Smoke and Sacrifice: A Game Review

This post was originally published at Sub-Cultured.  

Thanks goes to the unbreakable Kimmie Britt, for throwing some stress-free game related work my way. 

Pictured: Whimsy

Don't be fooled by the whimsically beautiful, hand-drawn aesthetic of this game like I was.  In fact, the only reason I decided to play this game, out of a choice of several others, was purely visual.  So, being the habitual lazy mug I am, instead of doing research, watching the entire youtube video, reading about Solar Sail Games, or, you know, doing literally anything at all before just jumping into this, I... just jumped into this.

Smoke and Sacrifice goes from cutesy and innocuous to immediate psychic scarring in the span of its own intro scene.  How is that even possible?  Might have something to do with you taking an active role in sacrificing your first born child upon an altar surrounded by sun-worshiping religious acolytes.  Maybe.

Yeah, so about those tiny houses...

Then the real nightmare begins: Flash forward seven years, the lights go out, the smoke pours in, the monsters come into the village.  You use the ensuing chaos, wrapped in a thick blanket of panic, to check out the temple and alter where you lost gave up your child, only to be teleported to a hellish landscape of terror and smoke shrouded danger.

That guy on the right?  That nightmare fuel right there?  Friendly NPC.

Set underground and spanning multiple biomes, Smoke and Sacrifice is a wonderfully crafted survival adventure with an engaging story, and an infuriatingly steep learning curve.  Fans of diesel-punk, the crafting elements of Ark, and games like Penny Arcade's On the Rain Slick Precipice of Darkness should definitely give this one a go.

Look, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the brightest lighthouse on the coast, and I generally like my games fast and simple.  But, had I taken the time from the outset to pay attention to the background environment, I probably wouldn't have died 20 something times before making any significant progress in my play-through.

Actual transcript of this fight: F*** this game is hard... No wait, I got it... Never mind, I'm dead again.

Without you ever being involved, the ecosystem carries on with its bad self.  Polyps (little jellyfish enemies) mate and produce offspring, plants swallow glowbugs and emit protective light, anglermoles eat fireflies and belch flames at you.  Why does any of this matter?

See that monstrosity in the picture up there?  That was the first big enemy I was asked to kill.  How many times did he kill me instead?  An embarrassing amount.  It wasn't until I accidentally brought him too close to that wasp nest, that the coin finally dropped.  The wasps killed the boar, I killed the wasps.  I then applied that lesson to every other big-bad in the game.  Environmental interactions are the key to playing this game.  It was this revelation that made S&S go from impossible and 'why am I even doing this, Kimmie can go to hell,' to 'oh, this is way more fun now.'

Even the sound design is amazing.  Flapping insect wings, gnashing teeth, screen rumbling explosions, and prosaic music all contribute to a perfect symphony to accompany you on your quest.

Of course, no game is without its flaws.  However, in this particular case, they are few and far between.  Sometimes items you try to pick up are inaccessible because of the placement of permanent objects and how items drop.  Also there's...um...no, that's about the only bug I found.

TLDR:

Looks perfect, sounds incredible, plays great, gave me actual nightmares, not a tedious amount of grinding, virtually bug free, and I cannot wait to play more.


PS: SAVE.
PPS: SAVE OFTEN.

Transference (part 1) - A short short

Since it's been a long while since writing has happened, I'm approaching M^6 like any other workout.  Need to build back up to things, so, as an effort on my part, here's a short-short for a warm-up.  It ain't pretty, but then, it really is not meant to be.  

"Papa!" Annabelle Hestingford called out from her laboratory.  It had, in earlier days, been a rather well organized study.  Annabelle's father, the Honorable Lord Hestingford, had given it over to her sole use when she reached ten years of age.  His infectious curiosity and love of invention took to Annabelle as a much younger girl, and as such, many blamed him for his daughter's decidedly unladylike interests.
"Papa!" she called again, not expecting a reply.  Most likely, he was working on his own devices at the opposite end of the house.  To her distinct pleasure, the family's aging butler Wilfrid answered her call.
"Miss Anna?" he inquired with his usual taciturn manner.
"Wilfrid, you are a Godsend," she greeted him with genuine enthusiasm.  An astonishingly educated man for his trade, and as capable a mechanical hand as either herself or her father.  He was, fortunately for Annabelle, surprisingly progressive for his age.  Where Lord Hestingford encouraged her to embrace the innovative, Wilfrid very often aided her in its execution.
Her former nanny, generally at odds with Wilfrid on all occasions, had quite severe opinions about young ladies with ideas.  Had it not been for the need to educate the young Miss Annabelle in matters of etiquette, the harsh woman would been sacked far earlier.  As it were, she left a lasting impression in that Annabelle still dressed appropriately for her social station.  Only acquiescing to her father's imploring that she wear something more functional while conducting her experiments by way of wiping her hands clean on her pinafore.
Alas, Wilfrid remained, her nanny did not.  Annabelle made certain of that.
"Did you require your Lord Father Miss Anna?  Or is there something I can assist with?"  he asked her, an odd tick causing his eyebrow to twitch in a most amusing manner.
"Wilfrid, forgive me for intruding, but is something amiss?  Your face seems to be..." she trailed off.
His eyes darted about the room, looking for the source of his discomfort.  They fell upon a gramophone, currently playing the latest recording of The Blue Danube, her favorite waltz.  "Miss, I believe there's something wrong with your gramophone."
She huffed.  Part of her was proud of his deduction, part of her disappointed that her frequency modulation device failed to work.  "Not the gramophone but an invention attached to it," she led the butler over to the machine.  Pointing to a small box with several antennae, she explained, "I'm trying to find a frequency pleasing to all ears that plays below the music.  It doesn't bother me in the least."
Wilfrid smiled, "Perhaps a different tune to accompany the music, young Miss?"
Annabelle smiled back, then returned to her workbench.  "You old charmer, you.  Fetch my father would you?"
"Of course, Miss," Wilfred bowed and walked away smartly to retrieve her unresponsive parental.
After the butler's departure, Annabelle retrieved a newly acquired leaded crystal jar to place lightly into a large brass Faraday cage.  The jar had nearly fallen into her lap earlier in the day while she was out shopping with Elizabeth.
  Elizabeth had seen only the craftsmanship of the thing, while Annabelle considered its potential use with her current invention.  Fortunately for Annabelle, her best friend had convinced her to appraise the jar.
Too expensive was Annabelle's first thought.  Her second and third thoughts consisted of a bit of precision haggling with the young store clerk running the shop.  At only 16, Annabelle was blessed with a generous decolletage and curly blonde hair that some of the older ladies might've killed for.  She never passed an opportunity to apply a carefully performed shrug or toss of her curls to accomplish a goal.
Elizabeth's shock at the clerk's almost immediate request for a kiss in exchange for the crystal nearly caused her to faint.  Annabelle took the jar with the promise that she would return in a day's time to deliver payment, noting at the time that the regular price had seemed wildly outrageous in its own right.
"Wicked," Elizabeth scolded her with the merest hint of a smirk.  "That was simply wicked.  To prey upon that poor boy, shame on you Annabelle Hestingford."
"Oh, but wickedness is so droll, don't you find?  Whereas purity," Annabelle adjusted the lay of her assets, eliciting a bout of scandalized laughter from her friend, "is so boring."
Thus, with the final piece of her puzzle found, and placed, she waited to show off the completed device to her loving father.
"I'm told," came a deep voice from the open door, "my genius daughter has something new and exciting to demonstrate."  Lord Hestingford swept into the room to give Annabelle a hug.  When he released the embrace, his fingers crept to his ears, as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant.  "Do you hear something?"
This huff of disappointment was more pronounced.  "That would be the sound of abject failure, apparently."
"Is it?"  When his questing fingers did nothing to alleviate the unknown irritation, he gave up and grinned at the girl.  "I disagree, I could stand to listen to this waltz for at least another several minutes."
"Ever the humorist," though she was secretly pleased he'd not begun bleeding from the ears like Wilfrid looked about to.  "Please stand there," she directed with a beck towards an ugly platform comprised of a copper plate and a haphazard tangle of wires.  "This," Annabelle announced as he positioned himself, "is my Essence Transferal Machine."
He adjusted his spectacles to take everything in.  Apart from the platform on which he stood, there seemed to be a Faraday cage connected by glass tubes and more wires, a small steam generator that was softly hissing, a boiler belching puffs of coal smoke at regular intervals, and several contraptions all outfitted with gauges, pipes, vents, more glass tubes, all connected to a single panel switch at Annabelle's desk.  After a quiet minute of inspection, a pleased look crossed his handsome face.  "Well, my dove, how does it work?"
"Like this," and with a flourish, Annabelle flipped the panel switch.

Transference (part 2) - End

  There was a flash of actinic light.  The waltz skipped twice.  Her father fell limp to the platform, as if he had been a marionette and his strings were unexpectedly cut.  Anticipation wound itself hurriedly into nerves.  Slowly, reverently, she opened the hooded brass enclosure.
Inside, a soft green glow ebbed within a leaded crystal jar.  Its nebulous form bounced gently against the walls of its confinement, and sensing the open top, began floating upward.  With only slight hesitation, a testament to her awe, she stoppered the jar.  It only took the work of a moment to seal the thing with lead infused wax.  If she was correct in her estimations, the element was the key to containment.
Annabelle held the container in both hands, bringing it to eye level.  With an avenue of escape no longer apparent, the confused cloud of her father's soul had coalesced into a nearly perfect sphere of emerald green light.  "Pa-pa," she exclaimed in delight.  "You are more beautiful than I could have imagined!"
The orb, looking as delicate as a soap bubble, vibrated to sound of her voice.  She spared a moment to look at the disheveled form of the currently soulless Lord Hestingford.  "Oh dear," Annabelle sighed, wondering, perhaps too late, if she should have developed a method to return the soul to its body.
"Father," she addressed the ectoplasm, "I declare the Essence Transferal Machine a resounding success!"  The green light brightened momentarily, causing Annabelle to wonder if it had been the content of the declaration or her enthusiasm that tendered the soul's rejoinder.  "Unfortunately," the light dimmed, "it shall be some time before I discover a way to reverse the effects."  Guilt, a concept foreign to her regardless, was immediately shunted away by the thrill of scientific discovery.
His body would perish, if it had not already, but there was nothing for it.  Still, the proper steps must be taken, lest the authorities determine, correctly, that the fault lie with her.
For now, Annabelle sat what remained of her dear father on the window ledge.  His soul casting its warm light against the frost limning the outside panes.  Having one last time ensured the seal was whole, she sashayed about her lab in time with the waltz in manner Elizabeth would have thoroughly disapproved of, cleaning up her odds and ends.  The single discordant frequency emitted by the gramophone never once unpleasant to her ears.
With nothing left to be done, Annabelle positioned herself comfortably in her chair, screamed bloody murder as shrilly as she was able, and feigned fainting.  Soon, her loyal Wilfrid would walk in to discover the scene, see her dear papa collapsed due to some unknown malady, and assume his darling Anna's innocence.
Green light danced in titillated response to the commotion within the house, bathing every surface in beautiful shifting color.  Tomorrow, she thought to herself as the tread of rushed footsteps approached, tomorrow I shall invite the store clerk.

My Big Fat Romanian Adventure Pt. 4

Operation Manchester

Manchester: n.; A verbal wager, most often accompanying a difficult task where an individual has proclaimed either they are perfectly capable of performing said task, or an individual is told that said task is impossible (and the individual or group of individuals is too stubborn to back down), that, if accepted, must either be accomplished or that individual is subject to a swift kick to the balls.

e.g.: “Hey! Gentlemen, you aren’t allowed to walk on that field.”
(aside) “Manchester.”

Thusly, a multinational, multi-agency, and multi-branch mass casualty exercise was coordinated for the express purpose of confirming that: Yes, we can, in fact, walk on that field.

Apart from that, I’m learning much in the way of the social interactions of the local strays.  They’re very territorial, unless the decide not to be.  They usually travel in power couples, and our particular power couple (Littlefoot – so named for a malformed foot, and Whitefang - …he’s a white dog, sorry, that’s all we’ve got) makes it a point not only to run off ANY dog that approaches the neutral zone, but any humans they don’t recognize. 

Littlefoot does, anyway.  Whitefang is the much abused husband that backs his wanting-to-see-manager wife.

Here’s a helpful google imagery map of the local dog territories:


1 – Fight Club: 3 asshole dog territory (that Whitefang occasionally stirs up trouble in to keep himself sharp).

2 – The Office: Whitefang and Littlefoot territory.

3 – The Edge of the World: There have been many documented sightings of multi-thousand strong murders of crows (always during twilight hours), shaggy brown dog, one very fast rabbit, dogs distantly related to Littlefoot, and Romanian Mig-23’s.  Between The Office and The Edge of the World, a neutral zone has been established that allowed the unchallenged passage of most non-native dogs (seriously, Littlefoot stops RIGHT at the pavement and barks).

4 – Stray Cat Manor: I have no idea, they congregate there.

5 – Roadie’s Playground: Solid black dog that loves to lay in the middle of the !@#*ing road.  Hence, Roadie.  His significant other has yet to be seen.

6 – Unnamed: Look, I’m not going to lie, this area is kinda terrifying.  It is patrolled by Scout (another possible relative of Littlefoot) and husband Fat Jack (and grimy and fat Jack Russel Terrier).  Every time I’ve gone through, Scout has led the way with Fat Jack bringing up the rear.

7 – Dusty’s Domain: There’s been speculation that Dusty is a mob boss in charge of the entire MK stray dog population, as his wanderings have taken him through every territory unmolested.  However, he seems to prefer guarding the gate to the airbase, attacking the tires of vehicles, running into traffic, and stopping in front of every car that goes through.  Also, he’s a bit of a rapist.

8 – Cat Country: With the exception of Dusty, no dog enters cat country.  I’ve seen Fat Jack chasing (or being led, now that I think about it) a cat at full tilt, only to completely stop and turn around at the border.  Part of me hopes that the cat was leading him into an ambush.

9 – The Wilds: From The Wilds, random animals come and go, sometimes never to be seen again. 

A - Espionage Proper, formerly Why the Fuck Would You Name This Icarus Park If It Isn’t A Park, formerly Icarus Park, formerly Holy Shit You Guys There’s Old Soviet Missiles Just Sitting In a Field (circa 2013): Apparently, it’s a scrap yard that’s counted as a sensitive area by Romanian intelligence, where the missiles, bombs, and discarded cockpit glass is sold to bidders (which I don’t believe because it’s been in the exact same place in the exact some configuration for at least 3 years now).  You may be asking, “How did you find that out?”  TLDR: Don’t take pictures of the bombs while dressed up as Deadpool.  They’ll charge you for espionage. 

**UPDATE**
- Littlefoot has taken up residence with Fat Jack within Cat Country.  She is definitely pregnant. 
- Dusty has not been seen in weeks and is presumed dead.
- We’re missing two kittens (Pink Nose and Black Nose) but Bitch Kitty is still around.

My Big Fat Romanian Adventure Pt. 3

Romania is a lot like Ke$ha.  It looks grimy from a distance, and you’re pretty certain if you touched it, it’d be sticky; when you get near it, though, it’s actually quite beautiful, there’s culture there, and art. 

Most of the time, at least.

This gives me both nightmares and daymares.

We finally had a weekend off where we were able to venture around Constanta (don’t ask about Bucharest, because fuck that place) and check out the Black Sea.  Having forgotten to bring my expensive camera, I was forced to use an iPhone camera, which, I’m not above admitting, works about the same.

The way in to the city was dominated with Soviet-era housing.  One of these buildings on its own was oppressive enough, but rows upon rows of them, with even larger structures housing hundreds of families, was terrifying for some reason. 

Eventually, we made it down to the beach.

The beach, I’ve heard, is topless in the summer.  In the winter, it’s the standard wind from the ocean cold.  Here’s a solid artsy shot of an actual rowboat that actual Romanians use to actually catch fish.  (there was a discarded beer bottle in the photo that we had to remove).

We hit a pier decorated in the latest of modern urban style.

Wub-a-lub-a-dub-dub! Am I right?

I still judge countries on their investment in infrastructure.  Roads suck?  Your country probably does, too.  However pretty this next shot at the end of the pier may be (and, it is), I had to remind myself that no one gave a shit about the condition of the non-touristy portion of the beach.  And, I reminded myself that by looking down and to the left, where someone had literally given a shit all over the pier.  Make no mistake, someone ate something undercooked, and we ALL paid for it.  Amongst the diapers, adult feces, beer bottles, and random trash, I’m pleased to say we only found one condom wrapper (significantly less pleased to report that we found the condom it once contained).

  Let’s pretend that all I saw was this lone sailboat instead.

Of interest, as we made our way off the beach, was this Romanian waterpark:

Made in the classic Fallout 4 theme.  Definitely contains ghouls.

If those were gas lamps, this would have been 9000 times cooler.

Further wandering took us through the town’s living area, where a lot of architecture was moored in Moorish design (you’re welcome).  Some of buildings standing have been there since the time of Vlad, with modern additions thrown on.  There was also an Escape House that advertised as one of the best in Europe (and which, I’m positive, if you didn’t escape, you were murdered and your kidneys were forfeit).

There were, of course, less than subtle hints that this city appreciated art.  While we started looking for somewhere to eat, we found this gem:

Not often you see a statue of Romulus and Remus.  No jokes here.  Legitimately cool.

As it turned out, this statue happened to be within walking distance of the local art museum (which was closed, our wanderings being outside normal business hours).

Just like Ke$ha; SHE IS A NATIONAL TREASURE.

If you’re wondering where we ate, we found a nice Greek place, located right next to a baklava shop (from which we purchased 1 kilo of baklava… and ate 1 kilo of baklava), located right next to a rub-and-tug erotic massage parlor.

Picture unrelated, I'm just a fan of Ke$ha.

-Son, for every one person that gets superpowers from a radioactive spider bite, there are 6 billion that just get cancer and die.

My Big Fat Romanian Adventure Pt. 2

1 November

Budapest

Left Budapest early this morning.  The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East.

Apologies to my crew for repeating that line many, many times over.  And, apologies to Gary Oldman for expecting to see his eyes in my windows.

Our crossover into Dracula territory was not to be long however, as our obligations lie elsewhere.  To the south, Marines needed us to provide entertainment and coverage of only the type we were capable. 

Throughout our journey from West to East, a singular thought remained:  Holy shit this aircraft is heavy.

The maximum gross weight of a Blackhawk is 22,000 pounds.  Accordingly, exceeding that weight causes all manner of problems for the structure (and more importantly, the transmission).  So, what does it take to get a few people, their bags, and enough gas to make it all the way to a castle bordering Maldova, Bulgaria and nestled in the heart of the Carpathians (…terrible, I’m sorry)?

About 22,000 pounds.

In keeping with the latest tradition of (aptly) naming our helicopters after Borderlands characters, it seems only right that 698 (the daughter of 697 – Mad Moxxi), an aircraft I’ve spent way too much time in, always has men crawling over and in her, and, as we’re out in Eastern Europe on our own, away from the family, a strong independent woman, I give you:

Loves cuddling, murder.

Ellie

-Absinthe is the aphrodisiac of the self. The green fairy who lives in the absinthe wants your soul. But you are safe with me.

My Big Fat Romanian Adventure Pt. 1

Halloween in Hungary

(Caveat: It's been some time since I've written, so you'll forgive my lack of usual wit and prose.  Much like a muscle - get your minds out of the gutter, dears - that will atrophy if left neglected, so does writing.  Bear with me for a few posts).

In the inviolable intelligence that is the Army communication process, I was notified, with what amounts to three days of lead time, that I was leaving from Germany to Romania.  For a total of two weeks.  What follows is the account of some of the more memorable moments of that three-hour tour.

Little did I… I mean, I guess I should have suspected, but I didn’t actually believe it’d come to pass, what was two weeks turned into two months.  However, I am not complaining (just want that out there for any interested party that happens to be reading this, can’t forget how much trouble I got in last time for posting something that amounted to an unfavorable opinion about the way things are).

We started out like this: 

I started in front, so I can’t take credit for this photo.  10 hours of flying across Europe?  No big deal.

What had never even crossed my mind, at all, ever, was the fact that I’d be in Hungary on Halloween.

This picture is in color, it's the country that's in black and white.

Papa, Hungary: A city of claustrophobia.

As dark as this place is, on Halloween, at midnight, we decided (for whatever reason) to wander through the streets of Werewolf Town right near Children of the Corn Farm and Why the Hell Are Your Tombstones Lit Up With Christmas Lights Cemetery. 

Plus this guy that just kept staring.

Despite Hungary’s best attempts to murder us (to say nothing of the Hungarian Army Barracks with bars on the windows – to prevent werewolf attacks, obviously – and the mattresses made of human hair, unknown creature blood, and the strangest racist scrawls pidgin English/Hungarian), we survived to make it Dracula Land.

Naturally (naturally being used in the context of expectation of continuance of odd shit), the first thing I saw sitting on the table in my new office was this gem:

I have nothing to add.

Anyway, these are my mornings now:

-I always knew she had the ability, to kill me.  It just never occurred to me that she’d actually try.