Ylera, Champion of the Doomed

Ylera, Champion of the Doomed

By: Raymond Adkins

For Jenny, with love 

Please mind the horrible grammar and formatting :)

Ylera awoke as the first rays of sunlight began to poke through the dense canopy of the forest trees. She sat up, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of the cool air. She slid on and fastened up her simple brown tunic, and washed her face in the bowl of cool water that sat by the mirror.

She was one of the Fae people, a forest Fae specifically. While the Fae were mostly pleasant, merry folk, years of being the lowest class denizen of the Fae had worn her mask of merriness down, and her face appeared to be slightly older than the rest. Her hair was drab and brown, and cut to shoulder length to hide her slightly pointed ears.

As she washed her face, she took note how how cool the water in the bowl and the air around her were. The brisk autumn morning marked the first day that the seeds of the Dema trees began to fall, ushering in the Fae people's time of Ascension.

It was one of the holiest times of the year for the Fae, when they celebrated their creation. To the average human, it was not much of a celebration. Not ones for lavish grandeur, or raucous parties, the Fae would spend the next week reflecting on their lives, from the current day, all the way back to their creation.

The Fae, renowned for their patience, attention to detail, and strict adherence to the law, would recount to the others the stories of their lives. When they had finished, they would then movie on to the stories of each of their fathers and mothers, their grandparents, and so on. When they ran out of lineage, they would tell of their creation, how, before the Gods created the men and beasts of the world, the breathed life the world. The world, however, was overfilled with the life of the Gods, and from that energy, the Fae were born to each of the sections of the world. Into the forests, plains, earth, rock, and oceans they sprung, kindred to and keepers of the life of the world.

While no Fae would ever admit to it, the stories they would tell were terribly boring. Few were of any kind of noteworthy deed, and fewer still carried any excitement. Tale after tale of craftsmen, hunters, and gatherers would run together. They were the mostly the same stories as last year, and every year before that.

Ylera, however, was excited. It wasn't for having to hear lively tales of rigorous hoeing, but for the fact that on the first day of Ascension, they would accept new candidates for priesthood. For the last 200 years, she had meticulously planned and studied for this. Every moment of every day that she had free time, and even a few times she had not, she had practiced the Fae magics, the magics of the life of the forest.

Fate had cursed her with the misfortune of a birth outside of the Fae marriage laws, which had branded her as an outcast, the lowest class Fae denizen of the forest. While the Fae elders all took pity on her, no one treated her as if she were worthy of serious respect or attention. By Fae law, she was forbidden to marry, and would most likely wind up being a poor maid, sweeping dust off of the porches of others.

Everyone would insist she should stay positive and make the best of what she was given, but no one saw her as worth the hassle of helping along. Long ago, Ylera vowed that if she was not born good enough, she would make herself good enough. Today, she would prove herself worthy.

Ylera walked out of her meager home into the forest, to find a Dema seed to use in her testing. She walked to the village square, as it was under a clearing of trees, and best lit by the early morning sun. There were not many seeds on the ground, as hours ago, the highborn candidates for priesthood had scoured the ground for the best seeds. In addition, the Fae children had already begun to awake, and pick up Dema seeds, the symbol of the oldest Fae ancestors, to tell their stories to. Ylera did not care, though, as she knew she did not need the best seed in order to be successful.

As she looked for a suitable seed, she noticed one of the other priesthood candidates approaching. He wore a plan brown tunic like the rest of the candidates, and had long, white hair, and pale white skin. These were rare traits in the Fae, but held in high regard as a symbol of purity. He knew this, and he walked anywhere as if he were a prince about to be crowned king.

“Good morning, Lanel,” Ylera said as he approached, not turning to look in his direction. She couldn't see the upset look on his face, but she knew it was there. She also knew he wouldn't have turned around for her either, much less offer any kind of pleasant greeting.

“Ylera,” Lanel started curtly, pausing for to gather all of his smugness. “You should know you are delusional. I'm not sure if I should take offense at the fact that you have arrived too late to have a good chance of finding a worthy Dema seed, or the fact that you assume that one would actually listen to the lifesong of one such as you.”

“Thanks for the uplifting conversation,” she replied, still not looking up at him as she searched, “but I really have to find a seed so I can go on living in my own delusions.”

“Your search is not necessary, I have already found you the appropriate seed.” Lanel knelt down in front of her, and held out his hand. In it was the most pitiful seed she had ever seen. “It is already dead, that way you don't have to deprive a Dema seed of life for your failure.”

Ylera held out her hand, and Lanel dropped the seed in it. He then turned and walked away. As he did so, Ylera reached out with her magic to the tiny seed, and felt life stirring within in. She closed her eyes, and smiled. This was the seed she was looking for.

With her success firmly planted in her hand, she made her way to the temple courtyard. Once she had arrived, she surveyed the area. The temple itself had been built around the hollowed out husk of an ancient Dema tree, and legends told that in the time before time, this was tree whose seeds had birthed the forest Fae. The trees hollow center, having long ago lost its upper portion, formed the courtyard.

Around the inside of the courtyard wall were carvings of great Fae deeds, mostly of the Fae who had sacrificed themselves so that the forest might live. In the center of the courtyard, there was a raised platform, for sermons or speeches. Around the outer edges, against the wall of the trunk, were small plots, normally used for the summer gardens.

Today, those plots were empty, as they were to be used for the Ascension testing. Ylera found the last of the line of the empty dirt plots, and knelt down in it. As was the custom, she unfolded a small piece of white cloth, laid it flat on the dirt, and placed her seed on top of it.

After awhile, the royal guard entered, signaling the arrival of the Princess and the high priestess. Lanel's brother Danel, The captain of the guard, walked with them. He bore the pale skin and white hair of his brother, except his skin was not so pale, and his hair was tinged with golden strands. Above his tunic of white and green, He wore pieces of metal armor trimmed with gold and silver on his shoulders, wrists, and ankles, which Ylera knew were gifts of the stone Fae. He walked with a swagger similar to Lanel's, though it was considerably less exaggerated.

Behind him followed Vesara, the Elven princess, who would be crowned Queen of the Fae at the end of the Ascension celebration. She was clad in a dress that matched the white and green patterns of Danel's garb, and as she walked, her long, light brown hair seemed to glow, even when the sunlight did not hit it. The princess was always kind to all of her subjects, and Ylera felt that if she were not born of royal blood, the princess would have still been chosen to rule by her beauty, and the goodness of her heart.

Beside Vesara walked the high priestess, clad in the same brown robes as the priesthood candidates, though hers appeared to be woven of finer cloth. Her hair was short and golden, combed straight back and held in place by a circlet made of tree branches. Her face was calm, but her presence carried with her the feeling that each step and every breath she took was plotted out the night before, to maintain the order of all things.

Ylera watched as one by one they greeted the other candidates. Long ago, the priesthood had determined that it was the will of the forest that Danel was to be married to the next queen of the Fae, and Ylera took a moment to lament on this. She was beautiful, and he was impossibly handsome, but as they walked, it was clear to her there was no chemistry between them. As they approached, she wondered if it were possible that the two of them would ever learn to love each other.

Princess Vesara approached, and smiled at Ylera. She then looked down at the seed, and lines of worry crossed her face, “Ylera, I do not believe this is a suitable seed,” The princess said softly.

“I'll just have to make the best with what I was given,” Ylera replied, smiling at the princess, who in turn smiled back at her again. The princess nodded, and then moved with Danel to her ceremonial position at the center of the courtyard. Danel didn't so much as look at Ylera.

The high priestess called the candidates to begin. Each one of the participants pulled their seed off of their cloth, and buried it in the ground at their knees. Then, they placed their hands on the ground around where they buried the seeds, and began to sing.

Some of the songs were loud, some choppy. Others were fluid, and some chaotic. Ylera’s was quiet, and almost inaudible. One by one, the seeds began to sprout, slowly. Eventually, all of the seeds sprouted, except for Ylera's.

Ylera did not panic, or even realize what was happening. She had become entranced in her song when she felt the seed singing along. More and more often, she was beginning to hear these songs of the forest. She knew this was a gift few of the Fae had, she she relished every moment of it. Their songs became entwined, harmonizing together. She sung for the seed to grow, and she felt the seed sing the same back to her.

Her trance was broken when she heard the high priest proclaim, “I have made my selections.” Ylera looked over and saw several students who had been marked with a feather as having been selected. They all began standing up and congratulating each other, either on a job well done, or on a good try.

Ylera shook her head, and stated, “I am not finished.” Though her singing had stopped, she could still hear the singing of the seed. When no one acknowledged her, she said, louder, “I am not finished.” There was firmness in her voice. It wasn't a plea for recognition, but a command. Her voice filled the courtyard, and everyone turned.

The high priestess came over, bearing a scowl sure to put wrinkles on an ageless face. “You speak out of turn, whelp! What nonsense is this?” she spat.

Instantly Ylera felt the blood rush from her face. She knew this had ruined any chance she may have had at becoming a priestess herself. The seeds song stopped. She was finished.

“You are not finished,” she heard the meek voice of the seed say. “The ways of this woman are the ways of a fool. Show her the way of Ylera.”

Ylera locked her gaze with the priestess, and stood up. There was silence for a few moments, and then, without word, Ylera raised her foot and slammed it onto the ground. The seed sprouted three times higher than that of any of the other students, and even began forming a small flower.

Some of the students gasped, and some stepped back. The princess closed her eyes, and bowed her head. Beside her, Danel, the captain of the royal guard, frowned. Lanel's left arm was visibly shaking. Ylera did not hear his whisper, but she could see mouth form the word, “Witch.”

The High Priestess' face contorted into a scowl angrier than Ylera had ever seen the face of a Fae become. The stares of the two of them remained locked. The room filled with an eternity of tension, but eventually the high priestess closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath. As she exhaled, the look of serenity returned to her face.

“Enough, child,” she said raising her smooth, green wooden staff a few inches off of the ground, slightly pointing the top of it at Ylera.

The High priestess slammed the bottom of her staff on the ground, and Ylera's seedling slowly began to turn gray and droop. As it died, she continued, “Great will can foment great power, and can being forth life as it was never meant to be. As the guardians of the forest, we have the power to bring life to every dying seed, but if we did so, the forest would be overrun with trees. It is not power over nature that is the mark of the priesthood, but the understanding of the true will of the heart of the forest.

“You did not come here for the forest, you came here for yourself. You are a product of a marriage outside of the law, and it has branded your actions. You can never be a priestess, because you do act for the heart of the forest. Life cannot blossom to its utmost as a whole when an individual's needs and wants are prioritized too far above that of the rest of life. I feel the call of the heart of the forest, and that call is for you to leave. Until you understand such priorities, you are a danger to the forest, and banished from it.”

A look of distress crossed the face of the princess, and she rushed over to the high priestess, with Danel in tow on her heels. “Wait, holy one,” The princess said, placing her hand on the High Priestess' shoulder, as a single tear ran down her cheek. “If you cast her further from the light now, she may never return from the darkness.”

The High Priestess clasped her hand onto the princess' hand on her shoulder, and nodded, but before she had time to reconsider, Ylera spoke.

“No,” she said, uncrossing her arms, and balling her fists. Her gaze, which had not moved from the high priestess, intensified. “What would become of me now if I stayed? My dreams have died here with this poor dying seed. It would be a life alone, as my status would forbid me to marry. All that would be left to look forward to is centuries of disdain from my people for the way I was born, an eternity of sweeping the dust off of porches.

Tears ran down the princess' face as Ylera had spoken, and when she finished, she wrapped her arms around the defiant girl, and held her tight to her chest. “Please don't do this, Ylera,” she pleaded, “There has to be another way. We'll find it.”

“You cannot,” Ylera responded, deadpan. She broke from the Princess' grasp, pointing to the high priestess and the dying seedling, her arms stretched out. “It is the law of the forest to oppose anything that might interfere in the slightest with its longevity. My mere existence, through no action of my own, breaks this law. 'Life cannot blossom to its utmost as a whole when an individual's needs and wants are prioritized too far above that of the rest of life.' My needs and wants are simply to be treated like everyone else, but the law forbids it. You allow me to live in the forest, but I am not welcome here. I will not wilt and die like this poor seedling.”

At the end of her speech, Ylera did not pause, and simply walked out of the courtyard. For the first time in her life, she walked through the forest, not as its lowest class Fae denizen, but as something more. No longer did she walk with the soft footfalls of the Fae. Instead she jammed her heel into the ground with each step, letting the forest know that she was present. Each footfall became a crescendo to the echoes of the song of the dead seedling that still ran through her mind.

As she continued to walk with increasing authority, she felt true purpose course through her blood, rising into goosebumps on her arms. As it filled her, she began to hear the songs of the dying, invalid seeds on the forest floor. They sung a song that was not for them, but for her. Soon, the songs of the living seeds was joined by that of the trees and plants, and finally, the heart of the forest. They all called for her to leave the forest, but not out of hatred or need for the law, but as a call for her to live, and to have her heart fulfilled.

Ylera began her journey out the forest. She walked past the town square, and stopped her miserable little house to grab the few possessions she owned. By the time she left her house, word had spread among the Fae what had happened. No one made eye contact as she passed. Young and old alike went out of their way to avoid her path. She was no longer one of them. She was now an outsider.

As she approached the edge of the forest, she heard a rustle behind her, and the softest chink of metal on metal. There were few Fae with the boldness and ability track her out of the forest without her knowing. There was only one who would jingle of metal.

“Have you come to spit on me one last time before I leave the forest, Danel?” she quipped. Her voice did not waver. As far as she cared, he could spit on her all day and she would not be hurt by him, nor any other Fae, anymore.

Danel's face twisted in ambivalence, shifting between disgust, and something else. Ylera wondered if he cared, or if the princess had sent him to stop her. After spending a few minutes trying to reconcile his emotions into words, before he finally spoke.

“Whatever and whoever you are,” Danel paused to sigh, “You still have the right to life. As a Fae guardian, I am sworn to protect the lives of the Fae. But if you walk out of the forest, you are forsaking your duty to it. If you leave now, you will no longer be Fae,” Danel paused again, furrowing his brow, and looking down at the ground and off to the side, “you will be doomed, just like the last of us who decided to journey outside of the forest. Just like our queen.”

Ylera's stern expression softened, and her voice shrunk to an almost inaudible whisper. She looked down at the ground, and to the side, in the opposite direction that Danel was looking. “Then I will be doomed, just like the seedling the high priestess killed this morning.” Her voice grew louder, and began to regain its strength as she talked. “If my choice is eternal misery or doom, then I choose doom.” She looked Danel in the face, and he matched her gaze each a sorrowful mirror of the other.

“But I will fight not just be doomed alone. I will stand for every seed, plant, beast, or person who is proclaimed doomed with me, who is given no chance for happiness because of the dictation of others. I will be their champion.”

Ylera turned around, and paused for a moment before she walked out of the forest. “Goodbye, Danel. Keep Princess Vesara safe.”

Danel watched as she walked out of the forest. When she was out of earshot, he whispered to her, “Farewell, Ylera, Champion of the Doomed.”

"In dreams"

I just found this, tagged with a last modified date of "8/26/2007." I remember the grand plans, the twists and turns, but this is all that ever came of it. Maybe someday, there will be more.

In Dreams

8:00 AM

There are the fragments of sentence beginnings one after another, but they're all scratched out.
Odd, because it's written in pencil...

9:43 AM

So I'm supposed to keep a journal of my thoughts. Honestly I don't know what to write. The doctors said just to write whatever comes to mind, and the first thing that comes to mind is that I don't know why I'm doing this.

They say it will help, but I'm skeptical. They tell me in their calm voices that I need to get it all out of my system and I won't feel so bad about it anymore. I guess it's working, I don't feel bad anymore. I feel like a fool for writing this. I'm forced to wonder if their plan is to help releive the pain by replacing it with embarrassment. I guess that's modern medicine. If you can't cure a problem, just pretend it's not there.

They say I need to get it out, to let someone know how I feel, but I can't. I've spent countless hours in therapists' offices trying to form the words needed to explain what I've seen. In the end, I just become a bundle of jitters. Almost all ability to speak is lost, replaced stuttering and jittering. They say if I can't talk to a person about it, that maybe I can write about it, and let them read it.

The problem with writing about it is that I can't do it either. Every time I put pencil to paper my hand shakes uncontrollably. It's just that(scratched out) Every time I(scratched out) I still see(scratched out)

6:00 PM

I'll be going back to work tomorrow. I'm hoping that working will keep my mind off of things. It gets hard being alone. My family and friends all look at me with pity when they see me so obviously distraught. It's like what happened has made me an invalid. I can't take it anymore. I need to do something productive, so that's what I'll do.

I think I'll go to bed now. I haven't been able to sleep since the incident. Every time I close my eyes...

My friend Jerry got me some sleeping pills. I hope they work. I look forward to a good nights sleep and work tomorrow.

2:18 AM

I still can't sleep. All the pills did was make everything fuzzy. I want to sleep, I really do. I can't recall having ever been this tired before.

Everything's becoming blurry, as if reality itself was losing its reception. I fade in and out of a dreamlike haze of focus. Perception seems to twist around me as I approach a dream like state. All of my senses are being assaulted by phantasms conjured by a lack of sleep.
I'm starting to hear things, like distant fuzzy voices. As time passes, they grow louder. It's almost like being in a room full of people having conversations. Like I'm at a party. One voice is a soft whisper in my ear, and I can almost its breath on the side of my face. Others are right next to me, while others still are behind me.  When I try to concentrate on any of them, they stop, and the silence of the room that is left is startling. The last word I hear is always the loudest, always the most pronounced, yet still unintelligable. It's almost like a shout in the room that makes everyone grow quiet.

The room's appearance twists about and changes constantly. For a moment or two I'm somwhere else. In a car, at work, walking down the street, or any other number of mundane places. It's like a dream, only I'm not asleep. I close my eyes for a few moments and the world comes back into focus again, and I'm sitting in my room again. If I keep them closed for more than a few seconds, I see her again.

I see her smiling at me as the schoolbus drives through the intersection. It's a little after noontime, and the snow is coming down pretty hard. I'm driving back to work from lunch, and she's probably getting out early because of the snow. We make eye contact, and she waves.

Then there's a loud crash, and the schoolbus rolls over and skids to a stop right in front of my car.

The next thing I see is her eyes again, empty and lifeless, through the window of the overturned school bus. I can hear the screams of the other children on the bus, as they flail about inside. I can see her mouth, partially open, as if in an attempt to join her schoolmates in their shock. No matter how hard she tried, the only thing that would come out was a small trickle of blood.
I desperatley want to look away from her, but I can't. When I try to turn away, I can feel her cold gaze piercing through my back. It feels so much worse than looking her straight in the eyes. Time doesn't move. I stare at her forever. I can feel everything inside cry for this poor girl. It was such a pointless waste of life.

After forever passes, I open my eyes, and the world spins back out of focus again. I look at the clock to see what time it is. It should almost be time for work. It's not. It's 2:30. At least I'm "getting it out of my system." The doctors would be proud.

6:30 AM

The pills effects have worn off. I still feel tired, but whatever chemical that was supposed to put me to sleep is now gone from my system. A fresh pot of coffee helps the world to regain some of its focus.

Even though I didn't sleep, I'm still going in to work. I do feel a bit better about what happened after writing about it. I'm not going to risk another day at home alone in my apartment, or even worse, with people who "care."

12:00 PM (scrawled on a memo pad)

Lunchtime. Every person I talk to tells me I look like hell, and that I should go home. I can't say I disagree, but I'd be doing the same thing at home that I'm doing here, so I might as well stay and get paid for it.

Like last night, I keep drifiting in and out of semi conciousness. It's different this time. I'm still here, sitting at my desk, sorting through orders for shipments. I don't feel any different. There aren't any visions or voices, but there are thoughts. Different thoughts, as if somehow unnatural. They seem perfectly natural at the time though, and then I snap back to reality, and the thought is gone. What's left of it makes little or no sense.

I know it seems hard to understand what I'm saying, so picture it this way. The thought is something like this: You're sitting in your cubicle, thinking where you and your friend Harry should go for lunch. You know Pizza is out of the question, because it gives him heartburn. You decide on chinese, because you know he likes it, and you haven't had it in awhile. You then think it might be a good idea to ask him if that's what he'd like, when it hits you like a ton of bricks. You don't have a friend named Harry. You don't even like chinese. On top of that, you packed lunch, so there would be no need to go out. Within thirty seconds of the realization that you were debating eating lunch with someone who doesn't exist, the entire train of thought has dissipated completley, and you don't even know what it was that you were thinking about. You only know that it couldn't possibly happen.

It's almost like a waking dream, except for the fact that while it was happening, I was alert and fully functional. The shipping orders I was working on are all correct and complete, and there are enough of them done to show that I hadn't zoned out while I was working.

4:30

Home from work. I was on the couch trying to get some much needed sleep when I saw her again. My eyes were open this time. She was just standing there, in between the television and the coffee table, smiling at me. Fear gripped me and tore apart my insides as if I had swallowed a blender. By the time I had realized what was going on, she was gone. I sat shaking on the couch for about twenty minutes.

I keep seeing her out of the corner of my eyes.

"You're Not Supposed To Be Here"

     Booker stands on a Parisian street, looking up at a theater's sign which advertises, in French, "Revenge of the Jedi.” At the end of the street looms the Eiffel Tower, glowing in the night sky. He doesn't know the year is 1983, and the reality he stands in is not his own. He's just watched a firetruck go screaming by, and then vanish into thin air at the end of the street. In spite of this collection of bizarre events, Booker has nothing to say.

     He's not supposed to be here, eighty or so years in his future, in a reality which he doesn't belong. He's just a character in a story. No words come from his mouth, because none were written for this situation. Poor Booker has somehow ignored his scripted fate, and stepped into a minute detail in the corner of a paragraph that was only supposed to be glanced at.

     He's supposed to be removed from these events, watching them from an observation room. Paris in the eighties isn't a place that Booker should be able to go. It's just a place he can see for a few brief seconds. The walls created by his author's pen should seal him safely away from the dangers of French cinema.

     But his sadistic puppet master has no desire to see the story the author has penned for him. The one in control has seen that story already, and now he wants to visit Paris. It's less of a desire to visit the city, and more of a desire to see the gears spinning between the pages, to catch a sentence removed from the final work, or maybe even peel the glue off of the imagery that holds the story together.

     There are risks to peeling that glue. Unbeknownst to them. Booker and his invisible master are about to see Paris disappear before their eyes, forcibly deported to the world where Booker belongs. Unfortunately, it's not the part of the world he belongs in. Without ground to stand on, Booker will simply fall to his death. Then Booker's torturous dictator will flip to another page in the story, and find a few more lines to read between. A crack to slip Booker into, to see more inner workings of the tale being woven.

     It's becoming harder and harder to find those cracks. Video games these days are sealed tight. While Booker's world was created with a toolset which has the built in ability for cheats and tools to change its own rules and peek behind closed doors, those abilities are removed before the game reaches the player's hands. Nowadays, the majority of the people who join Booker on his journey won't be able to go to Paris. Those who can will have to fight tooth and nail to do so, creative rogues stealing the shadows they slink into.

     Things weren't always this way. There was a time when game developers would hide things in the folds of their works, meant to be found. Inside the brain of Satan lies John Romero's wailing, severed head on a pike. Through the crack in the wall, next to the bank, behind a corner you can't see through the crack, is a message letting you know that you shouldn't be there. Years ago, there were little love letters painted on the scenery you should never see.

     Even when there weren't hidden things to find, it was fun to visit places you shouldn't be. Force spawn a character or drop a weapon in a skybox or other area rendered outside of the normal map, and suddenly there's a short gun on the TV news, or a giant woman in the sky. It did nothing to further the story, it was just pure exploratory fun, to go to the places one could only see, to maybe take a few potshots at an enemy (or friend) who you normally would not be able to.

     Beyond peeking through mirrors and sliding through locked doors, there were those re-writing the stories for themselves. New characters, locations, weapons, stories and anything that could be dreamed arrived on the tips of the fingertips of those adventurous enough to reach in and weave new threads of fate into the tapestry of other tales. The worlds that existed came with the means to mold them into other worlds and dreams entirely.

     These dreams ranged from banal, to grand, to outright ridiculous. We shot swords from guns, and wielded firearms in medieval times. Familiar places became strange landscapes, and strange landscapes paved the roads into familiar stories that were carved out of other games innards. Fifteen years ago, video games weren't just singular stories, they were gateways into an infinite sea of possibilities.

     And then, somewhere along the line, those dreams began to die. Slowly, as consoles dissolved the uniqueness of PC gaming, they took away the ability to paint our own pictures in their worlds. Then, they took away the abilities to see the pictures hidden in their worlds. No more peering through the cracks, no more rewriting the stories. Just showing us what they wanted us to have and nothing more.

     Even when those of us who were industrious enough to find the remnants of the cheats they wrote out of the game did so, they simply patched them away. Now there is no deviation tolerated, no creativity. I should mention again that many of these games nowadays are built on engines with cheats and toolsets that would encourage such creativity.

     The death of that creativity shows. Where we used to have mods that allowed us to shoot Cacodemons from rocket launchers, now, in the games that still allow modifications, we have a majority of nothing but realism mod, realism mod, increase difficulty, realism mod. Additions of boring, uninspiring weapons are placed onto games whose arsenal are made up of boring, uninspiring weapons.

     When did we start wanting to die faster and shoot the same boring guns in every game? When did we give up the dream of limb severing laser chain guns and grappling hooks? Because I never did. I still want guns that shoot living tigers at enemies, and lightsabers in every last video game. I want to turn on walk through walls and see all of the areas I'm not supposed to get to! I want to fight hordes of Tom Servos and Barney the dinosaurs for no discernible reason. I want to Rambo through scores of enemies with god mode and infinite ammo and not be chastised because “cheating ruins games.”

     I don't want to spend my time whining about how things used to be. I don't want to lament about how Booker can't go to Paris anymore, because someone decided to patch it out. Paris is an interesting place.

..even if it does disappear after a few seconds.

 

-Raymond Adkins