there is a longing within me only you can fill
this prairie Cajun needs his bucket full
an awareness of your spirit
blankets me today
thank you lord Jesus for your love, mercies and blessings
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Several weeks ago, my retirement-age mother requested that I play Baldur’s Gate 3 for her because she has trouble with controllers/keyboards and wanted “to see what all the fuss is about with that cute wizard boy.” For context, my mother and I have done this sort of thing in the past with certain RPGs (dragon age, mass effect, etc.), but it’s been a few years since she’s personally requested a game like this. Basically, I control her Tav but let her make all the choices so she can determine how the story plays out without worrying about mechanics. She treats it like a choose-your-own-adventure book.
Anyway, here is a list of some of the things my mother has said and/or chosen to do throughout the course of BG3 in no particular order:
She is (obviously) romancing Gale. She is quite smitten with him and his passion for books and learning; she also thinks he’s polite and qualifies as “relationship material.” She also REALLY likes the things he’s said about his cat so far (my mom is a cat lady), so I know she’s gonna flip shit when we meet Tara in Act III.
She’s playing a normal druid Tav with a generally good alignment. Her favorite spell is Spike Growth because she thinks it’s hilarious whenever enemies walk into the AOE and die. I usually end up having to cast it at least once per battle per her request. Sometimes twice.
Contrary to her alignment, my mother tasks me with robbing every single chest, crate, barrel, and burlap sack we come across; this also includes people and their pockets. The party is always at max carrying capacity. ALWAYS. She doesn’t like selling things because “what if I need them.” The camp stash is in literal shambles. There is no hope of organizing it. She’s got like fifty seven sets of rags and a billion pieces of random silverware.
She MUST talk to every animal and corpse in the game. I think five hours of her total playtime so far (47ish) has been spent speaking to animals as many times as humanly possible. Like, I was thorough in my own playthroughs, but this is on a whole other level.
She did NOT get Volo’s lobotomy, but she did let Auntie Ethel take her eye in hopes of a cure for the tadpole. I did not understand the logic then. I still do not understand it now.
She is far more interested in fashion than equipment stats. Do you have any idea how much gold I’ve had to spend on dyes just to make things match? SO much. Same vibe as that “please someone help me balance my finances my family is starving” tweet but instead of candles it’s thirty thousand fucking bottles of black and furnace red dye.
We broke the prisoners out of Moonrise, but they got on the boat too early and bugged the fight by leaving Astarion and Karlach behind. Wulbren Bongle somehow got stuck in combat mode even after engaging the cutscene on the docks below Last Light; he he kept trying to run ALL THE WAY BACK TO MOONRISE nine fucking meters at a time while I frantically tried to finish the fight with the Warden, otherwise Wulbren would have run straight into the shadow curse. (I would’ve let him go; fuck Wulbren Bongle, all my homies hate Wulbren Bongle. But my mom didn’t know that, and she wanted to keep him safe. So.)
She had me reload a save like eighteen times to save the giant eagles on top of Rosymorn Monastery. Wouldn’t even let me do non-lethal damage just to get past things. I think getting that warhammer for the dawnmaster puzzle took us like an hour and a half alone. (Yes, I know you can use any warhammer, but SHE didn’t.)
She’s started keeping an irl notebook to keep track of her quests between play sessions. She writes down ideas and strategies when she thinks of them during the week, then brings them to her next game session at my house. I think she wrote about three pages on possible approaches to the goblin fortress alone.
She insists that I pet Scratch and the owlbear cub before every single long rest, no exceptions. Sometimes I have to do it multiple times until she is absolutely sure that the animals know exactly how much she loves and cherishes them. She has also commissioned a crocheted owlbear plush from a friend of hers and is very excited.
I’m sure there’s a bunch of stuff I’m forgetting, but those are some fun things I thought of. She’s enjoying the game and is telling all of her retired friends to get it and play it for themselves. She asked me “what is Discord” yesterday and I think my life flashed before my eyes.
anyway shout out to my mom for being neat
Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5
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Celestial Travel and the Communion of Saints: Catherine and Athanasius
Here’s an imaged conversation between two great saints.
A tall, bearded man sat under the shade of a tree to protect against the beaming noon sunlight. He had a quill and a parchment in hand. Uttering a few words while crossing himself he continued to formulate a message on half-written scroll:
“He became what we are that he might make us what he is.”
Thoughts such as this were the cause for the…
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Watching multiple cracks in Alastor's composure only for him to narrow his eyes and/or smile a bit wider afterwards is one of the most delightful while simultaneously horrific things put to media that I've seen in a while.
It just builds on such encroaching dread as the episodes continue, because you can see it very clearly in his eyes that he remembers shit that bothers him, and stores whatever happened to act upon for later.
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WHY IS SO FUCKING HARD PUT A "FEM" IN FRONT OF THE "READER"???????
NOT EVERYONE IN THIS FUCKING SITE IS A FEM OR USES FEM PRONOUNS YOU DUMB BITCH
NOT EVERYONE WANTS TO READ HALF OF A HISTORY ONLY TO GET A FEM NICKNAME OR A FEM PRONOUN THAT YOU TAKE OFF YOUR ASS
JUST PUT THE FUCKING FEM READER YOU ASSHOLE YOU NOT GOING TO DIE IF YOU PUT THREE FUCKING LETTERS IN FRONT THE READER
IS SO FUCKING HARD DEFENDING SOME AUTHORS BECAUSE THEY CONTINUE BEING DUMB
SOME MASC PEOPLE HAVE A FUCKING DYSPHORIA OR THEY DAY RUINED BY THAT
YOU WON'T LIKE IF WAS A MALE READER WITHOUT SAYING IS MALE, THEN PUT THE FEM READER BECAUSE WE DON'T LIKE EITHER
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It is Sunday morning. I go to my local church dressed like a preacher. The actual preacher is late because I slashed his tires the night before.
No one recognizes me but I walk with so much confidence that no one stops me as I go to the pulpit. I clear my throat and begin the sermon.
“Jesus x Judas counts as doomed yuri.”
I am raptured before they have a chance to respond.
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