the artistry and psychology of gaming


Final Chapter (Live-A-Live)

Final Chapter (Live-A-Live)

There was once a world not completely unlike our own.  The historical development is similar to the one in this world, though it has been around for a bit longer, so more time has passed, thus their present is what one might imagine to be our future, especially if you read science fiction.  The interesting thing is that one can reach different epochs through several statues hidden away in a mountain, allowing easy access to different eras of history.  I regard the time I spent here as my absolute favorite adventure of all time; I’ve never experienced anything quite like it, even to this day.

My favorite era, which should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, is the Medieval era.  It may seem to be your typical fairy tale kingdom, but the events that unfolded here are unlike anything I have ever seen.  They led to a gloomy state in which a demon king took over, imprisoning the souls of its inhabitants in a rusty old sewer unreachable by normal means, and cast a cloudy shadow over the entire land, powerful enough to render everything below nearly colorless.

I landed upon the terrace at the top of the abandoned castle, beholding the decay of its walls.  They’d not yet begun to crumble, but their color was starting to change.  Far into the distance, one could see endless blue-gray forests and mountains, and a formidable crag piercing the sky.  Entering the castle itself, I saw an ornate throne room cast in blue-gray, and the rest of the castle’s interior was much the same.  The courtyard was adorned with withering plants and grass of a gray-green, though water still flowed through its fountains.  Ivy was beginning to grow up the sides of the empty houses, but had not yet taken over.  It seemed that I had arrived not terribly long after the demon king had risen to power.  Exiting the front gate, I headed out into the countryside.

The countryside was painted in much the same set of colors, but with tan rocky walls lining plateaus, and a dark gray-green path in the dirt forming a road.  I followed this road up into the snow-covered mountains.  What I saw did not resemble the snowstorms of my youth, but it was still a beautiful, clouded snowfield.  Patches of dark dirt bore through the blanket of snow, and odd vegetation, which resembled a thatched roof more than a shrub, littered the area.  The snow itself was quite pretty, if jarring, because it was very colorful.  At a glance, it appeared to be white, but looking closer, one notices an iridescent quality, concealing oranges, blues, pinks and more.  Perhaps it was a different kind of gas crystallized to make this snow than water vapor; snow of methane gas is a light blue, after all.  These colors blending together gave the illusion of white, much as a quickly spinning wheel of colors would.  Never before had I seen this phenomenon in nature. At the summit was a long outcropping, giving a spectacular view, punctuated by a single lonely tombstone.

Descending the mountain, I reached a junction, at which I headed west.  This brought me to a small village.  There was little to see here, but I did encounter a lovely species of flower.  Bursting forth from the gray-green bush was a cluster of small flowers of a light gray-purple color reminiscent of a withering grape or dead grass right before the winter’s first snowfall.  Heading east instead will lead one by a deep forest to the south, but continuing east leads to the formidable crag.  Unlike most everything else in this realm, its gray overtones are dark and foreboding.  The opening leading deep within the rocky horror is anything but welcoming.  It dares anyone to enter, but few would accept such challenge; it exudes a horrifying presence that is almost palpable.  It is said to be the residence of the demon king himself, though that is a story for another time.

It is an open-minded sense of aesthetics that turns adventuring from mere exploring or treasure hunting into a never-ending gallery of beautiful living art.  Where one not attuned to such senses would see a depressing, colorless wasteland, there are those of us who can find the beauty in it.  Allow yourself to be wrapped in the wind’s comforting arms and burn its memory into your mind, so that you may revisit it whenever you dream, for you never know which memories will greet you fondly later on in life.  I’ve had a summer that was nothing short of miserable return to me and make me wish to return to its long days of toil in that pit of filth, and to hear the cacophonous tunes that permeated the radio.  It just goes to show that every memory is a treasure to be cherished.

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