There was a crowd movement and I ended up being this close to Damon Albarn for the duration of a song
So happy I went up front that show was amazing! The first two parter also sang during Gorillaz, which, the last time that happened was because the nofx driver was too drunk to remember the lyrics of Les Champs Élisée and the first player took pity on his ass, so that was cool.
Aside from Feel Good, all the songs I really wanted to hear got played, so I am extremely happy.
Okay so I wanted to answer some questions/confirm some stuff about Fatal_Error’s sight! It’s a long post, so you can read more about it under the cut. Don’t worry, there’s no spoilers for anything in the future, just some info to help you understand what Fatal sees. :)
But first, a quick shout out to this person here:
Because they asked me this FOREVER ago. Like, maybe months ago? But I couldn’t answer it yet because spoilers D: But at least you know that you were the first one to ask, @waruihoshi :) Kudos to you!
But anywhooo! So ya’ll had some stuff to say about this past update:
Flowers share their fragrance with the ocean, her blue hands reaching eternally to the silk sands sparkling a jeweled gown of shells. Freya’s ears shiver at the small hum of new birds, tiny beaks widened to win the worm caught between mother’s beak. Adult seagulls taste freedom at long last from the parentage of doting mothers and over protective fathers, only to discover the frolicking warmth of rosy mates hunkering for a valid partner.
Even now, many a drunkard would wander the streets, celebratory flowers tined upon their head to acknowledge the lust of May! Even with its abundant giggling ladies and pot-bellied lords, one town remains protected from the new creatures of fantasy, able knights and mercenaries together to best the creatures in wit and intelligence. Freya herself is horrifically surprised even to find unicorn horns hanging as trophies in two different taverns, the sacred creatures treated as game whilst she requested the whereabouts of one by the name of Tsumugu Kinagase, Guts, Casca, and Judeau flanking her sides whilst Prince Roderick remained with the ship.
“The leader of the Scaleless Dragon?”Freya’s heart leaps, full attention turned from the taverns owner to a lone farmer driveling his coin for a gamble in cards. “I know the bastard! A fine sword smith too!”
Given lead, the trio find themselves toward the hills not very far from the town, connected by a highway met by many a merchant foot. And highwayman, former mercenaries who found themselves quickest beneath Guts’ sword, Casca’s heel, even Judeau’s knife. A twist of Freya’s hip, a kick would send a man to sail into the sun as though he sprout wings, his comrades turning to see him falling freely towards the earth. It was more than enough warning to send them running.
A tiny shop hidden in the upper hills would bare itself behind a three rock pillars marked by strange runes familiar to the Burmecian, much to her surprise. Dogan symbols, a testament to her people’s God, Doga. Protective seals to ward demon and dragon alike. Turning sight to the shop, she stares in disbelief to find the weapons hanging on display are not of human make…
A Burmecian blacksmith. Spurred onwards, Freya nearly forgets her mission, even the friends behind. A smith knowledgeable of enchanted Burmecian weaponry? Kin freed of the slaver’s whip? A smith… Or could it be someone takes a kindred’s talent and sells them as his own. Yet, this sort… These axes and swords, and knives… “I… know the maker of these.” She gasps in awe. It can’t be…
Heart hammering unforgivingly within the walls of her chest, she enters the shop… And stills.
Too quickly, she is made aware to whom the cherry smoke belongs, the tap of an empty pipe spilt of black ashes carelessly unto the cobbled floors.
And with it too, a musk she can never name, but place it to the human she once held so tenderly in days too short.
“Oi, Feq ‘ead. g’ see who’s a’ me door.” Answers a too familiar, old voice parched of patience, thirsty for another drop of ale as he would a wad of tobacco to stuff in his long briar pipe. Entering, she sees the broad back, the titanous height lengthened by one long ear, the other chewed off by a dragon he fought so long ago.
‘Wyrick’ turns fully, revealing a heavily scarred, aged Burmecian mounting powerful arms like a mountain, barreled chest interrupted by the too heavy tub of lard dropping low to the ground to be hefted by his muscled hind feet. Long, white hair scarfed in a green sash, his blue eyes bulb, pipe nearly dropped from an unhinged muzzle. Recognition softens hard features, the wrinkles losing age the longer he stares at the smaller Burmecian woman. Giving no acknowledgement to any of the three humans, he turns slowly, struggling to exit from the gap between the smithing room and the shop. His belly rolls with every step, the shop shaking when he hones closer toward Freya in gaping awe.