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Estatísticas de jogo
Membro desde:October 19, 2011
Tempo a jogar:33.9 hrs nas 2 últ. semanas
Capturas de Ecrã
Perfil do Steam
In puns we trust.
Once upon a 2Fort server, mercs thus fighting, all with fervor
To soon procure and then abscond with intel from the enemy horde;
I on BLU and quickly rising, on the scoreboard, quite surprising
Myself; I sat, surmising, guessing at my heightened score.
"Must be luck," I muttered grimly, "much higher than my normal score.
Only luck...and nothing more."
But lo! the increase still proceeded, as enemies I fast deleted,
It seemed my skill at TF2 had just increased a hundredfold.
Stupefied, I came to wonder, as I tore RED team asunder,
If this were just a lucky blunder, or else a destiny great and old...
Was this a blessing from code untold?
Was I a pro forevermore?
"Then," said I, excitement waning, "perhaps the reason for this gaining
Warrants a most quick explaining - uneven scramble, and nothing more."
So that then, to test my theory, though hour late and eyes most bleary
I defected, emerging now from RED spawn door,
Heedless of my strange and sudden all-increasing score.
My streak, I thought, would be no more.
But presently, the lead grew stronger, and I resolved to doubt no longer;
Instead to give myself a trial whereby I would fall or soar.
To highland servers I then aspired, knowing soon I would be mired
In a throng of seasoned experts, certain death for players poor.
Joined a team, saw the chatter - here I waited at spawn's door;
For if I won, I'd know for sure.
Far across that battle peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Hoping, dreaming dreams of gaming glory never known before.
But though with apprehension growing, into the fray my form came flowing;
A nigh-unheard-of skill set showing, again, topping out the score.
Hope and fear, joy and sorrow, banished then to distant shores...
This server's god, or even more...
And yet, as I stood there in glory, from electric realms of code most hoary,
Came a voice from eldest story, a voice I'd never heard before.
"Mr. Kelvin," intoned the talker, "you've gained the mark of Robin Walker:
An eldritch power that no mortal player can long endure;
Drives mad your mind if not forswore.
You must renounce...or play no more."
The way it spake, that voice so subtle, caused an instant mental muddle -
Surely, it was the great Rabscuttle! - wielder of mighty Banhammer sure.
And then I felt, though unbelieving: my newfound strength so quickly leaving
Cried out - as I was grieving, "can I a tiny boon implore?
Inform me thus, will Half-Life 3 be soon restored?"
Stated Gaben: "Nevermore!"
Now after this sad narration, perhaps you wonder of my fate, then.
I still play rounds of MVM and wish for Valve games three and four.
But sometimes, then, when Steam is running, and hackers dig through updates cunning
I hear that Source 2 may be coming...and resolve to hope some more.
What announcements are in store?
Freeman fans won't be ignored.
why hello there
Jogos recomendados por ZeroKelvin _
The outlook wasn't brilliant for poor Booker D. that night,
While sitting in a lifeboat, with the lighthouse gleaming bright.
And when the rowers vanished, and the surface did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the hero of this game.
And in the rocket pod he sat, bewildered, yet impressed,
As he drifted past the Monument, and as "pilgrim" was addressed;
He thought, though oft befuddled, "I can swing this rescue yet -
and then bring them the girl, to wipe away the debt."
But word preceded Booker, as did the prophet's hate,
And the former was mysterious and the latter was his fate;
So upon our calm protagonist grim melancholy lay,
As he wandered through Columbia, one pleasant summer day.
For there were weird anomalies, awaiting on this trip:
A strange predictive telegram, and a coin that he must flip;
When he came upon the fairground, a baseball in his grasp
The telegram proved Prophetic, and the "shepherd" was entrapped.
The policemen sent to fetch him, though, emerged in fearful shape;
As DeWitt procured his skyhook in a bloody quick escape;
He killed the hothead fireman, and the soldiers' onslaught checked,
As the presence of the shepherd began to have a mass effect.
And he struck a blow for freedom, put the Ravens in their place;
Stole Lizzie from the statue, with a grimace on his face.
And when, while fleeing Songbird, he very nearly drowned,
The Prophet's Lamb was shown to be the best escort around.
Ten thousand Founders fought him, and found that fighting hurts;
Ten thousand Vox applauded him in another universe.
Fitzroy had incited them, the Prophet's rule to end;
And Comstock wouldn't tolerate this Columbian-mocha blend.
And now the Vox Rebellion was heady in the air,
As Booker and Elizabeth chased gunsmiths through two tears.
- one man was a martyr, and expected to be dead
"That ain't my style," said Booker, as in a blimp they fled.
From the working town of Finkton, though, the city fell to storm -
And through Emporia's empty streets a trail of blood was worn.
A strange and spectrous spectacle was born from daughter's hate;
and Elizabeth's own mother had to open Comstock's gate.
He passed through old asylum, by silent boys forlorn;
but yet, through temporal meddling, a self from past was warned;
One mountain drowned in fire; one spared from Prophet's rage;
And the note was found to be the key to break the Songbird's CAGE.
The bird succumbed to atmosphere, as was his destiny;
as the pair both stood enraptured, in the city beneath the sea.
They saw the timestreams branching, the world of many doors,
As futures became hazy, and history restored.
The memories stored in Booker's mind were all subject to change;
In this interstellar chess game that the physicists arranged.
For to save himself and Anna, reality must be faced;
At the delta of time's river, the parallels erased.
Oh, somewhere in the multiverse the stars are twinkling bright;
And Jack is fighting Atlas, 'mid Rapture's neon lights,
And always there's a lighthouse, and twin Luteces pout;
But there is no more Columbia - for mighty Comstock's been snuffed out.
- ZK, with a little help from Ernest Thayer
I sat down at my table,
and was dealt a canny hand.
Max was acting crazy;
Tycho was merely bland.
I had a Strong Bad feeling
That a Heavy loss was nigh;
The chips were down,
The ante was up
I thought that I might die.
As conversation moved to things
of which I dare not speak,
I kept a stolid poker face
and hoped for a lucky streak.
And finally my face went flushed
and I had a full house of cards.
Buy this game for promos free;
...it really isn't hard.
Come try this nifty story 'bout a warrior named "The Kid,"
He'll be trampling out the Windbags and discov'ring cores they've hid;
His skills are truly frightening, like his white and spiky lid;
And the Bastion keeps building on.
They fear him 'round the watch fires of a hundred hidden dens;
As they mourn their fallen country and their grey and ashen friends;
For the Ura will keep fighting to the last and bitter end;
And the Bastion keeps building on.
In the depths of fiery Colford brilliant Mancers spied the key;
To create the last undoing of their war's bleak history;
And thus began the project that would end in Calamity,
As the Bastion kept building on.
Caelondia's mighty Rippling Walls kept her from all defeat;
She controlled the Wild's riches from her armored judgment seat;
But now the world's in fragments; people corpses on their feet;
But the Bastion keeps building on.
From a continent mysterious the Caels came across the sea,
And wove intriguing plotlines that will interest you and me:
You'll get an epic soundtrack and a thrilling DLC;
For Bastion keeps building on.
- ZK, with a little help from Julia Ward Howe