The Sunday Papers:
Sundays are for nursing a headache. There, there, poor brain. It’ll pass. You just sit there in a quiet dark room. The rest of us will go get some breakfast. And perhaps something to read.
Sundays are for nursing a headache. There, there, poor brain. It’ll pass. You just sit there in a quiet dark room. The rest of us will go get some breakfast. And perhaps something to read.
- Richard’s Skyrim diary is a thing to behold: “Even without eyes, Triss manages to follow along for a while, only to vanish early and never re-appear. So, pretty much like The Witcher 2 then. Alone, I find myself wandering through the snowy forests towards Helgen, and quickly discovering that my gear is nowhere near warm enough for even these climes. Before long, there’s snow all over me, and things only get worse when night falls. The temperature drops along with it, and in this Skyrim, night is pitch black. Then the messages start appearing. Messages like “A Forsworn is hunting you.” Gulp.”
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