? Just me?

Whoa.

So there I was, minding my own business, slaving over a hot sketch pad, trying to work on the comic you, my handsomest readers where patiently waiting for, when all of a sudden, my room evoporated into a festival of colour and light. I felt like I was pulled through a tunnel of truth, like my very soul was cought in the changing and merciless currents of time itself. It lasted only a moment, but when I regained consciousness, two whole months had passed, leaving you, my stunningly gorgeous audience in the dark as to what was taking the strips so long.

What's more, it seems my sketches must have been eaten by a temporal dog of some kind. A big one!

.......

Alright, fine. I'm just lazy. But despair not, QTMC is still alive and, if not kicking, then at least shuffling along. 7 is still coming up, and I appreciate your patience.

You sexy thing, you....

Back in the hamster wheel

Just a quick update this time, I'm afraid.
I'm back from vacation, and working on the strip again. (When are you ever not on vacation, Hjels?) Number 7 is taking a while, as those who follow this blog will know, but it is still coming, and wihtout promising too much, I think that this is going to be something special.

Struggling a bit with getting the model for one of the characters right, let's call him Adam J. No, that's too obvious... A.Jensen. That's the one. (Well done, Hjels. Is your next strip called "Who shot mr. Burns"?)

Anyway. Long story short; strip, work, will be done, something special....

The Process

I often get asked; "Hjels, exaclty what kind of unholy sorcery do you use to conjure forth the images in your comic strips?" I'm just kidding, I never get asked that. Some times it feels like no-one even cares. Like I can be in a crowd of people, and still feel like that last man on earth. Not nothing I do matters to anyone else in the slightest. Who would know it if I vansished off the face of the world tomorrow? Who would care? God, I'm so lonely, I...

*Ahem*

Where was I? Ah yes, the process. How is my comic strip created, what steps go into forging the hilarity (or at least, relative mirth) of QTMC? Well, my friend, in case you are interested, let me walk you through it. If you're not, I don't blame you. Just go. There are probably several cute kittens on the internet you haven't seen yet.

Still here? Sweet

• Step the first

It all starts with a pen, and a sketch pad. I do have a decent tablet, but after trying it for a while, I found that I missed the tactile feedback of a good, old-fashioned ink-filled sylinder against paper. I am self-taught, meaning I don't really have a process for getting the proportions of my models right, which again leads to more trial and error than neccesary. But that's the way it is. 

• Step the second

With the ink sketch done, the analogue part of the process is over. From this point on, everything happens on my computer. I start by scanning the sketch into Photoshop Elements. (I don't have the cash for the proper one, but I make due) This scan is usually pretty rough, and need alot of cleaning up, as the example below shows. Notice how I missed the shoulder, and had to draw over it to get the proper proportions on Marston's body.

• Step the third

I now go to work cleaning up the model, making sure to remove any lines that do not belong, and completing those who are not long enough. In this case, I realised that I hadn't drawn enough of Marston's legs, so I had to extent them in PS. 

• Step the fourth

At this point, I'm ready to start colouring. I do this by selecting the parts of the model that fit together, and create one or more seperate layers for each of them giving me the chance to create the shadow effects. The vest, for example had two, the hat had two, and the skin had three. Using this technique makes the colouring process prett easy, but it also makes it easy for the shadows to become disjointed from each other, because I deal with such isolated areas in the model. 

  

                                                              

• Step the fifth

With the colouring done, I move onto the home stretch. I very rarely draw more than one model on the same page, unless they are directly interacting. Instead, I do each one seperately, and compose them together in PS. The backgrounds are screengrabs from the games my comics depict, since I'm not a good enough "draw-man", (I'm afraid I can't use the word artist) to do it properly myself. I apply filters to both the charactes models and the backgrounds to make the aliasing between them appear less stark, and I finish the whole thing off by adding captions and speech bubbles. Then I repeat the process for all the panels. 

The logos I use for each of the strips are meant to ape the logo of each individual game. This means, I have to hunt down the font used in the games logo, and find a way to ape the layout, to create a familiarity. I find that having named my comic Quick Time Moral Choice, I get alot of lee-way, when doing this, because has enough letters to fit most the names of the games I've done so far. God help me if I ever do one for Rage or SiN or any other game with few letters in the title. 

So there you have it. Simple really. I wouldn't recommend this process to anyone else, because it is highly personalised to the way that makes me feel comfortable. But I hope you've gotten something out of this post at least. 

Stay tuned for 7.