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Mag

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About Mag

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    SERAPH
  • Birthday 03/25/1998

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    Take a Guess
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    Where tomorrow ends.
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    Student

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  1. Mag

    More Important is the Journey OOC

    Incidentally, @Mickey Flash it's your post.
  2. Mag

    (DA): Let’s Start a RIOT

    An absurd moment occurs on a battlefield. Far away mentally if not physically, the commanders are negotiating with opposite things like pride and logic (a noxious combination that might explode at any moment, but not now). While they are doing so the men have nothing to do but talk amongst themselves. They have to; what else is there to do when the tension of the air is strained so much it might snap? One soldier is sitting in a chair. Her eyes are closed and her mind sealed as tight as an airlock. Nothing inside may escape; nothing outside may contaminate. Her thoughts are mostly blank, ideas vanishing as soon as they appear, a constant stream of ideas leaving nothing more permanent than an impression (her memory curse at work), but it’s important to think them, even if she doesn’t remember what she’s thought about. Another finds this questionable. Sunny Scarborough descends upon her like a butterfly. “You’re thinking about something, yes?” “Huh-wha?” City cracks her eyes open, wincing at the sudden influx of sunlight. For all the world, it looks like she’s been sleeping while the rest of them have been pointing their guns at each other. “A plan? Something that is…troubling you?” “Maybe,” she mumbles, straightening up in her seat. “Maybe not. It’s a — whatchamasay — a mystery. Not meant for mortal ears, ya know.” “Or—! Perhaps nothing.” She sweeps up close abruptly, grasping at City’s cheeks before indignance sinks in. “Such a symmetrical face! Ah. Pretty, too. If I hacked your face in half, they would have no difference, yes.” Her face scrunches up at Sunny’s words, simultaneously thoughtful and disgusted by the proposition. “Hey-wait-what?” She pushes her hands away as far as she can, shaking her head incredulously. “No way! There’d still be a difference. You know, like mirrors. It’d be flipped! Don’t be silly. Nobody’s got two halves of the same face.” …was that entirely right? She goes on with her lecture, undeterred. “And you know. No cutting of faces. Not in the least bit nice. If you touch me badly I’ll call Mister Mal.” But by then the negotiations had drifted into a terse period of quiet. Mal stood facing Ciminiero and neither were saying a word; what words needed to be said were said. It was decision time. City quieted down and looked askance at Sunny. “Hey,” she said in a somewhat perplexed whisper. “Do you… do you know what we’re supposed to be doing right now?”
  3. Mag

    Powers and balance

    And this is where the definition of "balance" fails. Balance cannot exist in a vacuum - it is subject entirely to the whims and levels and will of the narrative in which it is situated, and the will of the person or player crafting the narrative. So it really is entirely about player behavior and adherence to some arbitrary OOC guideline rather than an IC universal standard, which does not exist. Put another way, it's not possible to ask "what does balance look like" without having to talk about the context surrounding it. Elaborations: Balance cannot exist in a vacuum: if I'm running a real-world, crime noir RP, most any power at all is unbalanced. Telepathy, even the proposed ear-cupping level, is ruinous to the extreme; the mystery is effectively solved the moment you've learned to hear someone's true thoughts. So what's balance look like? Let's say, mmmm, you can only use it to communicate between two willing partners. Great. What about the magic of JumpGood? It doesn't matter to the narrative that Chainsmoking Joe can leap up to the twentieth floor in a single bound - until it does, mind - so JumpGood is completely balanced in context, no problem. Say I'm doing a Hunger Games Battle Royale. Telepathy's now fine, even at a combat-ready level. I dare say that it makes combat more interesting, even, to be able to game and predict others' moves. But JumpGood? We can't have that. Anyone who practices JumpGood, or RunFast, can simply escape the arena. And that's game-breaking. The whims, levels, and will of the narrative: Get this. I'm running a survival zombie apocalypse RP. Big themes are scavenging, desperation, and bonding together in the face of calamity. Also, zombies are terrifying, yo. We're thinking Amnesia, or Silent Hill. Any power which enables a person to solo kill a zombie, or a group of zombies, with ease and at will, is no longer balanced in the narrative sense. It breaks the story. It's no longer about staying alive, adrenaline-fueled escapes, and terrifying encounters. It's now Left4Dead2, but your hands are flamethrowers instead. Any offensive powers and most defensive ones, flaunt flagrantly a defiance of the will of the narrative. Is it really a survival RP if all you need to do to survive a zombie horde is press B and JumpGood your way to the top of the skyscraper? "What does balance look like, Mag?" It doesn't look like that. Let's take a completely different approach: the approach of the high performer. It was seemingly, implicitly agreed upon that invulnerability is not balanced earlier on in the thread, or perhaps super instant regenerative immortality. Do we take this agreement to meant that it's never balanced? Or that, generally, it's not balanced, and what does "generally" mean in that sentence? I think that a crime noir protag with immortality isn't imbalanced at all. Sure, he might have an easier time in firefights, but it doesn't trivialize the narrative - he must still do his research, assemble the evidence, bust the criminals, put up with his ex-wife. Battle Royale? Broken, OP, anyone who thinks that invulnerability is remotely balanced ought to be banned immediately from any activity featuring even the most remote semblance of a balancing act ever save the circus. And another example, since I've provided many oblique examples but not ones dealing purely with linear scaling. Instant regeneration is perfectly balanced in a world with...I was going to posit something like "super telekinesis" or "orbital lasers that can scrub a keep out of existence," but come to think of it, not at all. Instant Regeneration Randy is balanced even in a realistic RP, because any squad of police could tackle a guy and straitjacket him, and his ability to relocate dislocated limbs will only help marginally in that regard. See: Deadpool, where we had our main man get fought to a standstill against a guy whose sole ability was to ignore pain (which, in itself, seems like a power that so many characters have just unconsciously even.) This segues nicely into one last point that I'd alluded to in my introductory paragraph: that of the will of the player. In short: "Any power is broken, no power is broken." In long: The power of miniaturizing things seems perfectly reasonable, say, given silly arbitrary limitations like, "you can only miniaturize things that are smaller than a cubic foot." Cool. But surprise, this isn't balanced. Not when you can miniaturize a cube of concrete and create a pebble so dense that it craters the ground on impact. Not when a character with this cute minipower walks on up to the top floor of the Empire State, yawns, mini's a loose slab of rock and rebar and drops it a hundred feet, undermining the structural integrity of the whole thing with less effort than I put into heating up leftovers with my microwave. Alright, alright, we'll patch that one out. And when we find the next one, we'll patch that one out too. And the next one... And here, I present a twenty-page manifesto which dictates the exact limits of the power of miniaturization. The trouble with this is, no power is exempt from this. Anything with even a hint of vagueness - and even without vagueness, "you can only miniaturize things smaller than one cubic foot" isn't vague at all - is exploitable. No matter what limits you put on it. That being said, there are so many powers that work simply because they aren't being min/maxed and abused. I see your instant teleportation and raise you Harry Potter's Portkeys, which by rights are stupid - forced teleportation, ayy lmao - but work in context and trivialize nothing (even though they should, by any min/maxer's reckoning. "Voldy, here's Harry's robes as proof of his death, touch 'em touch 'em - jk you're in the middle of the Sun now, bye"). It's like the difference between casual and hardcore play. I don't know if there are any Fire Emblem fans on the site aside from me and EpicRome, but a trademark of that game is the fact that even on the highest difficulty, the game can be breezed through so easily by min-maxers and certain tactics, that it's possible to deliberately have zero stats and no money and still beat the game, at record speeds unattainable by most players. And at the same time, a casual player without any knowledge of the tactics and mechanics can even struggle on the easiest difficulty. The game can't be balanced around both difficulties, it's just not possible. Likewise, powers are not "balance one size fits all." Give two people the same "balanced" skillset, and one of them will be toppling buildings while the other's busy playing Doll-house with miniature Priuses and peculiarly familiar underwear. Patch it around, balance it more? Now the former player is using it as intended, while the latter doesn't even know they have a power. ...Of course, I'm not going to leave you without something you're looking for. Within, say, the limits of traditional fantasy, any sort of speedhacking is stupid. As long as people can react accordingly, few powers are imbalanced. This is also why guns are OP asf, and should be banned in any serious attempt at sword and sorcery ever, unless there's a whole section of the book dedicated to explaining why they suck.
  4. Mag

    More Important is the Journey

    Thompson was hoping for a wide berth. Why should he not receive what is given so freely in wartime? Approached by a stranger carrying the nude, ravaged body of a woman, the ordinarily fearful bystander ought to avert their eyes and mumble a quick I’m-sorry as they backpedal, looking for an escape. He was hoping that the two terrified creatures wouldn’t want to give the time of day to someone carrying a cold, clammy reminder of violence. Just his luck to stumble upon the nosy and involved. “I don’t remember you from this ship,” one called out coldly. “Wha—?” He dropped his jaw in surprise. “Yeah, lady, and I don’t remember seeing you ‘round neither, and not half the five hundred people ridin’ the good old Gehenna across Genesaris.” Thompson sneered at her, dropping to his knees beneath the body’s weight. “Who are you, the ticketmaster? Does it matter? I need to find the ship doctor, are you going to —” “Why are you carrying a dead woman?” “Why are you so resistant on helping a man out? Slinging filthy words like, oh, she must be dead, oh, what are you doing wastin’ your time, oh, what the bloody hell does it cost you to point me in a god damn direction?” His voice rose to a holler he felt suitable, just loud enough to fill the halls with the sense of urgency that they ought to have felt, not loud enough to attract further attention. These people were beginning to grate on his nerves, and the weight of his revolver felt itchier every moment. But he kept his hands where they were, one on his knee and the other gripping Arzada’s waist. He took a deep breath. “…Sorry. See, that’s what I thought too but I saw her move a bit when I found her, twitched her hand, and — hell,” he said. “I don’t know, there’s a thousand of you inhumans riding this ship. I saw a snake woman once, got decapitated and survived it. Scary as shit. Regrew her head and neck and all. So excuse me, but I ain’t gonna trust my guts on this one. For all I know, she’s got a fake head and her real one’s somewhere in her belly.” He burned a glare into the duo. “Which is why she needs to see the ship doctor.” Every word was deliberate, and full of a mounting frustration which twisted his features. He could imagine the tick of the incendiary explosives echoing through the narrow, empty corridors. Their imaginary flames churned at the roots of his nerves. Oswald and Beckley would not wait forever, no matter how much they feared and respected him. Time was bleeding away, and not for Arzada. “So. Could ya get out of my way, or point me in the direction, stead of letting a girl bleed out on the ground?”
  5. Mag

    More Important is the Journey

    Oswald had reined the prisoners in at last. Every time a shudder of fear ran them through, he would push the butt of his gun into the pile of corpses with a long, drawn-out squish and they’d freeze back into docility. He bared his teeth at them convincingly. They cowered even further into the shells of their shackles. As long as they were wearing chains, there was the implicit promise that he would not shoot them. Beckley kept his shaking rifle fixed on their heads just in case, but the safety was flicked on. Their duty was done here. Thompson loomed out of the darkness suddenly, counting the rounds in his revolver and humming tunelessly. “Sir.” Oswald saluted him, the sudden motion sending waves of fear through the crowd. “Lifeboats are ready.” “Good, good. Bear’s dead, too, or dead to rights. Don’t matter to me either way, but I got it good in the chest. Should’ve hit a few organs, I say, and it won’t be roaring none at us any more,” he said. “Ain’t that something? Helluva gun.” In a single, snapping motion, he took aim at the pile and fired. The now-familiar crack rang out through the hall, and a head and the tip of an elbow splattered into a thin red mist. Beckley yelped and turned his head even further in the opposite direction. “Man up some, kid. You’ve got to learn how to deal with these things. Hell, docs can’t live without seeing blood every couple of seconds.” Thompson holstered his gun and looked over the quivering captives. “Eenie, meenie, mine and mine. We’ve got a nice haul here.” He narrowed his eyes. “Except…I don’t see a certain rich little miss here. Where’s the vampire?” Oswald said nothing and clutched his rifle closer to his chest. “Where’s the vampire, Oswald?” “I…” He hesitated. “There was a brush-in with the bear a little while back, towards the stern. And…” “And that’s great, it really is. Would you like to tell me where’s the fucking vampire?” “The body was lost in the confusion. I think —” Thompson held up a hand. “Thank god that you think, Oswald, I was worried that you couldn’t. Because you took so fucking long comprehending the question, see, I started thinking otherwise. But I’m glad, I really am, that we are both on the same sentient page here. I’m feeling generous, hell, let me call it sapience.” Oswald flicked the safety up and down and over again, eyes drifting towards his feet. “Hey,” Thompson said. He stretched out a hand and grabbed Oswald’s chin. “Look a man in the eyes when he’s speaking. Especially when you’re beneath him.” “Yes,” Oswald mumbled between the smaller man’s fingers. “Sir.” “Good. So you were saying, if I am thinking correctly, that that most fearless and noble of the vampires is lying somewhere halfway across the ship? Towards the rear end?” Oswald nodded. “Well that wasn’t very hard at all.” Thompson released him. “Beckley. You two clean up the rest of the prisoners, put them on the lifeboats and shove off soon as you get cleared. The saboteurs have likely wrapped up their bombs by now so — you know how the saying goes. Chop-chop, however those Terrans like saying it.” “And what if you don’t come back in time?” “Say that again, Beckley. Or don’t. Repeating bad jokes makes them stale. I don’t like funny guys, either.” Thompson shoved a fistful of bullets into his pocket and wandered off again, humming without rhyme or meter. Beckley and Oswald were rigid, unmoving in their salute, until the double doors slammed closed. ~*~ It was the work of minutes to find the body. Shadows did not stretch six feet, not inside a cruise ship, and there was no crate which would conceal all of her porcelain skin from the glint of the firelight. Thompson appraised the body for the whole of a few seconds: the nightgown had been torn to shreds by the action of the night and, upon casual inspection, by the bloody jaws of a bear. He nudged what little remained covering her body away with the steel tip of his boot. At this point it was nothing more than litter, best left behind in places nobody needed to think about. He grabbed her arm and threw her body over his shoulder. It craned at the hips over his shoulders, and her head fell to dangle in the crook his waist. He took a moment to appreciate the vulgarity. Dead men tell no tales, nor do they have preferences or rights or indignations; that was the only pity to it. He put his free hand on the back of her head, dug into the grisly, jagged hole with his fingers. The gristle, bloody and black, had begun to clump like cold stew, and the bone was beginning to extrude brittle feelers out towards one another as if reaching out for a friend in the abyss of damage. He swirled his hand around in the mess, loosening it up some, breaking the slim needles of bone, scraping out chunks of flesh and clots of blood and other viscera into the ground. The longer she wasn’t awake, the better, and the slick sensation was almost therapeutic. It was like sinking one’s hands into the fresh, warm summer mud of a riverbank. Beneath, little sticks and pine needles, the shells of snails, little bits of harder, squishier dirt. After undoing everything that the body had built up over the course of an hour, he went on. Soon he became aware of an acute pitch of the floor, sloping downwards so that he was beginning to climb uphill, however slightly. He cursed the road, the weight, and perhaps most urgently, his growing doubt that he’d picked the correct direction to head. But by now the die was cast — especially when voices began to approach through the ruined hallway. Two figures led by — another damn animal. Thompson froze, then lifted his hand away from his revolver. Shooting bears was easy. Dumb animals had no concept of tactics. They weren’t much more than moving target practice. Thinking, feeling beings were different; thinking, feeling beings with swords dangling at their sides were doubly so. Two of them, at once, with him half a cylinder and one arm straining under a corpse over his back? No, it was better to lie his way out. It was not a hard thing to do, not when the air’s full of the thunder of bullets and nobody knows where they’re coming from, not even the ones shooting, nobody knows much at all except that they need to live and maybe help the ones around them live. Thompson hoist Arzada into a more merciful position, wiped away the sweat on his forehead leaving smears of blood all over his face, and hoarsed up his voice like they did in those old films. “Who’s there? Y’all pirates? I’ve got a gun, I ain’t afraid to shoot.” “I…found this lady lying around. She might be dead, I — I don’t know. I need a doc, look at her. Know where I can get ahold o’ one of those?”
  6. Mag

    [MT1:1] Generic Perfection vs Mag

    There is no time for introspection. Upon mental impact — which occurs solely by count of her mind, since beyond the burning Dove can no longer feel anything — a shock wave ripples outward through her bones, false flesh, the air in her lungs, the fabric of her threads. It feels as if space itself, originating at the point where Tellus touches the monolith, is expanding, shoving through any and all material with equal ease. This tugging sensation lasts for only an instant, replaced soon by the propagation of fire and some faraway divinity which burns through her whole body and leaves nothing, not even ash. Dove doesn’t know any of this in the moment: it’s all exposition that the recorded video reveals later, frame-by-frame and even individual frames aren’t brief or fast enough to capture discrete moments. In one, her body is ballooning impossibly as it’s shoved in an hundred-twenty degree arc by the detonation behind her back. In the next, all that’s left are blurring shards of black and red accelerating into the air and disintegrating against the ground. She runs the frames through again and again, every individual moment captured for the pleasure of the audience. None of them offer an easy answer. What happened is in front of her, but not why it happened. Where is the mistake? Where is the weakness, and there had to be weakness, for nobody loses who isn’t weak in mind or body. What Louise had done, Dove could not, and Louise expected little, and even that, Dove had failed to give. She hears her pre-recorded laugh. A loss, that’s okay, there was never a chance, little bird. Dove hits rewind. Of course watching her die over and over again reveals no profit, but it makes her feel better the same way that passive-aggressiveness makes one feel better — attacking a problem with no intention of addressing it. After a few more minutes she gets up and paces towards the exit. There’s a table by the door, clearly meant to greet the competitors on their way out. Upon the table is a package. Participant prize, the card reads, and inside is enclosed a check and a kitchsy Holosseum trophy that dances with the lights of a simulated world. Therein is a tiny Dove, and in her chest is the likeness of a stone slab, exploding and coming together and again. She appears to be screaming. Dove watches the animation progress and regress for a few seconds. Something like blood pressure rises in her; she feels her stomach well up and clench. It was good, she reminded herself, to lose and remember that not all plans are infallible. That anything could go wrong, and nothing was fated or set in stone and anything, possible. It was good, but she would like infallible plans and stories written her way. Nobody wants to know that they are not God. She sweeps the package into her bag. “Eight thousand years,” she says aloud, voice bouncing off the sides of the hollow room. “Surely some allowance can be made for eight thousand years.”
  7. Mag

    [MT1:1] Generic Perfection vs Mag

    The narrowing scope of the future is exemplified by Trilith’s adamant refusal to turn. If she had chosen to run, the world would have been thrown wide open, possibilities as endless as the maze-like streets of Fake Palgard were innumerable. Hide, ambush, dodge, recover. It had to look the better choice: to the front, a gaping crater, and the razor whip closing in from one side like a wall, stirring the dust from the ground in its wake. There it was, some last cool breath of freedom in the placid street opening a far distance to her side. Where everything else was choking dust and crumbling fire, the quiet was as loud as an engine to her ears. She did not move her eyes from the lich facing her, and when the whip landed she did not struggle or sacrifice her limbs in escape, but instead gripped it with all her remaining strength. There had been enough uncertainty for a day, she seemingly decided. Dove does not resist the call. There is no glory in drawing out a fight that is at its conclusion. One almost sees the tension travel through the line, a expansion and contraction that terminates at the lich’s hand with a crack better suited for the other end of the whip. There’s no pain for her, even as the bones shatter from the force. She’s smiling even. No pleasure in her eyes: just surprise and admiration. She’s met a woman with balls and courage enough for a millennium of oppression. The wave of force sweeps her off her feet, and she finds herself hurtling towards the Saintess on the opposing side of the crater. A harpoon takes form in her free hand as she flies, extends out from her palm twenty inches of barbed spear, and before she’s halfway across she’s turned from an unbalanced victim to a missile intent on smashing into the woman and pinning what’s left of her body into the cement behind. The winds rush past and the seconds pass; like a diving hawk, she descends upon the Saint Queen’s stationary form. Trilith answers this by smashing the slab of fire and stone into Dove’s body. This stops her physically. Her bones pulverize themselves upon the blade, fracture and then grind her momentum to a halt. Tellus bursts through her back with the friction, and her body impales itself to nearly to the hilt. The harpoon comes to a stop two inches from the Saintess’s throat, bristling and red but not with the blood it expects. They lock eyes. It is no matter, Dove assures her, and lifts her hand to trace a line across Trilith’s cheek, leaving slivers of blood in its wake, and press into the cartilage between her eyes. “Time’s up,” they say at once, and the harpoon is ejected from her palm to burst through the woman’s head. — is what is supposed to happen. Instead, the harpoon shoots forward with just a bit less velocity than Tellus is thrown directly outward, and hangs uselessly in the air for a moment before clattering to the ground at her feet. Dove’s skeletal structure is melded with the nearly molten stone of the blade and unable to extricate itself. Trilith grows smaller in the distance with every passing half-second, a human-shaped silhouette collapsing onto its knees, spent of all its worth. The same worth lodged in Dove now — rather, in which Dove is lodged, flying back into the dust and distance. The wind rushes past her ears, in the opposite direction as it was not half a minute before, and she beats against the stone with her free hand to no avail. She considers for a brief second that she may have lost. This brief second is brought to a brief end by the impact between her body, the sword, and Trilith’s last piece: the hulking, shuddering, smoking monolith embedded in the earth.
  8. Mag

    Gospel of the Saint Queen (Hidden Valley)

    It turns and flees. They still don’t know what “it” is, only that it’s the size of a shed with a cowardice to match. That’s what Dove thinks, anyway, scowling and dangling half-heartedly strung up by the hem of her dress off the boughs of a half-cracked tree. But Dove does not have perception, she doesn’t have sympathy or empathy. She doesn’t know what being prey feels like. She doesn’t know prudence. Never has, she isn’t that sort. Anyone who says running away from certain death is cowardice, has that lack. Her judgment cast, unwarranted, into the uncaring wind and rushing water, she snaps the string in two, lands on her feet, and makes her way to Trilith. The mists part before her. They billow to either side, lift themselves into the air before her with a grace reminiscent of angels. She likes to think it’s deference, but in reality the dry winds of the Hidden Valley are carrying away her handiwork by coincidence. The grasses suck up what little nourishment they find from the air, the dust browns and clumps with the moisture. By the time she returns to the Saint Queen’s side — “I missed, sorry.” — the Valley is clear and gleaming and the sunset scars the wrecks of the trees. There is a wide gash in the forest leading up the hills, littered with branches and broken boughs. “It certainly knows how to run,” she says. “And it’s fast, too. Imagine that. Running in your own homeland. That’s when it all goes downhill. So it’s always been. Those who have to hide in their own country don’t have country for much longer.” The noise of the water trickled all through the clearing and suffused their conversation pleasantly. She put the tip of her harpoon squishing like a flag into the mud beneath. “Well, it isn’t much of a country, and not much theirs anymore.” The Falls rears up behind them mean and deflated. That is the real mark of conquest: when the people of a land bend. This land does not have many people; she has to make do. And surely it has bent. Dove admires her handiwork. It is a special talent for a woman to tie something down so deftly. Rare? — common. But it was humbled, and in her ever-lasting service, so long as she and it last. You don’t get much of an eye for permanency, but immortals always have to make concessions to one another, especially between a woman and the rocks of the earth. “If it returns we will drive it away. Until the animals learn that this land no longer belongs to them. They’re good at that, too, learning. Much better than humans.” Dove scans the area and, finding nothing, situates herself against a tree. “Died, perhaps, or fled. You never know with bystanders, whether they’re going to amount to anything or end up smeared on the ground. What’s the plan now, Queen?”
  9. [snip-snip]

    1. Show previous comments  1 more
    2. Off Topic

      Off Topic

      My bad!

      Here's a different sandbox

    3. Mag

      Mag

      That is ridiculously informative.

      Thank you.

    4. Off Topic

      Off Topic

      Jaistlyn passed it onto me, thought you'd be interested. Not hard to do with copy/paste and Inspect in Chrome, not everything from CSS works but basic things do make it through post-editor

  10. :think:

    1. Grubbistch

      Grubbistch

      Hello. From what I've seen you're pretty tight with Off Topic, who seems like a pretty cool dude, plus I appreciate the like you threw my way.

  11. Want to learn Inkscape together? It's close to Illustrator but free, we can both be newbs at it.

    1. Show previous comments  1 more
    2. Off Topic

      Off Topic

      Raster makes everything much more difficult than it should be, to be honest. Whenever I see your posts, I get the impression that you're a UI designer trying to paint -- vector is going to take you to a whole new level, and you'll even be halfway into animating (because animation software uses vector too, and the way you animate is the same as you draw). I'll install once home from work. Any day for us to go through tutorials or a project for us to aim at that's good for you?

    3. Mag

      Mag

      Good call, I'll give it a try. I've an exam in two days; let's say next week, Monday?

    4. Off Topic

      Off Topic

      Sounds good! Also, installed. I'm in MST and wouldn't get home until 4:30, we may have to coordinate awkwadly for time depending on your timezone but we'll make it work

  12. Glaceon!? :confused: How gross.

    1. Show previous comments  4 more
    2. Paroxysm

      Paroxysm

      Look, none of that is important. What is important is that Espeon is the best *eon.

    3. Mag

      Mag

      you guys are the literal worst 

      which is funny because, so is everyone that isn't glaceon

      :angry:

    4. Praetorian

      Praetorian

      Weavile is better than Glaceon. :smirk:

  13. https://www.valucre.com/topic/39396-kites-pokemon-line-up/

    Consideration: minimalism means minimal work but high payoff still :laugh:

    1. Show previous comments  1 more
    2. Mag

      Mag

      GIMP, and I was exactly thinking about asking you about Illustrator since this seems like the exact sort of thing that that program was built for - just not something I'm over familiar with.

       

      Oh, and another thing, I'm not too experienced so I'll have to ask you what Raster is oopz

    3. Off Topic

      Off Topic

      I was afraid to use Illustrator (I used PS for about two years for RPs, if you want samples I can show you but it's no good in retrospect lol) for a long time but once I started and realized what it actually was, I dropped PS completely for it -- I still rarely use raster, normally always use vector. Let me know how much you drew and how much you found in those profiles and I can walk you through how to use Illustrator to do something like it, though you'd need Illustrator for it. I made this in about an hour the other night in AI, will be animated (because vector is infinitely easy to animate) in After Effects

      Edit: There are two different kinds of graphics programs, one is pixel based and called raster (what you're familiar doing) while the other is based on geometry (vector). They're related but not interchangeable -- for example, I can take a vector and print it as either a piece of paper or a billboard and it will still look just as sharp/clean on either. I can also take a vector and rasterize it -- turn it into pixels -- but you can't go the other way around, from raster to vector (unless auto-tracing, which is how I started!), and raster images will be pixelated when you scale them larger.

      Have you heard of Inkscape? It's a freeware alternative to Illustrator for vectors, works well with GIMP. I feel like you'd really benefit from trying vector, I'll help you if you're willing to try. A few screenshots of me drawing in vector are in the Creativity Showcase > Art Help forum (Daily Weekly is an alt account of mine)

    4. Off Topic

      Off Topic

      ^ Added more on the edit. You can add me on Skype (contactician) or Google Hangouts (TRScharstein@gmail.com) if you use them

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