I do not want to play RPG!!! I actually liked the PUBG Mobile approach where the crate had a green light for a bit of time after killing the enemy, but went away after you looted them or after a few minutes. Instead of that changing the loot box colour will solve that situation. And if you make an option to change loot box colour for players, I think all people would be happy. Some of them keep it original some of them make it cyan or pink so they can recognise easily.
Archived This topic is now archived and is closed to further replies. Kingston Pen? This park takes a lot of hits. His face was dark under the hat brim. The dead want this tombstone moved and dissolved, he said. This is not what I would choose to do with my evening. Well, good luck to you, she told him. I mean, I can see your point. Stay warm now. She tugged some slack into the hose and began a slide-step over to the far boards, skirting the freshly soaked places.
And I can tell, he called out to her back, if someone is a good person! I look at them and I know their life!
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She met his intent, eyeless stare. She bore no guilt. Third night of flooding, 2 a. Plenty of work in the corners and along the boards, where the ice always grew rucked and pebbled. The middle of the shinny rink was still sunken and would take another thousand litres from the hose. But both rinks would be ready by morning. If this were one of her horror novels, he would be a ghost risen out of the earth of the old graveyard. Maybe he was getting frustrated, too. Or scared of failure. Did crazy men fear failure the way the sane ones did?
Thinking of Gavin now. All his short-lived ventures.
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His departure had been a relief in some ways — making a driven man feel important was an unfinishable job — but she missed him, too. Nights she did. For some moments she dwelt on missing Gavin in the nights. Then she looked up: hoarse, drunken shouting. Three kids, it looked like, crossing Balaclava Street, coming up the path. They had the Grim Reaper look — slumpy, faceless, in layers of dark baggy hooded sweatshirts. One of them had a biker jacket over his sweatshirt. Sure enough, they came to a slouching halt on the path not far behind the man, who was facing away from them, apparently unaware.
One of them, tall and skinny, was holding something like a crowbar. She shuffled out from behind the boards and stood in the open between the rinks, letting the hose run onto the patch connecting them, keeping an eye on developments. The taunts began — too slurred and soft, at first, to get the words. Maybe he was too deep inside his meditation, or felt he was on the verge of success.
The kid in the biker jacket was edging up. Hey, man. He shoved the man in the back, not hard, and the man did turn slowly, pivoting from the waist up. The hooded faces turned to her in cartoon unison.
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In some circumstances it would have been funny. The man swivelled back into his posture. The kid in the biker jacket started right toward her, hands in his jacket pockets. In her stomach a downrush of fear. The others followed him with slack, messy movements — they would have trouble when they reached the ice. She turned to face them as they came on through the half-light between the lampposts. She gave the control ring on the hose a half turn to reduce the flow and let the stream pool outward on the ice in front of her.
The hose head was a half-foot of steel tapered to a flanged hole an inch and a half in diameter. Gavin had been a connoisseur of confrontations and often gave his views on the best way to manage them. You let your opponent work himself into a state and talk away his wind. You stay calm and quiet and hold his stare. The sidekicks laughed, a crude, sloppy sound. At a distance the baggy hooded shirts had made them look slighter, younger.
They were in their twenties. Still coming forward, the leader brought his hands out of his pockets and drew back his hood, slowly, with a sort of wry formality. He was smiling, lips closed. For a moment his face took up all her view. He was shockingly handsome. A twitch of attraction plunged downward with another spasm of fear, down into her womb, twin shocks, fused and unanimous in effect. It was a cruel face, beautiful. Strong brows, high-planed cheekbones, hooded grey eyes, plump lips inside a ring of stubble. The dark hair was brush cut, the skull knobbed as if muscled.
She kept waving the hose slowly in front of her. The three stopped at the edge of the wet ice, just short of where the stream of water swept back and forth. Beads of spray sequined their trainers and lower pant legs. He looked up at her. After a moment his smooth brow crimped slightly, his eyes welled wider. He said nothing.
It was the third one who said, Is this, like, a woman? He was short and concave, with a pocked face, and he seemed the drunkest or most stoned of the three. She took a hopeful glance at the crazy man. She should retreat to the hut, call the police.
Something stopped her. At least out here there was the hose and the wet ice between her and them. Check it and see, Zach, said the leader. Zach, the short one, tried sliding onto the surface beyond the pooling water.
His lead foot drove through crusted slush. He started to topple forward, waved his arms, slammed backward onto his elbows and ass. You could hear his bones on impact. He rolled over onto all fours — hands and knees — and stayed like that, head drooped. His face was pale. He seemed ready to pull out a scalp as proof.
Walt Unger, a small, shyly talkative chain-smoker, would be flooding the rink in Rideau Heights. Zach was back on his feet, rubbing his wet elbows with the opposite hands — a hurt little boy gesture. His wince was angry, yet he glanced timidly at the ice as if it were alive and likely to buck him off his feet if he moved. Then she felt his cold, dire eyes pushing deeper into her. You think any of us bring money out here for a graveyard shift? You know what? Zach let a single laugh ride the silence. Not the A-word, not the B-word, not the C-word. Fucker, loser, asshole, shithead — that whole repertoire could get you into big trouble, no question, but goof was the worst.
Maybe because it felt so silly. So dismissive. A fucker, after all, might fuck you, or fuck you up, or fuck you over. A goof was just pathetic. Maybe handsome here had done time.
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He knew how to use the word. But the use of the word bothered, enraged her, for another reason altogether and now she jerked the control ring fully open and turned the hose on him — narrowing the mouth with her gloved thumb so it sprayed even harder. Bitch she would have preferred. A bitch at least was female. Fat bitch, even. The 3. We have updated our Forum Rules. Mushwin Member Posts: 2, August 17 in General Discussions.
Visible and Invisible/"And the Dead Spake -"
August Venoxxie Member Posts: So how is it supposed to be more visible? Just curious how a key could be more noticed Accorn Member Posts: August 17 edited August Judgement Member Posts: I think the key model could do with an update entirely. DudeDelicious Member Posts: 3, Angelicus23 Member Posts: I have no problem with keys they are pretty visible for me with the survivors arm position.
NoShinyPony Member Posts: 3, Keys should be a bit bigger and shiny, then there shouldn't be a problem. Chatkovski Member Posts: I rather agree with the proposal to slightly enlarge the key and make it slightly shiny. As for hiding items altogether? No, that would be horrendous for balance. LCGaster Member Posts: 2, YaiPa Member Posts: FruityMemes Member Posts: PrincessPoop Member Posts: