Underware Roast! 17+ Mature gamers topic only.

[Deleted54170User]

evilneko, "Actually I'm horribly socially inept".

 

I see talent emerging from your inept social life. I hope you find a way to make your writing even better. I will be watching as you succeed or fail. Please do so with your fiery flair ether way you go.

[Deleted54170User]

Under Ware: Anything that is not in plain sight.

 

Underwear: Clothing which doesn't exist in the game until you kill a party whose armor is removable.

 

Trader: A person or party that has all sorts of wares; including a ghoul who owns a bar in Underworld who has Under the counter Wares. And Yet None of traders who are in the game have any underwear to sell.

 

Enough of this. I hope you know that not one radio or jukebox in the entire wasteland has a working dial to change stations. I grieviously make this known now, as I fear it will never be included in a mod to correct that. I want to turn those radio's and jukeboxes to a station of my choosing when I am scouring the inner rooms where it is already on and creates no risk factor of drawing attention to my character while I clean up all those none essential wares that I used to trade for, "AMMO".

>>>>

Modding in progress. I would be here more often except it gave me another time consuming fun idea to work on. I hope to have it done in time for the Fallout 3 noobs who would like an explanation as to where all the electricity comes from.<<<<

[Sarpedon]

This reminds me of that awesome Morrowind Mod who's name I don't remember:

 

You go to a party, and someone compliments your outfit and asks who does your tailoring. Your options to reply are:

 

1. Millie Hastien in Balmorra

2. Niel Ramoran in Ald-ruhn.

3. I strip my clothes from the corpses of enemies I kill.

 

:biggrin:

[Deleted54170User]

This reminds me of that awesome Morrowind Mod who's name I don't remember:

 

You go to a party, and someone compliments your outfit and asks who does your tailoring. Your options to reply are:

 

1. Millie Hastien in Balmorra

2. Niel Ramoran in Ald-ruhn.

3. I strip my clothes from the corpses of enemies I kill.

 

:biggrin:

 

lol Is that the one where when you go into her shop, she asks you to take something to another trader, he gives you something to take back to her, ghosts start attacking you while you are traveling back to her shop, and later she gets kidnapped so we had to save her? :unsure:

I think I have that one on my backed up mods in a restore storage USB harddrive.

[Deleted54170User]

Someone has killed Crazy Wolfgang, his guard, and his Brahmin pack animal. Oh, Know! What ever you do, If you are being a God player that is, Don't pick their bodies because you will get a BAD Car Ma if you do.

 

Raised the dead, and the old man Roe will tell you they don't exist anymore. FUNNY I just traded with Wolfgang, he had a fresh new short stock of supplies, his guard looked healthy, and his pack Brahmin did not seem to mind being reborn at all either. Nudge, nudge, Wink, Wink! I am not going to setessential after resurrecting them, though as that might give Uncle Roe some problems I had not thought of.

[Deleted54170User]

I wrote this in a blog I am working on on this day Wednesday, September 16, 2009. Lawyers make us do these things to protect our intellectual property.

 

Read on and see what you think. As it sort of what I imagine the languages we think are learned by everyone in life should be taken with a grain of salt. After 200 years of scrapping by I imagine the people in places like Megaton and Rivet city might have had a bit different languages.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________

 

Thoughts are taught us to be ar tinkin. Poetry is for food ais et our thoughts to spill on paper.

 

 

In my thinking. I do not write these words as a fact, so they are just in my opinion a possibility of what truth there is in them things we call our thoughts.

 

Poem's are the common unschooled vagabonds letters or old home school children's voice's, as they mock their elder's in their youth until when they live on the street trying to make ends meet.

 

Those unkempt scribes thought of as ancient poets picked up a pen, scribbled wildly, trying to tell others about what they saw, how it made them feel, and added to their works all the while hoping someone might find their letters amusing.

 

Amusing enough to put a pot of stew in front of them so they would continue to write.

 

Some faired better then others and became letter writers and charged common folk who could not even begin to understand a scribble single letter. They would pay a small fee to have the lower city scribe put words on a paper to send it by deliver wagon or a friend going home on leave or because they were injured and headed back. The scribes of old who did not manage these posted letters to the others loved ones starved until they could find work. Some determined to write until they died of hunger rather then lift a finger to pluck a chicken or shovel dirt, coal, or bilge to take out of town to the dumps.

 

Often times these marvels called letters were delivered to a parent or a girl friend from the soldier stationed in another country. And even then the parent, or girlfriend may have had shell a out a few coins to find someone to read it to them.

 

Hence the desire for a Doctor in the family. Everyone was smart and educated from life, but not everyone could read and write.

 

Those who survived from day to day were smart from the poor uneducated side of the villages and knew anyone who could read and write. Any who may also be able to provide other services that books told of.

 

The Swine woman spake to the educated man, "Jist rad t! n' dao whart t sais ta saif ta sow. ith wards o u ca rad tat is?"

 

All written works are poetic if they talk of the scenes, share the vision of the people at their toils, and cast the world in a light which can be pictured.

 

The average author's wrote play's and graced the world with sonnets, ballad's, and even medicinal recipe's for the cure for what ails us. While they were doctors of letters they were often mistaken for medical practitioners on purpose and paid a high price if they could not perform the surgeon's tasks. Both hands broken can nary write a word, and both doctors of letters were wise not to let commoners know who they were if they could not carry out duties of the masses in the lower drainage of the city.

 

The rest of the high schooling types sought to learn all that was written, because of the astonishing ability to be able to read. They lived for the words and lingered amongst shelves of high smelling rotting pig skin, cow hide, papyrus scrolls, and papers bound in many different ways. Some pages of which were real human flesh which had been used to present a picture of life known as a tattoo. Leaflets of leather bound flesh with the artists’ inked skin were pages and were bound with strands of leather and kept on the lowest shelves where flesh stayed cool and dry at the same time. Hence they who dwelled most of their day in the piled high book shelve were called, "Book Maggots” And later became known by the higher thinking crowd as, “Book worms". Today we call them, “Librarian's”.

 

No one of us simple schooled folk knows the exact time when authors of spoken words began to match symbols to sounds and write them down in sensible ways. The fact that there was anyone who thought to create a cryptic alphabet is amazing to me.

 

It must have been a grand undertaking when those people began to find the grunts which were the languages sounds back then found a match for them in a few symbols. I conclude it was a trial of survival in a new way.

 

Not just one language was created to keep records of vendors sales, recipes for food to medicine, and speak of how one admired the King or Emperor, God, etc. or Queen, Empress, or Goddess, and so on. One thing for sure I find strengthens my words is, that Food is only number two to drink and drink is water to the famous whiskeys we all cast over the gums and down our throats. We still talk with food in our mouths, but not all of us talk with abundant amounts spewing out when we do. Civilization has changes us so, so most of us chew and swallow as much as we can before we waste any of the air we breath on words.

 

All the scum I wash off my mind each day to aid my hygiene reaches out and someone fluent in arranging words on the street to a one of so expert as to be known because they words drawn a picture in our minds as the poet reads them to the simple minds of their leaders whose blunt clubs and sharp sword staid our stomachs from fears and gurgles of hunger were met with food also. One who has lives on campus of the University who is so capable a writer spending all his life in readings, writing copies of old books to save their words, and the translations to other languages to share with other libraries is a god send in the university. Those youth who had aspired to such hieghts, also who writes words and thrills the minds of some enough to start fires in women's knickers fashions himself a champion of fantasy.

 

If only his words could magically cause enough of a breeze from his lips to lift the skirts he might have success at entering where hard leaned ones who, know no understanding of ink squiggles or a quills fly squats marks, do not fear so much is needed to allow them to tread there. The woman of the poet readers choice says when her man shows up.

 

“T man' as bean farting wind from his lips all since you left here.

“Har my satster, da tat kit bun or ears?

“T was I afeared nao? nah. eh! hiss bungalow was knotted up so tiet I ca d a wak hom a for eh ca d a goat ehs willy loose.”

 

Ar ar argh! toched tes yunge edu 's r. shill I watch em? Or shill we be goin hom?

 

Hom t is!