So is anyone interested in having some real hatred going on between our characters in a long-term way? I'm looking for villains who don't mind having proper fights ie to the death/banishment with no hard feels. I think that true rivalry and competitiveness is one of the coolest things these very unique stat-based RPGs offer, and it'd be nice to have some real risk involved even if we're both planning out the story and possible outcomes. Anyone interested in this? I'm looking at you, Ganondorf, but I'm not sure whether it'd suit your Ganon since he prefers to keep his villainousness on the down-low.

You know what to do!

It was a place that had no name. There were signs, of course, but those were to be expected. Every building was made of old boards and wind-blasted stone. Each gust against shutters and shingles caused a creak and a whistle to echo through the streets. The roads were paved down by tracks and wheels, causing a stony surface for coming and going. Several horses were tethered to the side of a building. The town had an archway at its entrance, which read:

So I'm currently in a cinema waiting for the next movie at an anime film festival (reelanime, if you're curious enough to look it up). Just two films in and having a blast like I do every year at this.

Then I remembered we lack an anime thread here. So, like, what anime and manga do you guys like, and why?

The sands shifted wildly as the stars rose over the Endless Dunes. Every peak of the wandering wasteland gleamed white with moonlight, chilling winds slicing over the landscape in angry blusters. The heat that Sinestro once cursed had quickly evaporated into an unforgiving cold, the heavy garments that Ganondorf had summoned now not warm enough.

It had been hours since the two men had split up and Sinestro had made his way far out into the desert. He circumnavigated the tiny city, the name of which he still did not know, surveying every route of ingress or egress, counting buildings, looking for anything out of the usual. Well, anything more out of the ordinary that he had learned to expect in this strange place.

It was a small city, one that made him question his assumptions about the presence of bandits in the area. However, he had a feeling there was something lurking behind the sun and the wind and grit. Sinestro had long ago learned to trust those feelings.

The city was flanked by not just sand, but also red rock, brown soil, canyons that cut deep into the earth and cliffs that scraped against the sky. The terrain shifted between anything that seemed thematically appropriate as the land stretched out into what seemed like infinity, each seeming the stage of yet another possible drama. It was a setting fit for a god to watch his toys scuffle about in.

He decided upon a nearby ravine that cut through a series of rocky crimson peaks. In the darkness of night it appeared to be a gash through reality itself, revealing the empty shadow that lay below it. Angry red giants towered on either side, jagged features staring down disdainfully.

Anyone with cargo would be forced to take the low ground, and even those without would be drastically hindered by attempting the crags. It was the perfect place to set up an ambush, and the korugaran hoped that it wasn’t too strictly patrolled by anyone who claimed to defend the denizens of the town without a name.

There was the option of simply riding down the center of the canyon, and certainly in doing so if there were any bandits to find he would find them. Or, more accurately, they would find him. Who knew how many of them waited with baited breath on either side of that swallowing shadow? Only they did, and only they knew how to prepare for what they had lying in wait.

Instead, he would take the tough ride, up and over the sides of the stones and find his quarry on his own terms. He didn’t want to be forced into a fight with these men, killing them all would serve no purpose. He would have to see the entire picture before he started making a plan in full. For now, he only needed to introduce himself.

He spurred the beast below him, which let out an agitated huff and trod on.

---

“There’s nothing down there,” Old Man Clanton complained, shifting uncomfortably. “We’ve been at this all damn day and I ain’t had nothin’ to eat since sun down. Nobody is gonna be walkin’ the pass at night!”

“Shut your hole,” the ghoul rasped out, shifting the toothpick in his half-rotten lips in irritation. The radiation-ravaged man squinted at hi elderly partner and gestured down at the gorge below. “Half the guys we snare come through there at night.” He settled back into his position and stared down the sites of his laser rifle. “Just watch the valley.”

Clanton edged his was over to the ravaged mass of irradiated flesh and pleaded, “But Rodney, it’s so damn dark down there it’s not as if we’d ever see ‘em anyways!”

Rodney attempted a grumble but it only came out as a rumbling, dry sigh. “Yeah, numb-nuts, it is dark. Dark enough that you’d have to have a light to see where the hell you were going. A nice, easy-to-shoot-at light.”

“Can I at least have a cigarette?” the old man whined.

Slamming his weapon down, Rodney snapped back, “No, you idiot! Are you fucking kidding me? We can’t have a cigarette for the same reason that we’re looking for lights down there? What is wrong with you?”

“Aw man, I could really use a smoke Rod! Just one, to help with my appetite?”

“Holy father Atom, Clanton, yes. Go have a god damn smoke down back behind those rocks. Fuck!”

Rodney rolled back over, shaking his bomb-blasted head and adjusting his hat as Clanton merrily ambled down over the rocks to hide. He trembling fingers collected a lighter from his pocket, a device that seemed amazing on its own, and he tucked a perfectly rolled cigarette in his lips.

Old Man Clayton had been in the Omniverse for a while now, showed up at that fountain naked and confused. He had shown up alone, in the sprawling white with the sound of Omni’s voice ringing in his ears. He summoned clothes, just like Omni said he could, and ran for the first gate he saw.

The first place the man stumbled into was a nightmare. The sky boiled, ash rained down from the sky, what looked like rivers that ran hot and red. He didn’t much complain when the next portal led him to something that almost looked like home.

It wasn’t long before he was running in Sledge’s gang, knocking over supply caravans here and there, as the situation demanded. Half of the crew was a bunch of psychos, running in after the bullets and lasers had done flying (and sometimes before they were done) screaming and laughing, half the time hacking the caravaners into little bits. He always looked away when they caught up with the wagons.

Rodney, the half-rotten bastard, was put in charge of Clanton ever since he got drunk and ate half a week’s ration of oranges. He’d been weaseling his way out of duties since he’d been there, and the ghoul put a barrier between him and his naps and free time.

Clanton ran his trembling fingers over the smooth oak stock of the rifle before pressing it into his shoulder. The moon played a gentle glint over the front post of the barrel, the steel whispering to him. It would be easy, almost too easy, to pull that trigger. He could blame somebody else, or better yet just make a run for it. Get through one of the other gates.

Clanton nodded to himself, summoning some courage from the bottom of his flask. He jumped to his feet and lifted the cold steel to his cheek, searching over the ridge for Rodney in sweeping strokes of his weapon. “Rodney?” he whispered urgently, “Come on now Rodney, show yourself, now!”

“I’m afraid he’s a bit tied up,” a dark voice called from the cliff side.

Clanton spun quickly and fired, the bullet tearing through Rodney’s gut. The ghoul screamed underneath the gag before he was flung over the edge, plummeting with hands bound seventy feet before splattering all over the boulders below.

The old man squeezed off two more rounds blindly; the red-skinned creature had already slid off into the shadows. The old cattle-wrangler desperately threw the bolt back, fumbling to gather more rounds. He tucked a shell between his teeth and attempted to slide another into the chamber when suddenly a hand swatted the rifle to the side.

Sinestro twisted the weapon out of his hands and drove the butt up into his jaw. As his teeth clamped down on the bullet, several shattered and fell out through his lips. The korugaran’s thin, powerful fingers wrapped around his throat, easily lifting him from the ground. The old man’s eyes welled up as the wind was slowly choked out of him.

“Who do you work for?” he growled, and for a moment Clanton could swear the alien’s eyes were made of gold.

The old man gagged out an answer, prompting the ex-lantern to loosen his grip. “Big blowhard named Sledge.” He didn’t waste time waiting on him to ask about where they were set up, pointing in the general direction of their encampment. “We’re in an encampment right next to this big… steel door looking thing. Everyone keeps on callin’ it the ‘Vault.’ It’s about three miles ‘round the pass, you can see it through an arch up on the east side of the cliffs.” He trembled in Sinestro’s hand, his face twisting into a sad, drunken look of panic. “Please don’t kill me…”

Sneering, Sinestro tossed the man to the side in disgust. “I wouldn't dirty my hands with your blood.”

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Enjoy, my friend.

Location/Role: Dobson is the senior-most member of the council that rules Darkshire. His seniority is based not on age but with his deep connection to the town. The orphan son of the former militia commander, Dobson served on a gate crew before his father's illness forced him to take on more duties. With the death of his father in a conspiracy and the growing issue with the former mayor, Dobson was part of a coup d'etat that ousted the old government and installed a new one in its place.

Story: Prior to his arrival in the Omniverse, Dobson Skender was just your average young boy in your average place in your average medieval European village. He was the son of Commander Skender, the brusque bulldog who served as the lord's enforcer and protected the farmers from raids from neighboring counties. Dobson, not partially skilled with words or numbers, served as a page and a squire. His sandy, unkempt hair, pale gray eyes and scrawny frame speak of an unseasoned fighter. He quickly grew up into a gangly, six-foot tall youth who inherited his build and martial prowess from his mother, a simple seamstress who was killed by raiders.

All his life, Dobson has dwelt in his father's shadow. Commander Skender was devastated by the loss of his wife, and threw himself into his work to cope with his grief. Near his eighteenth birthday, Dobson awoke at the Fountain of Infinity. He didn't know it then, but he had been handpicked by Omni. He was a prime, someone with limitless potential. Dobson wound up fighting for the Kingdom during the war with Diablo, during which he summoned his father to the Omniverse. Adapting to the situation faster than his son ever could, the elder Skender quickly rose up the ranks once again until he was captain of Darkshire's militia. The same fury with which he had protected their home village translated into the Omniverse. Many argue that Commander Skender's bravery and zeal is the reason the town is the only large human settlement left standing in the Moors.

As the mayor slipped into despair and inexorably relented to his undead affliction, more and more weight was piled onto the commander's shoulders. In a recent invasion on the town, Commander Skender sustained a serious wound that cost him the use of his legs. He now leads from a stationary post inside the company barracks.

After his father's injury, Dobson took on more responsibility within the militia. In his shame and broken state, Commander Skender allowed none of the other militia members to see him. He locked himself away on the upper floor of the barracks, and only Dobson was permitted to come and ago, receiving the commander's orders and delivering them to the troops. Dobson was one of the only townsfolk who didn't fear the old mayor, so it typically fell to him to meet with Mortimer Boone and discuss matters of the town's commerce, accommodations, and defense.

Though by no means a warrior, Dobson has a sharp mind and a quick wit. He is proficient in military strategy and knows how to defend the town better than anyone, as a result of his military upbringing and proximity to his father, a genuine military genius. This is the reason his father begrudgingly promoted him and used him as a liaison to the other men. What Dobson wanted more than anything is respect, which he worked very hard to accomplish over his service. By the time he took over most of his father's duties, he was one of the town's most beloved figures, which made his role in the power grab that removed the corrupted government something that most people were willing to accept, even if there are a few old-system bureaucrats that resent him. He emerged from that incident with even more of the people's love and respect.

The Moors have taken their toll on the young man, much like they do on everyone who stays there far too long. Even so, like many of Darkshire's people, Dobson is possessed of a good heart and wants nothing more than to protect and serve his city.

As writers, we all know how it feels when we know we should write but decide writing is balls and go play video games. I've been trying to work out how to get past this, as it's my biggest problem (not even writer's block bothers me, it's just getting into gear). So I thought people could post what they do to break out of that funk, or what they do to keep them on track, or any sources that they use to help them out. I would like to be an author who makes money from writing words one day, as I'm sure a few of you here would too, so collating these tricks is a benefit to everyone.

I'd like to share one point I picked up recently, which is a rule called the 'nifty three-fifty.' Essentially you write 350 words, five days a week. It doesn't sound like much, but most people, even when they really can't be arsed with writing, can tap out that many words without too much hassle. It doesn't matter if it's the best writing you've ever done or pigshit, as long as you write it. You can always go back and revise, and that's a lot easier than doing the actual writing.

There's absolutely no reason why you can't go over that limit either. If you find the words flow, then go with it. But the nifty three-fifty is a great rule to make sure you are always progressing with your writing. Like any craft, improving your skills as a writer requires constant, (preferably) daily practice. To put it into perspective, if you wrote 350 words a day, five days a week (so you even get a weekend off), you'll end up with around 91,000 words in a year. That's a medium sized novel. If you write more than that, you'll get there quicker. You could always write less (say 200) and spread it over more days and still get a similar result.

For me, that's really helped me put it into perspective. Years fly by, and 350 words a day really is quite small. I'm about to go on holidays for a week and I still think I can meet this without any trouble.

Have you got any writing tips or strategies that you've found useful?

"Hotel Homicide: Man Found Dead at State-Operated Hotel; Foreign Elements Suspected."

An investigation has been launched into a possible homicide on the seventh floor of ‘El Presidente,’ a state-owned hotel complex in the residential quarter of Tier 1. The Presidente is commonly home to Primes and Secondaries either seeking asylum with the Empire or for high-ranking visitors to Coruscant.

Preliminary forensics reports that the homicide occurred at some time in the morning, as the body was discovered in the evening and had been dead for several hours. Cause of death is being withheld at this point, although foul play is highly suspected. A day prior to the discovery of the body, twenty-three individuals were spotted leaving the Presidente who did not match any records of tenants. These individuals left in three groups, with a female who left separately. All are reported as ignoring contact with tenants of the building and security staff. Witnesses reported that they all acted in a suspicious manner.

None of these individuals—all humanoid in appearance and shape—are present in any Coruscant records. Any information on them would be appreciated. Attached to this message is a computer rendering of one of the assailants.

More details of this investigation will be released as they become known.

Attachment(s): http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2579/41826...bfb65c.jpg

It felt like stepping through the gate from the Nexus to Coruscant. Like nothing had happened, and yet everything had changed somehow. Back then, Samus had noticed that the air was different. Now she wondered if it was even air surrounding her. The ground was certainly nothing natural. White and clean, like the Nexus, but not so featureless. It took a few moments to take it all in.

Samus looked at her own hand. No difference. Then she compared it to the scenery. Was it just her, or was it somehow more … pixelated? She tilted her head.

Nanoha was the first to break the weird silence. “So, it looks like we’ll all be working together.” She smiled. “I’m glad.”

Samus felt a twitch in her eyebrow. She hoped the young woman wasn’t pursuing some feel-good adventure. Honestly, she didn’t know what to make of being asked to work as a group in the first place. It was the first time in a … long time. For now, she decided, it was probably for the best to stick it out. If things got difficult later, she could always split off to take care of things on her own.

“Let’s just get on with things,” said the hunter. She stepped towards the one obvious entrance of the room they were in.

Nanoha shrugged at Proto Man, who scratched his chin awkwardly. “I wouldn’t worry,” said the aerial mage. “If this problem is so big, I’m sure it’ll find us.”

Samus turned, and her raised eyebrow was fully visible through her visor. “Well let’s find it before it finds us.”