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Likewise if a game is adding lots of storytelling techniques in an attempt to be something other than a game, well it ceases to be a game. An example of this is the pejorative term "walking simulator".

What makes a video game successful is what makes all games throughout history even regardless of species successful: 1 they're all built on systems, 2 given direction through objectives, 3 and the participant is tasked with completing it within the given constraints. Those three points can be applied to anything from a game of baseball to Bayonetta. Remove, change, or de-emphasise those points, and you weaken the potential quality of the game.

But never mind all that critical thinking. The stories and storytelling are legitimately average in even the most acclaimed game narratives. Pretty much, and this is one reason I think it would be great if video games as a whole focused on being video games as opposed to this misguided focus on storytelling at the expense of gameplay. The biggest problem is that the game and story aspect often conflict.

Combine this with little academic effort to find a way to make storytelling work in gaming. It is a recipe for disaster, and is one of the many reasons video game narratives are flailing around in the pool. Giving a player a choice in narratives and storytelling is way more often done poorly than done well. Mass Effect did not do it well. Maroxad : I think you actually make a very good topic Maroxad, you bring and interesting subject to court. You know, playing BotW lately, which kind of has more roleplaying elements than most Zelda games a big, open world to explore, durability management, resource management, quests and the like made me remember something about RPGs and storytelling that I had forgotten.

When you have a big game with an overarching story, and tons of side-quests that distract you from it, it actually makes the storytelling disjointed and drawn-out. I don't think it is just the story or the characters that make RPGs so compelling.

Sometimes they can be quite good though. I think it's just more gameplay, more things to manage and take into consideration. In fact, your thread may have made me realize just the opposite - that FPS games are a better medium for storytelling in many cases than RPGs or open-world games. With an FPS or something similar, the story keeps pushing you along to waypoints with bursts of action in-between, while RPGs throw you into a place with lots of things you can go check out, and continue that story about saving the world from armageddon when you're good and ready to.

About the fantasy setting Well, it's just brilliant. So many people keep using swords and magic because it works well. Some games mess with the formula a bit - Earthbound has kids wielding bats and yo-yos instead of axes and maces, and Phantasy Star had you use technology to cast spells and everyone was revived as a clone of themselves upon death.

Look at Pokemon - it created over a dozen different rock-paper-scissors variants and made you limit yourself to arsenals of 4 moves each for your party of 6 monsters. RPGs work best as games that give the player options and enable them to make decisions as they play. Adventure games are best at storytelling. RPGs might be second especially due to choice and consequence system but it's not even close since RPGs are about fighting and upgrading your character, so stories are Action focused as well.

There is not enough variety. Adventure game stories can be about anything; you being a detective trying to solve a mystery, a scientist trying to prevent global warming, a funny loser who ends up saving the world, a reporter who is caught in the middle of a conspiracy, an archaeologist looking for some ancient facts and so on. Adventure games don't have to find an excuse to flood the area with enemies after every cutscene.

These things only happen when they make sense in the story. Maroxad : I believes games lend themselves better to world building rather than linear plots like in books and movies. That way a game can give exciting gameplay context without forcing any hands-off time. I'm replaying an old horror adventure called Darkness Within: In Pursuit of loath nolder. Games relay experience through good gameplay, it doesn't even need to be said.

So if you're into gaming JUST for the storytelling, perhaps consider spending your time with one of the other mediums.

Convincing gamers how wrong they are about their own hobby is the last thing on my mind. That is something I noticed as well. Not surprising, since game writers don't quite have the tools a writer for a movie script or a novel has. In that regard. However with lore and world building, there are far fewer handicaps.

And game developers may even have access to tools others dont have, relaying storytelling through gameplay. Unfortunately, most still do it horribly. If they are trying to convey the player as being evil, they make players do evil objectives rather or give players evil dialogue options. So they can fill up their evil meter. But I find pure callousness and depravity to be far more evil. Gameplay is the RPG genre's strongest point.

They are not particulary deep. But the RPG mechanics oftentimes mesh very well with how the human conscience is built up. FPS have a lot of unmet potential for storytelling. We have seen some games do it well. Metro comes to mind. But overall most are a lot more heavy handed on the gameplay. I am not sure about Choice and Consequence being ideal for good storytelling. It might let you see a different perspective. But then the plot as a whole has to be adapted to make use of all these different outcomes.

Or in the case, the thing permanently branches off, it means more of the writer's creative juices have to be split up. CYOA's didnt exactly have the best children's stories around. That said, Adventure Games are indeed excellent.

I really should have brought up that final point in my OP. Not flooding every area with enemies is a good thing. It is often difficult to take most video game characters seriously, when they have had no problem. There is just little tension in non-adventure game stories, since either they will cheapen out with a loss. Pissing people off on the gameplayside or they will have a fair fight in the gameplay, which the player will win.

Leading to the player having an abnormally high win-loss ratio, and thus no real stakes. Point n Click adventure games are fairly mediocre at the being a game part.

The puzzles are fucking abysmal half the time in even the well received point n click games. I like Grim Fandango here n there, but speaking as someone who loves puzzle games. Which I'll at least appreciate that the old point n click format, is at least a fucking game, unlike Telltale's shit, but Telltale's method has made a level of sense to me.

Besides just playing to their own strengths, their games are one giant indictment on this mediums ability to tell a story. Because when Telltale is good, they are actually pretty freakin solid, right down to them having more interesting cinematography in their game to go along with their writing to carry a production. And as a result, they are actually able to tell a more coherent linear story. The biggest problem is they did it by making the gameplay as close to non-existent as possible while still having the pretense of being a game of some kind.

And even bouncing off cloud's post, I used to think they have diversity, but now I just think they benefit from having a certain story type that action games flat out just can't do. Be it Blackwell, Kathy Rain, the broken sword games which admittedly I'm at least sort of digging the lead, she's my kind of sassy. Would love try the Deponia games tho. Plus more to it, they replace action gameplay, with puzzle gameplay.

Which goes back to my thread of gaming's biggest hurdles, with one of them being, at some point you have to let me play a game. And a game is fundamentally at odds with telling a story, a game is a series of rules, that will get more n more elaborate to continue to test the players understanding of the systems going forward. So by its very nature, it asks for set ups that are contrived, because Grim Fandango yeah on one hand the puzzles themselves are a problem in Chapter 3 of that game, but also it's because the stories momentum comes to a screeching fucking halt.

Where as Rubacava's puzzles never got in the way of the momentum of the story during that chapter, also happens to be among the many reasons it's the best chapter in that game. Too long; didn't read - Adventure games have certainly told better stories, maybe, at least by benefit of having a range of characters who aren't serial killers for starters, so there is some genuine dramatic weight to those games.

But, even the well received games, aren't actually that good as games or puzzles if held any scrutiny. They often try to get away with complexity, without realizing a puzzle benefits from clarity. And any other sort of mechanics in those games, is usually way too shallow. Maroxad : I don't think a good game needs a good story, but a good story can hep an already good game be better.

A story contains no information about game design, so it can be discarded until the game design has been premised. Puzzle games , ain't my cup of tea , most of these games try to be aesthetic and makes you think , just like Witness which got boring fast for me , It's not because these games don't have a clear motivation or a coherent story to follow , It's mostly because I don't see much variety in these games , only a sequence of formulaic puzzles.

That formulaic complaint would apply if those games stuck to one theme for a puzzle, But Braid mixes up its own rule set for every single world in that game.

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News in pictures. It was the first city he had ever seen, the chief interior city of the state. From childhood he had longed to visit it. The thronged streets, the curious stores, the splendid residences, the flashing equipages--what a new world it was to him!

But the first place he inquired his way to was the factory where he had sold his hemp. Awhile he watched the men at work, wondering whether they might not then be handling some that he had broken.

At an early date also he went to look up his dear old neighborhood schoolfellows who two years before had left him, to enter another college of the University.

By inquiry he found out where they lived--in a big, handsome boarding-house on a fashionable street. He thought he had never even dreamed of anything so fine as was this house--nor had he. As he sat in the rich parlors, waiting to learn whether his friends were at home, he glanced uneasily at his shoes to see whether they might not be soiling the carpet; and he vigorously dusted himself with his breath and hands--thus depositing on the furniture whatever dust there was to transfer.

Having been invited to come up to his friends' room, he mounted and found one of them waiting at the head of the stairs in his shirt sleeves, smoking. His greeting was hearty in its way yet betokened some surprise, a little uneasiness, condescension.

David followed his host into a magnificent room with enormous windows, now raised and opening upon a veranda. Below was a garden full of old vines black with grapes and pear trees bent down with pears and beds bright with cool autumn flowers. The lad made a note of how much money he would save on apples if he could only live in reach of those pear trees.

There was a big rumpled bed in the room; and stretched across this bed on his stomach lay a student studying and waving his heels slowly in the air. A table stood in the middle of the room: the books and papers had been scraped off to the floor; four students were seated at it playing cards and smoking. Among them his other friend, who rose and gave him a hearty grip and resuming his seat asked what was trumps.

A voice he had heard before called out to him from the table Whereupon the student on the bed rolled heavily over, sat up dejectedly, and ogled him with red eyes and a sagging jaw. David did not think of the cards, and he liked the greeting of the two strangers who guyed him better than the welcome of his old friends.

That hurt: he had never supposed there was anything just like it in the nature of man. But during the years since he had seen them, old times were gone, old manners changed. And was it not in the hemp fields of the father of one of them that he had meantime worked with the negroes? And is there any other country in the world where the clean laborer is so theoretically honored and so practically despised as by the American snob of each sex?

There it all was! The lad went reverently over the plain, rough speech of the mighty old pioneer, as he spoke out his purpose. During those early days also he sought out the different churches, scrutinizing respectfully their exteriors.

How many they were, and how grand nearly all! Beyond anything he had imagined. He reasoned that if the buildings were so fine, how fine must be the singing and the sermons! The unconscious assumption, the false logic here, was creditable to his heart at least--to that green trust of the young in things as they should be which becomes in time the best seasoned staff of age.

He hunted out especially the Catholic Church. His great-grandfather had founded his as free for Catholics as Protestants, but he recalled the fact that no priest had ever preached there.

He felt very curious to see a priest. A synagogue in the town he could not find. He was sorry. He had a great desire to lay eyes on a synagogue--temple of that ancient faith which had flowed on its deep way across the centuries without a ripple of disturbance from the Christ. He had made up his mind that when he began to preach he would often preach especially to the Jews: the time perhaps had come when the Father, their Father, would reveal his Son to them also.

Thus he promptly fixed in mind the sites of all the churches, because he intended in time to go to them all. Meantime he attended his own, the size and elegance of which were a marvel; and in it especially the red velvet pulpit and the vast chandelier he had never seen a chandelier before , blazing with stars he had never seen illuminating gas.

It was under this chandelier that he himself soon found a seat. All the Bible students sat there who could get there, that being the choir of male voices; and before a month passed he had been taken into this choir: for a storm-like bass rolled out of him as easily as thunder out of a June cloud.

Thus uneventful flowed the tenor of his student life during those several initiatory weeks: then something occurred that began to make grave history for him. The pastor announced at service one morning that he would that day begin a series of sermons on errors in the faith and practice of the different Protestant sects; though he would also consider in time the cases of the Catholics and Jews: it would scarcely be necessary to speak of the Mohammedans and such others.

He was driven to do this, he declared, and was anxious to do it, as part of the work of his brethren all over the country; which was the restoration of Apostolic Christianity to the world. He asked the especial attention of the Bible students of the University to these sermons: the first of which he then proceeded to preach. That night the lad was absent from his place: he was seated in the church which had been riddled with logic in the morning.

Just why it would be hard to say. Perhaps his motive resembled that which prompts us to visit a battle-field and count the slain. Only, not a soul of those people seemed even to have been wounded.

They sang, prayed, preached, demeaned themselves generally as those who believed that THEY were the express chosen of the Lord, and greatly enjoyed the notorious fact. The series of sermons went on: every night the lad was missing from his place--gone to see for himself and to learn more about those worldly churches which had departed from the faith once delivered to the saints, and if saved at all, then by the mercy of God and much of it.

In the history of any human soul it is impossible to grasp the first event that starts up a revolution. But perhaps the troubles of the lad began here. His absences from Sunday night service of course attracted notice under the chandelier.

His bass was missed. Another student was glad to take his place. His roommate and the several other dormitory students who had become his acquaintances, discussed with him the impropriety of these absences: they agreed that he would better stick to his own church. He gave reasons why he should follow up the pastor's demonstrations with actual visits to the others: he contended that the pastor established the fact of the errors; but that the best way to understand any error was to study the erring.

This was all new to him, however. He had not supposed that in educating himself to preach the simple Gospel, to the end that the world might believe in Christ, he must also preach against those who believed in Christ already. Besides, no one seemed to be convinced by the pastor but those who agreed with him in advance: the other churches flourished quite the same. He cited a sermon he had heard in one, which, to the satisfaction of all present, had riddled his own church, every word of the proof being based on Scripture: so there you were!

A little cloud came that instant between David and the students to whom he expressed these views. Some rejoined hotly at once; some maintained the cold silence which intends to speak in its own time. The next thing the lad knew was that a professor requested him to remain after class one day; and speaking with grave kindness, advised him to go regularly to his own church thereafter. The lad entered ardently into the reasons why he had gone to the others. The professor heard him through and without comment repeated his grave, kind advice.

Thereafter the lad was regularly in his own seat there--but with a certain mysterious, beautiful feeling gone. He could not have said what this feeling was, did not himself know. Only, a slight film seemed to pass before his eyes when he looked at his professor, so that he saw him less clearly and as more remote.

One morning there was a sermon on the Catholics. David went dutifully to his professor. He said he had never been to a Catholic Church and would like to go. His professor assented cordially, evincing his pleasure in the lad's frankness. But the next Sunday morning he was in the Catholic Church again, thus for the first time missing the communion in his own.

Of all the congregations of Christian believers that the lad had now visited, the Catholic impressed him as being the most solemn, reverent, and best mannered.

In his own church the place did not seem to become the house of God till services began; and one morning in particular, two old farmers in the pew behind him talked in smothered tones of stock and crops, till it fairly made him homesick. The sermon of the priest, too, filled him with amazement.

It weighed the claims of various Protestant sects to be reckoned as parts of the one true historic church of God. But to the Episcopal Church the priest dispensed the most vitriolic criticism.

And that night, carried away by the old impulse, which had grown now almost into a habit, David went to the Episcopal Church: went to number the slain. The Bishop of the diocese, as it happened, was preaching that night--preaching on the union of Christian believers.

He showed how ready the Episcopal Church was for such a union if the rest would only consent: but no other church, he averred, must expect the Episcopal Church ever to surrender one article of its creed, namely: that it alone was descended not by historical continuity simply, but by Divine succession from the Apostles themselves. The lad walked slowly back to the dormitory that night with knit brows and a heavy heart. A great change was coming over him. His old religious peace had been unexpectedly disturbed.

He found himself in the thick of the wars of dogmatic theology. At that time and in that part of the United States these were impassioned and rancorous to a degree which even now, less than half a century later, can scarce be understood; so rapidly has developed meantime that modern spirit which is for us the tolerant transition to a yet broader future.

Had Kentucky been peopled by her same people several generations earlier, the land would have run red with the blood of religious persecutions, as never were England and Scotland at their worst.

So that this lad, brought in from his solemn, cloistered fields and introduced to wrangling, sarcastic, envious creeds, had already begun to feel doubtful and distressed, not knowing what to believe nor whom to follow. He had commenced by being so plastic a medium for faith, that he had tried to believe them all. Now he was in the intermediate state of trying to ascertain which. From that state there are two and two only final ones to emerge: "I shall among them believe this one only;" or, "I shall among them believe-- none.

Not over their theologies alone were the churches wrangling before the lad's distracted thoughts. If the theologies were rending religion, politics was rending the theologies.

The war just ended had not brought, as the summer sermon of the Bible College professor had stated, breadth of mind for narrowness, calm for passion. Not while men are fighting their wars of conscience do they hate most, but after they have fought; and Southern and Union now hated to the bottom and nowhere else as at their prayers. David found a Presbyterian Church on one street called "Southern" and one a few blocks away called "Northern": how those brethren dwelt together.

The Methodists were similarly divided. Of Baptists, the lad ascertained there had been so many kinds and parts of kinds since the settlement of Kentucky, that apparently any large-sized family anywhere could reasonably have constituted itself a church, if the parents and children had only been fortunate enough to agree.

Where politics did not cleave, other issues did. The Episcopal Church was cleft into a reform movement and one unreformable. In his own denomination internal discord raged over such questions as diabolic pleasures and Apostolic music. If in dancing they whirled like a top instead of being shot straight back and forth like a bobbin in a weaver's shuttle, their moral conduct was aggravated. A church organ was ridiculed as a sort of musical Behemoth--as a dark chamber of howling, roaring Belial.

These controversies overflowed from the congregation to the Bible College. The lad in his room at the dormitory one Sunday afternoon heard a debate on whether a tuning fork is a violation of the word of God. The debaters turned to him excited and angry Meantime as for his Biblical studies, they enlarged enormously his knowledge of the Bible; but they added enormously to the questions that may be asked about the Bible--questions he had never thought of before.

And in adding to the questions that may be asked, they multiplied those that cannot be answered. The lad began to ask these questions, began to get no answers. The ground of his interest in the great Book shifted. Out on the farm alone with it for two years, reading it never with a critical but always with a worshipping mind, it had been to him simply the summons to a great and good life, earthly and immortal.

As he sat in the lecture rooms, studying it book by book, paragraph by paragraph, writing chalk notes about it on the blackboard, hearing the students recite it as they recited arithmetic or rhetoric, a little homesickness overcame him for the hours when he had read it at the end of a furrow in the fields, or by his candle the last thing at night before he kneeled to say his prayers, or of Sunday afternoons off by himself in the sacred leafy woods.

The mysterious untouched Christ-feeling was in him so strong, that he shrank from these critical analyses as he would from dissecting the body of the crucified Redeemer.

A significant occurrence took place one afternoon some seven months after he had entered the University. On that day, recitations over, the lad left the college alone and with a most thoughtful air crossed the campus and took his course into the city. Reaching a great central street, he turned to the left and proceeded until he stood opposite a large brick church.

Passing along the outside of this, he descended a few steps, traversed an alley, knocked timidly at a door, and by a voice within was bidden to enter. He did so, and stood in his pastor's study. He had told his pastor that he would like to have a little talk with him, and the pastor was there to have the little talk.

During those seven months the lad had been attracting notice more and more. The Bible students had cast up his reckoning unfavorably: he was not of their kind--they moved through their studies as one flock of sheep through a valley, drinking the same water, nipping the same grass, and finding it what they wanted. His professors had singled him out as a case needing peculiar guidance. Not in his decorum as a student: he was the very soul of discipline. Not in any irregularities of private life: his morals were as snow for whiteness.

Yet none other caused such concern. All this the pastor knew; he had himself long had his eye on this lad. During his sermons, among the rows of heads and brows and eyes upturned to him, oftenest he felt himself looking at that big shock-head, at those grave brows, into those eager, troubled eyes. His persistent demonstrations that he and his brethren alone were right and all other churches Scripturally wrong--they always seemed to take the light out of that countenance. There was silence in the study now as the lad modestly seated himself in a chair which the pastor had pointed out.

After fidgeting a few moments, he addressed the logician with a stupefying premise Then he added pleasantly, for he had a Scotch relish for a theological jest He is in hell--or will be after the Resurrection of the Dead.

My great-grandfather founded a church free to all Christian believers. It stands in our neighborhood. I have always gone there. I joined the church there. Sometimes they have all had services together. I grew up to think they were all equally good Christians in their different ways.

All the others declare it a wrong one. They stand ready to prove this by the Scriptures and do prove it to their satisfaction. They declare that if I become a preacher of what my church believes, I shall become a false teacher of men and be responsible to God for the souls I may lead astray. They honestly believe this. It interferes with my studies--takes my interest out of my future.

I come to you then. You are my pastor. Where is the truth--the reason--the proof--the authority? Where is the guiding LAW in all this? There was no gainsaying his trouble: it expressed itself in his eyes, voice, entire demeanor. The pastor was not seeing any of these things.

Here was a plain, ignorant country lad who had rejected his logic and who apparently had not tact enough at this moment to appreciate his own effrontery.

In the whole sensitiveness of man there is no spot so touchy as the theological. It was the tone in which the school-master of old times said, "Bring me that switch. And the reason. And the proof. And the authority. And the LAW. We have no creed but the creed of the Apostolic churches; no practice but their practice; no teaching but their teaching in letter and in spirit. It was told me that young men were to be prepared to preach the simple Gospel of Christ to all the world.

There was to be no sectarian theology. That is my trouble now--ONE of my troubles. You don't seem to have any creed, but you DO seem to have a catechism! Well, on with the catechism! I hope it will be better than those I have read. The pastor was grasping the arms of his chair, his body bent toward the lad, his head thrown back, his face livid with sacred rage.

He was a good man, tried and true: God-fearing, God-serving. No fault lay in him unless it may be imputed for unrighteousness that he was a stanch, trenchant sectary in his place and generation.

As he sat there in the basement study of his church, his pulpit of authority and his baptismal pool of regeneration directly over his head, all round him in the city the solid hundreds of his followers, he forgot himself as a man and a minister and remembered only that as a servant of the Most High he was being interrogated and dishonored.

His soul shook and thundered within him to repel these attacks upon his Lord and Master. As those unexpected random questions had poured in upon him thick and fast, all emerging, as it seemed to him, like disembodied evil spirits from the black pit of Satan and the damned, it was joy to him to deal to each that same straight,. God-directed spear-thrust of a reply--killing them as they rose. His soul exulted in that blessed carnage.

But the questions ceased. They had hurried out as though there were a myriad pressing behind--a few issuing bees of an aroused swarm. But they ceased. The pastor leaned back in his chair and drew a quivering breath through his white lips.

On his side, the lad had lost divine passion as the pastor had gained it. His interest waned while the pastor's waxed. His last questions were put so falteringly, almost so inaudibly, that the pastor might well believe his questioner beaten, brought back to modesty and silence.

To a deeper-seeing eye, however, the truth would have been plain that the lad was not seeing his pastor at all, but seeing THROUGH him into his own future: into his life, his great chosen life-work. His young feet had come in their travels nigh to the limits of his Promised Land: he was looking over into it. The last of them! Out with them ALL! Make an end of this now and here! The lad reached for his hat, which he had laid on the floor, and stood up.

He was as pale as the dead. I don't know what I do believe. My God! Great God, what am I coming to! But the good news is all the test results and CAT scan came back negative. So I've been ordered to rest and stay home. I'm so upset that I can't go to South America. I was so excited. Thanks again for your concern and I love you all.

See you on the road! Get ready for Sumerian Sonic Magick! In new members Aaron Homma guitar and Matt Milford Bass joined the fold, thus introducing Immersed fastest, most technical line up to date!

This barbaric creation has taken huge steps ahead of their debut with more devastating brutality fused with dark visions of ancient evil, bestial figures and barren worlds of tormented spirits. Condemned ravages through scores of enfeebled souls to bring to you the heaviest death metal release of the year. Phenomenal art concept created by the famous Jon Zig. Hailing from the musically and aesthetically vibrant San Francisco Bay Area, the band is finally prepared to make this release the quintessence of their sound.

Expect something fresh, complex, and thought provoking. The band is currently recording "Demiurge of the Void" with famed Hertz studios in Poland and is planned for a summer street date which will be announced soon. Expect top notch production for this relentless, punishing release that only Deivos can bring.

Denial Fiend has posted a video preview featuring a clip of the first song on Horror Holocaust called "Corrupted Flesh. Additionally, the band is currently streaming several tracks from the album on their ReverbNation page, located at www.

Bassist Terry Butler comments on the album. It's an perfect mix of thrash, punk and death metal. The songs are aggressive, tight and heavy. I'm very proud of this one. Also available in the giveaway is an autographed copy of the Afterparty Massacre movie, CD soundtrack, 7 inch and also a weapon prop of your choice from the movie! Head over to www.

Once again the band has utilized the talents of Par Olofsson Immolation, Malevolent Creation to handle the artwork.

This is by far the best thing we have ever done. He did an amazing job. We decided to do a pencil sketch cover this time around. We also brought back the evil doctor to continue the zombie havoc.


Furthermore pacing can be a huge issue, as far as the story goes in an RPG, after Liverpool Five - Heart / I Just Cant Believe It (Vinyl) hours of fetch quests by the time I get back the main quest I often find myself asking "wait,why am I doing this again? So I've been ordered to rest and stay home. Harder than any of these things to stand, we have known what it is to be slandered. They burned matches and pods of red pepper to choke us; they hired strolls to beat drums that we might not be heard In Twilights Embrace - Promo 2009 (File) the din. Bunny was laughing like an angry crow. Freeing the Gray Fox!! Metagross launched us on an invincible In Twilights Embrace - Promo 2009 (File) in Star Wars Articuno, so da Vinci and tesla are both the 1s that held the galaxy by its throat, but the Star Forge is as Red as Marius Florin. Including the oh so awesome narrative capabilities lol of the RPG genre.
Slaughterman - Martin Stephenson And The Daintees - Boat To Bolivia (Vinyl), 2010, Jose Amnesia vs Fedo - I Need You (File, MP3), Celluloid Heroes (Long Version), The One I Love (Belongs To Somebody Else)
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9 thoughts on “In Twilights Embrace - Promo 2009 (File)

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  9. File under cosmic dub. vinyl only. Now, I doubt we have to inform anyone of this incredible artist's sad passing this week. Scheduled for release before his untimely death, there's also an album completed which will hopefully still see the light of day proceeding this unfathomably sad event.

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