What would I have changed: 1. Populate the world w/ more enemies, along w/ making them more aggressive. 2. Eliminate the Scadutree Blessings and go w/ a similar upgrade system like Sekiro. Down a boss and get a perma buff to your char for damage and defense. Considering that you can choose between several bosses to start w/ I think that would have been a much better design choice. 3. Stop breaking bosses w/ horrible camera and hitbox issues. 4. Tone down the ground aoe on bosses, it got to be a bit excessive. 5. Revamp Dragons, if not then just get rid of them. They are not fun to fight even tho they look amazing. 6. Reduce Radahn's 2nd phase aoe blinding lights and cut Miquella's hair back by 50%. Not all of us abuse parry to stand right in front of Radahn and actually stand to his side or rear. That damn hair makes it impossible to see his telegraphs. A good but not great DLC. Can't call it great bc I have no desire to ever replay it unlike all their previous souls games that I can return to over and over from time to time.
Feiran's 'Preticure' was published in... From when I write this in the current time, that was 70 lunar cycles ago. Much has changed since that time. Not much of that change would likely please Feiran, who valued so much the independent spirit of the home estates of his age. This contemporary culture spends more of its attention on distant communes than it does on the physical wonders of the natural world in which it inhabits. Self-reliance has been all but replaced by the omnipresent crutch of reliance, whose bandages continue to wrap us in protection, usually at the expense of our remaining mobility and autonomy. It might be best that he is gone. But I do not want to idealize him; he was a product of his time and culture, and it is certain that many of his values would simply not be possible to preserve in today's age. So, have we paid too much for our advances? Should we want to go back? In a pure exploration, for the purpose of seeking nothing but an unburdened soul, Feiran might spend hours and miles walking a single direction without anthropological encounter. Such expanses of the estates have been replaced with our mostly paved conveniences- which feed perfectly our comfort, yet which allow our inner peace to starve at the same time. See what I'm doing here? I'm commandeering his assets by using it as a springboard to voice my own lofty views, amalgamated with his own under my exclusive discretion. Sure, there's not necessarily anything wrong with doing that- but I just can't stand it when it comes right before the notary pad I am trying to visualize! And don't let me become too much satisfied with the slack in my line, lest I become the maker of my own speculative and pretentious forward, or worse, to be the last-word loving creator of the after-the-fact reactionary argument, perhaps like Esther Bren Terse, who seemed to've fancied himself as Feiran’s more contemporary literary improvement. As though post-hoc prose holds no advantage for the maker! Just as history is necessarily written by the victor standing, whoever has yet to lift pen from paper (or in my case, whoever now has fingers to keys) remains, mouth still a flapping. But seriously, Preticure will give you a feel for what that time was like. In many ways, it was a time that was far less constrained than the lifestyle you and I may know, but it was no walk in a rose-garden, either. Let's think realistically about the 'golden times,' where lives were shorter and illnesses were longer. Feiran himself died in his 40th solar cycle by lungs weakened from unmitigated exposure to craterspawn, with no cure to lessen the spread. Poverty and ignorance were an order of magnitude more severe. A cure’s affect was anybody's quack guess. Do not act enlightened post-hoc; you wouldn't have known if serpent oil was good for that rash or not, either. Now and then, I might argue for a little regression, but I mean that only in the sense of trading in some of our disproportioned reliance on reliances for a little bit of a return to our natural ecology. It is the well from which we have sprung, and from wandering too far from it we are certain to dry out. But I like my assets. And I believe in the advancements of higher knowing; those usher in the new frontier, upon whose rim the Beyond may stretch farther into the distance than we can yet know. Progress is unavoidable, and at least in the short term, it is a good. Like it or not, subsistence (life) has improved. As much as some relativists in the interactive-knowledge circles would have you believe that trading Avalar for a daily forage is a fair swap, it isn't. We have sparse sounds and adorned cossacks now, instead of smashing in some of the heads of a neighboring order just to take their followers as objects. So sure, journeying is not what it used to be, but that's prolly for the best. Alright, I have gone too far back in time. My point was that we should just be careful not to romanticize the past too much. And let's also allow other people's ideas to stand for themselves, without trying to apply too much of ourselves to the story when we reference them. So I hope I didn't do that too much just now. Still, it's fun just to imagine. It might be the place I'm currently at in my life, but between my mix of ennui, weariness, spiritual hollowness, and that strange sort of resigned exhaustion one feels just after consigning one's soul to the figurative devil itself, I read that, turned my gaze skyward and reverently intoned, "... beckon upon it and despair!" Here is someone who understands, not the crushing nature of life, but instead the slow, constant grind of the cosmic ticking clock. Of each step, another slow plod towards an open grave. The question of "Why?" A small question but written with three letters each of which stretch from horizon to horizon, encompassing all the vast vaulting sky above that threatens to swallow us that live on this tiny spec of dust in the endless black ocean. The question that makes light-years and eons too small a measure to quantify the importance of it. "Why?" "Who am I?" "What do I want?" ... And the knowledge that someone else has asked these questions gives an answer. Not the answer, but an answer. "I am not alone." Often there is a single image or concept which, by gift of precise language or striking juxtaposition, the poet seizes upon in such a way that the reader's attention is drawn to it and held there, like iron filings to a magnet. I mean something simple, something haunting -- as beautiful as two roads diverging in the yellow wood, or as bluntly insightful as "Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else." I see a little of that here, but not much more; there are occasional moments where I see an image beginning to coalesce out of the fog, but the author can't seem to hold on to it and it fades back into the morass of incomplete thoughts. The author will land on a striking statement -- "the me that can be seen" grabbed me -- but as I said, there's no serious development of any of this... The composition leaps from idea to idea in an almost panicked fashion; if the author was trying to portray fright, confusion, or a fading sense of identity, they aimed in the right direction. The repetition of phrases, however, fails to impress -- they're an old trick, hackneyed when in the hands of hacks or only-just-learning writers, and do nothing to create a sense of the profound. We have here an author that is clearly still trying to break free of their artistic influences and find their own voice. I do not think they have done so yet. Instead of coming across as deep, this poem gives the impression of an untutored writer's attempt to imitate the depth of great poetry. There are some concepts here that catch the eye and the mind, if only momentarily, but the author does not yet have the experience or the vocabulary to articulate them fully. (Not to mention them having the possible wrath of fanatics coming down on them.) All the same, it shows talent, if a rough and unpolished talent, and I would encourage the author not to give up. True self-expression is difficult for even the best writers... Alright, just reread all this and it seems all right, but I tend to get extremely voluble when I've had a few Jack and Cokes. I'm going to post this and then make myself another succulent vice. Pass it on to your correspondent and tell them again from me. For each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else. In such a way do the days pass- a blend of stock car racing and the never ending building of a gothic cathedral. Through the windows of my speeding car, I see all that I love falling away: books unread, jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why? What treasure do I expect in my future? Rather it is the confusion of childhood loping behind me, the chaos in the mind, the failure chipping away at each success. Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape and so move forward, as someone in the woods at night might hear the sound of approaching feet and stop to listen; then, instead of silence he hears some creature trying to be silent. What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks; the other ever closer, yet not really hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
laughably disagreed on all fronts, the hippo is the only one with a camera issue, the rest ( only dancer really) you can fix by just not getting cornered into the wall. no need to populate the world with more enemies, its already full of them, the 3 side quest "areas" are not real areas like the main areas, theyre literally side paths to get you to the side dungeons, it took me 30 mins to finish exploring those side areas without much enemies that ppl keep complaining about, ground aoes are fine, learn to jump over them rather than spam/panic dodge like ds3 and bloodborne. the silliest suggestion is the scadu frags, getting rid of them would make actually exploring the dlc world on end game level either a laughing stock or a chore depending on how they balance the linear story based progression, they cant actually balance the entire thing otherwise, its an open world, not a linear hallway and room simulator like the older games, and making it like sekiro takes away the choice of using a frag or not, and locking frags behind already hard bosses defeats the purpose of elden rings design to begin with, the design of sekiro is in no way shape or form comparable to elden ring, and one of the main reasons they did the attack power system in sekiro is becuz the game characters progression and exploration design is complete lazy shite in sekiro. lol theres about 3 usable items in the entire game, the rest are dogshit, the worst exploration in fromsoft by a gigantic margin. no weapons, no upgrade mats, no useful items, just useless prosthetics (most of which are useless next to the 4 good ones), no armor etc etc why even explore or pick shit up in sekiro? the buffs are the only thing worth a dam. overall, the scadu frags and their placement are genius, hell you can get 12 levels by just going the world and main areas without going to literally any side area, and u really only need 12 levels, the rest only offer extremely small improvements, and you keep all the levels on ng+ playthroughs. overall, its still a better dlc than old hunters and ringed city, i would legit say its better than both combined, had more and better fun in shadow than the entirety of the kinda dull ds3/bb main games atleast. to each their own; but shadow is by far laughably the best dlc fromsoft ever made, best bosses, level design, art design, enemies etc etc the list doesnt end really. i would never go back to older souls games like ds3 and bb tbh, i will always go back to elden ring and its dlc instead, the standards are just that much higher i guess, but i would go back to ds1 tbh, the nosalgia hits different, and its a better souls game than bb or ds3 imo, better in everyway but bosses and music.
The dlc has incredible highs and devastating lows. Like Messmer and Midra are S-tier and the rest are either bad or have dumb issues like the camera with Bayle and Dancing Lion. I think a few more months in the oven and it would have been fucking perfect. And other stuff but I cant be bothered to type it all out
Full of cheap upgrades on the base game that ensure you play for BIS. If it wasn’t for the art and cut scenes, would have got bored and not bothered completing NG.
Feiran's 'Preticure' was published in... From when I write this in the current time, that was 70 lunar cycles ago. Much has changed since that time. Not much of that change would likely please Feiran, who valued so much the independent spirit of the home estates of his age. This contemporary culture spends more of its attention on distant communes than it does on the physical wonders of the natural world in which it inhabits. Self-reliance has been all but replaced by the omnipresent crutch of reliance, whose bandages continue to wrap us in protection, usually at the expense of our remaining mobility and autonomy. It might be best that he is gone. But I do not want to idealize him; he was a product of his time and culture, and it is certain that many of his values would simply not be possible to preserve in today's age. So, have we paid too much for our advances? Should we want to go back? In a pure exploration, for the purpose of seeking nothing but an unburdened soul, Feiran might spend hours and miles walking a single direction without anthropological encounter. Such expanses of the estates have been replaced with our mostly paved conveniences- which feed perfectly our comfort, yet which allow our inner peace to starve at the same time. See what I'm doing here? I'm commandeering his assets by using it as a springboard to voice my own lofty views, amalgamated with his own under my exclusive discretion. Sure, there's not necessarily anything wrong with doing that- but I just can't stand it when it comes right before the notary pad I am trying to visualize! And don't let me become too much satisfied with the slack in my line, lest I become the maker of my own speculative and pretentious forward, or worse, to be the last-word loving creator of the after-the-fact reactionary argument, perhaps like Esther Bren Terse, who seemed to've fancied himself as Feiran’s more contemporary literary improvement. As though post-hoc prose holds no advantage for the maker! Just as history is necessarily written by the victor standing, whoever has yet to lift pen from paper (or in my case, whoever now has fingers to keys) remains, mouth still a flapping. But seriously, Preticure will give you a feel for what that time was like. In many ways, it was a time that was far less constrained than the lifestyle you and I may know, but it was no walk in a rose-garden, either. Let's think realistically about the 'golden times,' where lives were shorter and illnesses were longer. Feiran himself died in his 40th solar cycle by lungs weakened from unmitigated exposure to craterspawn, with no cure to lessen the spread. Poverty and ignorance were an order of magnitude more severe. A cure’s affect was anybody's quack guess. Do not act enlightened post-hoc; you wouldn't have known if serpent oil was good for that rash or not, either. Now and then, I might argue for a little regression, but I mean that only in the sense of trading in some of our disproportioned reliance on reliances for a little bit of a return to our natural ecology. It is the well from which we have sprung, and from wandering too far from it we are certain to dry out. But I like my assets. And I believe in the advancements of higher knowing; those usher in the new frontier, upon whose rim the Beyond may stretch farther into the distance than we can yet know. Progress is unavoidable, and at least in the short term, it is a good. Like it or not, subsistence (life) has improved. As much as some relativists in the interactive-knowledge circles would have you believe that trading Avalar for a daily forage is a fair swap, it isn't. We have sparse sounds and adorned cossacks now, instead of smashing in some of the heads of a neighboring order just to take their followers as objects. So sure, journeying is not what it used to be, but that's prolly for the best. Alright, I have gone too far back in time. My point was that we should just be careful not to romanticize the past too much. And let's also allow other people's ideas to stand for themselves, without trying to apply too much of ourselves to the story when we reference them. So I hope I didn't do that too much just now. Still, it's fun just to imagine. It might be the place I'm currently at in my life, but between my mix of ennui, weariness, spiritual hollowness, and that strange sort of resigned exhaustion one feels just after consigning one's soul to the figurative devil itself, I read that, turned my gaze skyward and reverently intoned, "... beckon upon it and despair!" Here is someone who understands, not the crushing nature of life, but instead the slow, constant grind of the cosmic ticking clock. Of each step, another slow plod towards an open grave. The question of "Why?" A small question but written with three letters each of which stretch from horizon to horizon, encompassing all the vast vaulting sky above that threatens to swallow us that live on this tiny spec of dust in the endless black ocean. The question that makes light-years and eons too small a measure to quantify the importance of it. "Why?" "Who am I?" "What do I want?" ... And the knowledge that someone else has asked these questions gives an answer. Not the answer, but an answer. "I am not alone." Often there is a single image or concept which, by gift of precise language or striking juxtaposition, the poet seizes upon in such a way that the reader's attention is drawn to it and held there, like iron filings to a magnet. I mean something simple, something haunting -- as beautiful as two roads diverging in the yellow wood, or as bluntly insightful as "Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else." I see a little of that here, but not much more; there are occasional moments where I see an image beginning to coalesce out of the fog, but the author can't seem to hold on to it and it fades back into the morass of incomplete thoughts. The author will land on a striking statement -- "the me that can be seen" grabbed me -- but as I said, there's no serious development of any of this... The composition leaps from idea to idea in an almost panicked fashion; if the author was trying to portray fright, confusion, or a fading sense of identity, they aimed in the right direction. The repetition of phrases, however, fails to impress -- they're an old trick, hackneyed when in the hands of hacks or only-just-learning writers, and do nothing to create a sense of the profound. We have here an author that is clearly still trying to break free of their artistic influences and find their own voice. I do not think they have done so yet. Instead of coming across as deep, this poem gives the impression of an untutored writer's attempt to imitate the depth of great poetry. There are some concepts here that catch the eye and the mind, if only momentarily, but the author does not yet have the experience or the vocabulary to articulate them fully. (Not to mention them having the possible wrath of fanatics coming down on them.) All the same, it shows talent, if a rough and unpolished talent, and I would encourage the author not to give up. True self-expression is difficult for even the best writers... Alright, just reread all this and it seems all right, but I tend to get extremely voluble when I've had a few Jack and Cokes. I'm going to post this and then make myself another succulent vice. Pass it on to your correspondent and tell them again from me. For each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else. In such a way do the days pass- a blend of stock car racing and the never ending building of a gothic cathedral. Through the windows of my speeding car, I see all that I love falling away: books unread, jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why? What treasure do I expect in my future? Rather it is the confusion of childhood loping behind me, the chaos in the mind, the failure chipping away at each success. Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape and so move forward, as someone in the woods at night might hear the sound of approaching feet and stop to listen; then, instead of silence he hears some creature trying to be silent. What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks; the other ever closer, yet not really hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
That feeling when either the maker of this video is a coward or TH-cam is a dystopian crap hole. Oh here's more facts btw. There are over 2000+ dungeons in Bloodborne. More side content than any other Fromsoft game had on launch to date. So keep up the para social bootlicking. You'll never be able to meet Miyazaki in person. Sorry pals. You can't give your para social dad a reach around for your zealotry
Feiran's 'Preticure' was published in... From when I write this in the current time, that was 70 lunar cycles ago. Much has changed since that time. Not much of that change would likely please Feiran, who valued so much the independent spirit of the home estates of his age. This contemporary culture spends more of its attention on distant communes than it does on the physical wonders of the natural world in which it inhabits. Self-reliance has been all but replaced by the omnipresent crutch of reliance, whose bandages continue to wrap us in protection, usually at the expense of our remaining mobility and autonomy. It might be best that he is gone. But I do not want to idealize him; he was a product of his time and culture, and it is certain that many of his values would simply not be possible to preserve in today's age. So, have we paid too much for our advances? Should we want to go back? In a pure exploration, for the purpose of seeking nothing but an unburdened soul, Feiran might spend hours and miles walking a single direction without anthropological encounter. Such expanses of the estates have been replaced with our mostly paved conveniences- which feed perfectly our comfort, yet which allow our inner peace to starve at the same time. See what I'm doing here? I'm commandeering his assets by using it as a springboard to voice my own lofty views, amalgamated with his own under my exclusive discretion. Sure, there's not necessarily anything wrong with doing that- but I just can't stand it when it comes right before the notary pad I am trying to visualize! And don't let me become too much satisfied with the slack in my line, lest I become the maker of my own speculative and pretentious forward, or worse, to be the last-word loving creator of the after-the-fact reactionary argument, perhaps like Esther Bren Terse, who seemed to've fancied himself as Feiran’s more contemporary literary improvement. As though post-hoc prose holds no advantage for the maker! Just as history is necessarily written by the victor standing, whoever has yet to lift pen from paper (or in my case, whoever now has fingers to keys) remains, mouth still a flapping. But seriously, Preticure will give you a feel for what that time was like. In many ways, it was a time that was far less constrained than the lifestyle you and I may know, but it was no walk in a rose-garden, either. Let's think realistically about the 'golden times,' where lives were shorter and illnesses were longer. Feiran himself died in his 40th solar cycle by lungs weakened from unmitigated exposure to craterspawn, with no cure to lessen the spread. Poverty and ignorance were an order of magnitude more severe. A cure’s affect was anybody's quack guess. Do not act enlightened post-hoc; you wouldn't have known if serpent oil was good for that rash or not, either. Now and then, I might argue for a little regression, but I mean that only in the sense of trading in some of our disproportioned reliance on reliances for a little bit of a return to our natural ecology. It is the well from which we have sprung, and from wandering too far from it we are certain to dry out. But I like my assets. And I believe in the advancements of higher knowing; those usher in the new frontier, upon whose rim the Beyond may stretch farther into the distance than we can yet know. Progress is unavoidable, and at least in the short term, it is a good. Like it or not, subsistence (life) has improved. As much as some relativists in the interactive-knowledge circles would have you believe that trading Avalar for a daily forage is a fair swap, it isn't. We have sparse sounds and adorned cossacks now, instead of smashing in some of the heads of a neighboring order just to take their followers as objects. So sure, journeying is not what it used to be, but that's prolly for the best. Alright, I have gone too far back in time. My point was that we should just be careful not to romanticize the past too much. And let's also allow other people's ideas to stand for themselves, without trying to apply too much of ourselves to the story when we reference them. So I hope I didn't do that too much just now. Still, it's fun just to imagine. It might be the place I'm currently at in my life, but between my mix of ennui, weariness, spiritual hollowness, and that strange sort of resigned exhaustion one feels just after consigning one's soul to the figurative devil itself, I read that, turned my gaze skyward and reverently intoned, "... beckon upon it and despair!" Here is someone who understands, not the crushing nature of life, but instead the slow, constant grind of the cosmic ticking clock. Of each step, another slow plod towards an open grave. The question of "Why?" A small question but written with three letters each of which stretch from horizon to horizon, encompassing all the vast vaulting sky above that threatens to swallow us that live on this tiny spec of dust in the endless black ocean. The question that makes light-years and eons too small a measure to quantify the importance of it. "Why?" "Who am I?" "What do I want?" ... And the knowledge that someone else has asked these questions gives an answer. Not the answer, but an answer. "I am not alone." Often there is a single image or concept which, by gift of precise language or striking juxtaposition, the poet seizes upon in such a way that the reader's attention is drawn to it and held there, like iron filings to a magnet. I mean something simple, something haunting -- as beautiful as two roads diverging in the yellow wood, or as bluntly insightful as "Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else." I see a little of that here, but not much more; there are occasional moments where I see an image beginning to coalesce out of the fog, but the author can't seem to hold on to it and it fades back into the morass of incomplete thoughts. The author will land on a striking statement -- "the me that can be seen" grabbed me -- but as I said, there's no serious development of any of this... The composition leaps from idea to idea in an almost panicked fashion; if the author was trying to portray fright, confusion, or a fading sense of identity, they aimed in the right direction. The repetition of phrases, however, fails to impress -- they're an old trick, hackneyed when in the hands of hacks or only-just-learning writers, and do nothing to create a sense of the profound. We have here an author that is clearly still trying to break free of their artistic influences and find their own voice. I do not think they have done so yet. Instead of coming across as deep, this poem gives the impression of an untutored writer's attempt to imitate the depth of great poetry. There are some concepts here that catch the eye and the mind, if only momentarily, but the author does not yet have the experience or the vocabulary to articulate them fully. (Not to mention them having the possible wrath of fanatics coming down on them.) All the same, it shows talent, if a rough and unpolished talent, and I would encourage the author not to give up. True self-expression is difficult for even the best writers... Alright, just reread all this and it seems all right, but I tend to get extremely voluble when I've had a few Jack and Cokes. I'm going to post this and then make myself another succulent vice. Pass it on to your correspondent and tell them again from me. For each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else. In such a way do the days pass- a blend of stock car racing and the never ending building of a gothic cathedral. Through the windows of my speeding car, I see all that I love falling away: books unread, jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why? What treasure do I expect in my future? Rather it is the confusion of childhood loping behind me, the chaos in the mind, the failure chipping away at each success. Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape and so move forward, as someone in the woods at night might hear the sound of approaching feet and stop to listen; then, instead of silence he hears some creature trying to be silent. What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks; the other ever closer, yet not really hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
i laugh when clowns critique elden rings side content when bloodborne had the worst, lowest quality and most lazy and laughable side content in fromsoft history, yet its never judged by its side content lol. pathetic nostalgia blind souls veteran clowns delusional "critiques" of elden ring are frankly mostly just laughable and should be taken with a grain of salt since theres not much thinking put into it.
What did you enjoy most about Shadows of the Erdtree? Was it exactly what you wanted or were you expecting more? Please share your thoughts below!
What would I have changed:
1. Populate the world w/ more enemies, along w/ making them more aggressive.
2. Eliminate the Scadutree Blessings and go w/ a similar upgrade system like Sekiro. Down a boss and get a perma buff to your char for damage and defense. Considering that you can choose between several bosses to start w/ I think that would have been a much better design choice.
3. Stop breaking bosses w/ horrible camera and hitbox issues.
4. Tone down the ground aoe on bosses, it got to be a bit excessive.
5. Revamp Dragons, if not then just get rid of them. They are not fun to fight even tho they look amazing.
6. Reduce Radahn's 2nd phase aoe blinding lights and cut Miquella's hair back by 50%. Not all of us abuse parry to stand right in front of Radahn and actually stand to his side or rear. That damn hair makes it impossible to see his telegraphs.
A good but not great DLC. Can't call it great bc I have no desire to ever replay it unlike all their previous souls games that I can return to over and over from time to time.
Feiran's 'Preticure' was published in...
From when I write this in the current time, that was 70 lunar cycles ago.
Much has changed since that time.
Not much of that change would likely please Feiran, who valued so much the independent spirit of the home estates of his age.
This contemporary culture spends more of its attention on distant communes than it does on the physical wonders of the natural world in which it inhabits.
Self-reliance has been all but replaced by the omnipresent crutch of reliance, whose bandages continue to wrap us in protection, usually at the expense of our remaining mobility and autonomy.
It might be best that he is gone.
But I do not want to idealize him; he was a product of his time and culture, and it is certain that many of his values would simply not be possible to preserve in today's age.
So, have we paid too much for our advances?
Should we want to go back?
In a pure exploration, for the purpose of seeking nothing but an unburdened soul, Feiran might spend hours and miles walking a single direction without anthropological encounter.
Such expanses of the estates have been replaced with our mostly paved conveniences- which feed perfectly our comfort, yet which allow our inner peace to starve at the same time.
See what I'm doing here?
I'm commandeering his assets by using it as a springboard to voice my own lofty views, amalgamated with his own under my exclusive discretion.
Sure, there's not necessarily anything wrong with doing that- but I just can't stand it when it comes right before the notary pad I am trying to visualize!
And don't let me become too much satisfied with the slack in my line, lest I become the maker of my own speculative and pretentious forward, or worse, to be the last-word loving creator of the after-the-fact reactionary argument, perhaps like Esther Bren Terse, who seemed to've fancied himself as Feiran’s more contemporary literary improvement.
As though post-hoc prose holds no advantage for the maker!
Just as history is necessarily written by the victor standing, whoever has yet to lift pen from paper (or in my case, whoever now has fingers to keys) remains, mouth still a flapping.
But seriously, Preticure will give you a feel for what that time was like.
In many ways, it was a time that was far less constrained than the lifestyle you and I may know, but it was no walk in a rose-garden, either.
Let's think realistically about the 'golden times,' where lives were shorter and illnesses were longer.
Feiran himself died in his 40th solar cycle by lungs weakened from unmitigated exposure to craterspawn, with no cure to lessen the spread.
Poverty and ignorance were an order of magnitude more severe.
A cure’s affect was anybody's quack guess.
Do not act enlightened post-hoc; you wouldn't have known if serpent oil was good for that rash or not, either.
Now and then, I might argue for a little regression, but I mean that only in the sense of trading in some of our disproportioned reliance on reliances for a little bit of a return to our natural ecology.
It is the well from which we have sprung, and from wandering too far from it we are certain to dry out.
But I like my assets. And I believe in the advancements of higher knowing; those usher in the new frontier, upon whose rim the Beyond may stretch farther into the distance than we can yet know.
Progress is unavoidable, and at least in the short term, it is a good.
Like it or not, subsistence (life) has improved.
As much as some relativists in the interactive-knowledge circles would have you believe that trading Avalar for a daily forage is a fair swap, it isn't.
We have sparse sounds and adorned cossacks now, instead of smashing in some of the heads of a neighboring order just to take their followers as objects.
So sure, journeying is not what it used to be, but that's prolly for the best.
Alright, I have gone too far back in time.
My point was that we should just be careful not to romanticize the past too much.
And let's also allow other people's ideas to stand for themselves, without trying to apply too much of ourselves to the story when we reference them.
So I hope I didn't do that too much just now.
Still, it's fun just to imagine.
It might be the place I'm currently at in my life, but between my mix of ennui, weariness, spiritual hollowness, and that strange sort of resigned exhaustion one feels just after consigning one's soul to the figurative devil itself, I read that, turned my gaze skyward and reverently intoned, "... beckon upon it and despair!"
Here is someone who understands, not the crushing nature of life, but instead the slow, constant grind of the cosmic ticking clock. Of each step, another slow plod towards an open grave. The question of "Why?" A small question but written with three letters each of which stretch from horizon to horizon, encompassing all the vast vaulting sky above that threatens to swallow us that live on this tiny spec of dust in the endless black ocean. The question that makes light-years and eons too small a measure to quantify the importance of it. "Why?" "Who am I?" "What do I want?"
...
And the knowledge that someone else has asked these questions gives an answer. Not the answer, but an answer.
"I am not alone."
Often there is a single image or concept which, by gift of precise language or striking juxtaposition, the poet seizes upon in such a way that the reader's attention is drawn to it and held there, like iron filings to a magnet. I mean something simple, something haunting -- as beautiful as two roads diverging in the yellow wood, or as bluntly insightful as "Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else." I see a little of that here, but not much more; there are occasional moments where I see an image beginning to coalesce out of the fog, but the author can't seem to hold on to it and it fades back into the morass of incomplete thoughts. The author will land on a striking statement -- "the me that can be seen" grabbed me -- but as I said, there's no serious development of any of this... The composition leaps from idea to idea in an almost panicked fashion; if the author was trying to portray fright, confusion, or a fading sense of identity, they aimed in the right direction. The repetition of phrases, however, fails to impress -- they're an old trick, hackneyed when in the hands of hacks or only-just-learning writers, and do nothing to create a sense of the profound.
We have here an author that is clearly still trying to break free of their artistic influences and find their own voice. I do not think they have done so yet. Instead of coming across as deep, this poem gives the impression of an untutored writer's attempt to imitate the depth of great poetry. There are some concepts here that catch the eye and the mind, if only momentarily, but the author does not yet have the experience or the vocabulary to articulate them fully. (Not to mention them having the possible wrath of fanatics coming down on them.) All the same, it shows talent, if a rough and unpolished talent, and I would encourage the author not to give up. True self-expression is difficult for even the best writers...
Alright, just reread all this and it seems all right, but I tend to get extremely voluble when I've had a few Jack and Cokes. I'm going to post this and then make myself another succulent vice. Pass it on to your correspondent and tell them again from me.
For each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass-
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen; then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
Holy fucking shit you read my mind... Id also flatten the terrain in Rhadan's arena it keeps snagging my character its fucking annoying
laughably disagreed on all fronts, the hippo is the only one with a camera issue, the rest ( only dancer really) you can fix by just not getting cornered into the wall. no need to populate the world with more enemies, its already full of them, the 3 side quest "areas" are not real areas like the main areas, theyre literally side paths to get you to the side dungeons, it took me 30 mins to finish exploring those side areas without much enemies that ppl keep complaining about, ground aoes are fine, learn to jump over them rather than spam/panic dodge like ds3 and bloodborne.
the silliest suggestion is the scadu frags, getting rid of them would make actually exploring the dlc world on end game level either a laughing stock or a chore depending on how they balance the linear story based progression, they cant actually balance the entire thing otherwise, its an open world, not a linear hallway and room simulator like the older games, and making it like sekiro takes away the choice of using a frag or not, and locking frags behind already hard bosses defeats the purpose of elden rings design to begin with, the design of sekiro is in no way shape or form comparable to elden ring, and one of the main reasons they did the attack power system in sekiro is becuz the game characters progression and exploration design is complete lazy shite in sekiro. lol theres about 3 usable items in the entire game, the rest are dogshit, the worst exploration in fromsoft by a gigantic margin. no weapons, no upgrade mats, no useful items, just useless prosthetics (most of which are useless next to the 4 good ones), no armor etc etc why even explore or pick shit up in sekiro? the buffs are the only thing worth a dam.
overall, the scadu frags and their placement are genius, hell you can get 12 levels by just going the world and main areas without going to literally any side area, and u really only need 12 levels, the rest only offer extremely small improvements, and you keep all the levels on ng+ playthroughs.
overall, its still a better dlc than old hunters and ringed city, i would legit say its better than both combined, had more and better fun in shadow than the entirety of the kinda dull ds3/bb main games atleast. to each their own; but shadow is by far laughably the best dlc fromsoft ever made, best bosses, level design, art design, enemies etc etc the list doesnt end really. i would never go back to older souls games like ds3 and bb tbh, i will always go back to elden ring and its dlc instead, the standards are just that much higher i guess, but i would go back to ds1 tbh, the nosalgia hits different, and its a better souls game than bb or ds3 imo, better in everyway but bosses and music.
@@flamingmanure Why are you lying? Bayle, Dancing Lion, Golden Hippo, and even Rellana will whiplash the camera. They all have camera issue.
10:25 It’s not like it’s hard to avoid most of them.
The dlc has incredible highs and devastating lows. Like Messmer and Midra are S-tier and the rest are either bad or have dumb issues like the camera with Bayle and Dancing Lion. I think a few more months in the oven and it would have been fucking perfect. And other stuff but I cant be bothered to type it all out
Full of cheap upgrades on the base game that ensure you play for BIS.
If it wasn’t for the art and cut scenes, would have got bored and not bothered completing NG.
This DLC made it obvious to me how much of this game is re skinned and poorly balanced. Love the game but meh..
Feiran's 'Preticure' was published in...
From when I write this in the current time, that was 70 lunar cycles ago.
Much has changed since that time.
Not much of that change would likely please Feiran, who valued so much the independent spirit of the home estates of his age.
This contemporary culture spends more of its attention on distant communes than it does on the physical wonders of the natural world in which it inhabits.
Self-reliance has been all but replaced by the omnipresent crutch of reliance, whose bandages continue to wrap us in protection, usually at the expense of our remaining mobility and autonomy.
It might be best that he is gone.
But I do not want to idealize him; he was a product of his time and culture, and it is certain that many of his values would simply not be possible to preserve in today's age.
So, have we paid too much for our advances?
Should we want to go back?
In a pure exploration, for the purpose of seeking nothing but an unburdened soul, Feiran might spend hours and miles walking a single direction without anthropological encounter.
Such expanses of the estates have been replaced with our mostly paved conveniences- which feed perfectly our comfort, yet which allow our inner peace to starve at the same time.
See what I'm doing here?
I'm commandeering his assets by using it as a springboard to voice my own lofty views, amalgamated with his own under my exclusive discretion.
Sure, there's not necessarily anything wrong with doing that- but I just can't stand it when it comes right before the notary pad I am trying to visualize!
And don't let me become too much satisfied with the slack in my line, lest I become the maker of my own speculative and pretentious forward, or worse, to be the last-word loving creator of the after-the-fact reactionary argument, perhaps like Esther Bren Terse, who seemed to've fancied himself as Feiran’s more contemporary literary improvement.
As though post-hoc prose holds no advantage for the maker!
Just as history is necessarily written by the victor standing, whoever has yet to lift pen from paper (or in my case, whoever now has fingers to keys) remains, mouth still a flapping.
But seriously, Preticure will give you a feel for what that time was like.
In many ways, it was a time that was far less constrained than the lifestyle you and I may know, but it was no walk in a rose-garden, either.
Let's think realistically about the 'golden times,' where lives were shorter and illnesses were longer.
Feiran himself died in his 40th solar cycle by lungs weakened from unmitigated exposure to craterspawn, with no cure to lessen the spread.
Poverty and ignorance were an order of magnitude more severe.
A cure’s affect was anybody's quack guess.
Do not act enlightened post-hoc; you wouldn't have known if serpent oil was good for that rash or not, either.
Now and then, I might argue for a little regression, but I mean that only in the sense of trading in some of our disproportioned reliance on reliances for a little bit of a return to our natural ecology.
It is the well from which we have sprung, and from wandering too far from it we are certain to dry out.
But I like my assets. And I believe in the advancements of higher knowing; those usher in the new frontier, upon whose rim the Beyond may stretch farther into the distance than we can yet know.
Progress is unavoidable, and at least in the short term, it is a good.
Like it or not, subsistence (life) has improved.
As much as some relativists in the interactive-knowledge circles would have you believe that trading Avalar for a daily forage is a fair swap, it isn't.
We have sparse sounds and adorned cossacks now, instead of smashing in some of the heads of a neighboring order just to take their followers as objects.
So sure, journeying is not what it used to be, but that's prolly for the best.
Alright, I have gone too far back in time.
My point was that we should just be careful not to romanticize the past too much.
And let's also allow other people's ideas to stand for themselves, without trying to apply too much of ourselves to the story when we reference them.
So I hope I didn't do that too much just now.
Still, it's fun just to imagine.
It might be the place I'm currently at in my life, but between my mix of ennui, weariness, spiritual hollowness, and that strange sort of resigned exhaustion one feels just after consigning one's soul to the figurative devil itself, I read that, turned my gaze skyward and reverently intoned, "... beckon upon it and despair!"
Here is someone who understands, not the crushing nature of life, but instead the slow, constant grind of the cosmic ticking clock. Of each step, another slow plod towards an open grave. The question of "Why?" A small question but written with three letters each of which stretch from horizon to horizon, encompassing all the vast vaulting sky above that threatens to swallow us that live on this tiny spec of dust in the endless black ocean. The question that makes light-years and eons too small a measure to quantify the importance of it. "Why?" "Who am I?" "What do I want?"
...
And the knowledge that someone else has asked these questions gives an answer. Not the answer, but an answer.
"I am not alone."
Often there is a single image or concept which, by gift of precise language or striking juxtaposition, the poet seizes upon in such a way that the reader's attention is drawn to it and held there, like iron filings to a magnet. I mean something simple, something haunting -- as beautiful as two roads diverging in the yellow wood, or as bluntly insightful as "Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else." I see a little of that here, but not much more; there are occasional moments where I see an image beginning to coalesce out of the fog, but the author can't seem to hold on to it and it fades back into the morass of incomplete thoughts. The author will land on a striking statement -- "the me that can be seen" grabbed me -- but as I said, there's no serious development of any of this... The composition leaps from idea to idea in an almost panicked fashion; if the author was trying to portray fright, confusion, or a fading sense of identity, they aimed in the right direction. The repetition of phrases, however, fails to impress -- they're an old trick, hackneyed when in the hands of hacks or only-just-learning writers, and do nothing to create a sense of the profound.
We have here an author that is clearly still trying to break free of their artistic influences and find their own voice. I do not think they have done so yet. Instead of coming across as deep, this poem gives the impression of an untutored writer's attempt to imitate the depth of great poetry. There are some concepts here that catch the eye and the mind, if only momentarily, but the author does not yet have the experience or the vocabulary to articulate them fully. (Not to mention them having the possible wrath of fanatics coming down on them.) All the same, it shows talent, if a rough and unpolished talent, and I would encourage the author not to give up. True self-expression is difficult for even the best writers...
Alright, just reread all this and it seems all right, but I tend to get extremely voluble when I've had a few Jack and Cokes. I'm going to post this and then make myself another succulent vice. Pass it on to your correspondent and tell them again from me.
For each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass-
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen; then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
7:30 oh so you mean how from soft handled Elden ring? No challenge, just hard
That feeling when either the maker of this video is a coward or TH-cam is a dystopian crap hole. Oh here's more facts btw. There are over 2000+ dungeons in Bloodborne. More side content than any other Fromsoft game had on launch to date. So keep up the para social bootlicking. You'll never be able to meet Miyazaki in person. Sorry pals. You can't give your para social dad a reach around for your zealotry
Feiran's 'Preticure' was published in...
From when I write this in the current time, that was 70 lunar cycles ago.
Much has changed since that time.
Not much of that change would likely please Feiran, who valued so much the independent spirit of the home estates of his age.
This contemporary culture spends more of its attention on distant communes than it does on the physical wonders of the natural world in which it inhabits.
Self-reliance has been all but replaced by the omnipresent crutch of reliance, whose bandages continue to wrap us in protection, usually at the expense of our remaining mobility and autonomy.
It might be best that he is gone.
But I do not want to idealize him; he was a product of his time and culture, and it is certain that many of his values would simply not be possible to preserve in today's age.
So, have we paid too much for our advances?
Should we want to go back?
In a pure exploration, for the purpose of seeking nothing but an unburdened soul, Feiran might spend hours and miles walking a single direction without anthropological encounter.
Such expanses of the estates have been replaced with our mostly paved conveniences- which feed perfectly our comfort, yet which allow our inner peace to starve at the same time.
See what I'm doing here?
I'm commandeering his assets by using it as a springboard to voice my own lofty views, amalgamated with his own under my exclusive discretion.
Sure, there's not necessarily anything wrong with doing that- but I just can't stand it when it comes right before the notary pad I am trying to visualize!
And don't let me become too much satisfied with the slack in my line, lest I become the maker of my own speculative and pretentious forward, or worse, to be the last-word loving creator of the after-the-fact reactionary argument, perhaps like Esther Bren Terse, who seemed to've fancied himself as Feiran’s more contemporary literary improvement.
As though post-hoc prose holds no advantage for the maker!
Just as history is necessarily written by the victor standing, whoever has yet to lift pen from paper (or in my case, whoever now has fingers to keys) remains, mouth still a flapping.
But seriously, Preticure will give you a feel for what that time was like.
In many ways, it was a time that was far less constrained than the lifestyle you and I may know, but it was no walk in a rose-garden, either.
Let's think realistically about the 'golden times,' where lives were shorter and illnesses were longer.
Feiran himself died in his 40th solar cycle by lungs weakened from unmitigated exposure to craterspawn, with no cure to lessen the spread.
Poverty and ignorance were an order of magnitude more severe.
A cure’s affect was anybody's quack guess.
Do not act enlightened post-hoc; you wouldn't have known if serpent oil was good for that rash or not, either.
Now and then, I might argue for a little regression, but I mean that only in the sense of trading in some of our disproportioned reliance on reliances for a little bit of a return to our natural ecology.
It is the well from which we have sprung, and from wandering too far from it we are certain to dry out.
But I like my assets. And I believe in the advancements of higher knowing; those usher in the new frontier, upon whose rim the Beyond may stretch farther into the distance than we can yet know.
Progress is unavoidable, and at least in the short term, it is a good.
Like it or not, subsistence (life) has improved.
As much as some relativists in the interactive-knowledge circles would have you believe that trading Avalar for a daily forage is a fair swap, it isn't.
We have sparse sounds and adorned cossacks now, instead of smashing in some of the heads of a neighboring order just to take their followers as objects.
So sure, journeying is not what it used to be, but that's prolly for the best.
Alright, I have gone too far back in time.
My point was that we should just be careful not to romanticize the past too much.
And let's also allow other people's ideas to stand for themselves, without trying to apply too much of ourselves to the story when we reference them.
So I hope I didn't do that too much just now.
Still, it's fun just to imagine.
It might be the place I'm currently at in my life, but between my mix of ennui, weariness, spiritual hollowness, and that strange sort of resigned exhaustion one feels just after consigning one's soul to the figurative devil itself, I read that, turned my gaze skyward and reverently intoned, "... beckon upon it and despair!"
Here is someone who understands, not the crushing nature of life, but instead the slow, constant grind of the cosmic ticking clock. Of each step, another slow plod towards an open grave. The question of "Why?" A small question but written with three letters each of which stretch from horizon to horizon, encompassing all the vast vaulting sky above that threatens to swallow us that live on this tiny spec of dust in the endless black ocean. The question that makes light-years and eons too small a measure to quantify the importance of it. "Why?" "Who am I?" "What do I want?"
...
And the knowledge that someone else has asked these questions gives an answer. Not the answer, but an answer.
"I am not alone."
Often there is a single image or concept which, by gift of precise language or striking juxtaposition, the poet seizes upon in such a way that the reader's attention is drawn to it and held there, like iron filings to a magnet. I mean something simple, something haunting -- as beautiful as two roads diverging in the yellow wood, or as bluntly insightful as "Each thing I do I rush through so I can do something else." I see a little of that here, but not much more; there are occasional moments where I see an image beginning to coalesce out of the fog, but the author can't seem to hold on to it and it fades back into the morass of incomplete thoughts. The author will land on a striking statement -- "the me that can be seen" grabbed me -- but as I said, there's no serious development of any of this... The composition leaps from idea to idea in an almost panicked fashion; if the author was trying to portray fright, confusion, or a fading sense of identity, they aimed in the right direction. The repetition of phrases, however, fails to impress -- they're an old trick, hackneyed when in the hands of hacks or only-just-learning writers, and do nothing to create a sense of the profound.
We have here an author that is clearly still trying to break free of their artistic influences and find their own voice. I do not think they have done so yet. Instead of coming across as deep, this poem gives the impression of an untutored writer's attempt to imitate the depth of great poetry. There are some concepts here that catch the eye and the mind, if only momentarily, but the author does not yet have the experience or the vocabulary to articulate them fully. (Not to mention them having the possible wrath of fanatics coming down on them.) All the same, it shows talent, if a rough and unpolished talent, and I would encourage the author not to give up. True self-expression is difficult for even the best writers...
Alright, just reread all this and it seems all right, but I tend to get extremely voluble when I've had a few Jack and Cokes. I'm going to post this and then make myself another succulent vice. Pass it on to your correspondent and tell them again from me.
For each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass-
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen; then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill.
i laugh when clowns critique elden rings side content when bloodborne had the worst, lowest quality and most lazy and laughable side content in fromsoft history, yet its never judged by its side content lol. pathetic nostalgia blind souls veteran clowns delusional "critiques" of elden ring are frankly mostly just laughable and should be taken with a grain of salt since theres not much thinking put into it.