November goes on. The cavalcade of belles, brutes and barons that is Videogaming continues its push through the midnight forest. Spiderwebs wrap the axles of the gala coaches in which the optimates of Ubisoft, Microsoft and EA drink from lavender flutes, turning their bloodshot eyes from the QA staff powering their barrows through the ruck. The faces of the common developers are a moth-eaten ribbon of quiet striving and terrible hope. The guards form a torchlit embroidery. Every so often, a torch goes out, and the wych elms generate new fruits. The stones in the road cant against our strides. The skulls of live service games burst beneath our wheels, and the analysts in the pageant wagons moan that the future lies behind us now.
Then, the woods withdraw and we emerge among flowering graves and fallen buttresses – the remnants of a church. The wagons circle and cooking fires spring up in the transepts, as our scouts contemplate the way forward. Five onward roads fan out from a rotten signpost, each named for a day of the week. Some assuredly lead to disaster. The scouts converse in hisses and, failing to agree, turn to you for instructions. Which day do we choose? Which route is safe?
The skies above this path appear to drip ambrosia, the food of the gods, and yet the splashed soil beneath revolts with fungus. The birds creasing the frail sunlight are drill-tipped and the clouds appear very changeable. Our wayfinders murmur of a distant closed city and an imprisoned queen.
Even as we study this road, our oldest scout – a one-eyed woman in furs with a staff twice her height – is possessed by the spirits of prog rockers, roused from the neglected graveyard. She regresses to a state of infancy, capable only of chanting “all in all, you’re just another block in the wall.”
A hard, bare road, and yet the banks are riddled with burrows (pictured) that appear surprisingly welcoming, with postage stamp doormats and tinklesome chimneys. The ghosts of Pink Floyd abandon your moon-touched scout. Regaining her senses, she talks cryptically of a million layers beneath where swords fly and time stands still.
This road is heavily torn and depleted by curious wheelmarks that speak of some great contest, beyond the ken of our wagoneers. Their chevronned textures overlap to form the impression – or is it more than fancy? – of wide eyes and chattering mouths.
Goblin winds tussle for dominion of this road, but we should perhaps be more worried about the muzzle glints and skullfaces that populate the bushes. Sensing your consternation, the scouts propose that we break for tea.
Does this monstrous forest have an outside? There are rumours up and down the train that this is the final November, that the woods are expanding faster than we can travel through them, that the Maw’s latest eruption will be endless. Still, keep going. Think no further than the next footfall and the comrades at your elbow. Also, pls share any images, videos or literature you may know of that concern spooky forests. I am reaching the end of my supply of synonyms for “root”.
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Author: 360 Technology Group
.jpg?width=690&quality=85&format=jpg&auto=webp&ssl=1 "This week in PC games: Demonschool and Moonlighter 2 head a procession of sheep dogs, shmups and sliding heroes")
