- Blog. I haven't spoken to you in a while. I have, instead, been posting up pictures or stories or silly videos. And I'm going to continue doing so, cos it's fun. Spring Heeled Jack is now on hold, and might not be go for my project next year. I came to the conclusion when I tried to render a relatively-completed scene, with two light sources but no difficult texturing that it took about ten minutes for a single frame to finish. I probably can't afford all that time. That and I don't know enough about anything to get to the level of quality it should be. Either way, it's on hiatus and I'm working on something more Pixar-esque without any dialgoue. In more positive news, the writing for my still untitled story is going well, midway through my third chapter. I do need to pick up the pace though if I wanna finish by the end of the year, with enough time to proof read and edit anything I have to. More and more things are piling up for me to do, I'm starting to miss not doing anything. I'm going to leave you with another extract from the story, this time introducing some of the characters which will kick into gear the main action of the story: -------------- The team consisted of three members. They had set out from their city a week ago, as soon as word of the bombings had reached them. There would have been no sense in going out in the world if the plan hadn’t worked out. They didn’t have a great deal of ways of communicating, but recently the government had managed to, as they said, “hitch a lift” on a few satellites, allowing them to communicate long distance. Radio waves only worked so far it seemed. They had set off in a black GMC van which was much too big for only three people. They didn’t have any equipment, or at least not nearly enough to fill a GMC truck with, but they felt it fit better than a car. Besides, there was more room in here in case they needed to bring Richard or anyone else back. They drove on for hours, which led to days, switching driving duties every so often and passing country borders all the time. No one stopped them, or asked them for ID. Even if they saw the van they didn’t give it a second thought. It was there, then gone a second later. If asked, they probably couldn’t even recall a single number on the registration. They stopped for food, but nobody even noticed them take anything. Nonetheless, when they had to, they parked where they would not be seen, and slept in the van. So far, they hadn’t done anything which would cause them to be seen, or noticed, and things were better that way. They had heard of what had happened to Kall and Salli. Guedal had been captured by the police, fair and square. Hopefully if he kept his head down they might forget about him and he could escape. But Kall and Salli. The team had been informed that there was someone after them, someone who knew they were there. Whoever it was knew the team, and Kall, Salli and Guedal, and were a threat. They’d probably try anything to keep things the way they were. They sometimes regretted that they hadn’t taken a vehicle with more windows. They didn’t just pass through towns, villages and countries, but through cultures, customs and folklore. Through Eastern Europe, where the roads got thin, small and sometimes even took them through forests, they would see things they had never before. As they crossed the Kranja forest, they saw, between the thick-set trees, an old rickety cottage standing on enormous chicken legs, swaying back and forth. As they drove deeper into the woodland, the driver pointed out a tall, thin man running alongside the van, a trail of vines flowing behind him, accompanied by silver wolves. Before they could get another look at him, he vanished into the trees. When conversation began to lull in the van, someone would always recap the mission briefing as if they would, somehow forget all about it and think they were just on the way to Big Ben for the week. It was pretty straightforward. No one said it though, no one even thought it. After all, the last thing you want to do, just before something as important as this, is say “what can go wrong?” because it seems there’s always someone with an answer to it. When they got to Brittany things got a little more complicated. It seemed getting on a ferry with a massive GMC van wasn’t going to be as easy as the rest of the trip. It took them almost a day to find a ferry they could get on without being spotted. They had taken the only night ferry, which left at nine. It was by far the emptiest ferry, with only four or five travellers aboard. They spent the trip on the deck, admiring the sea and the breeze, and the little bit of freedom they had before they’d have to be stuck in the van again. Once in England, though, it was a short trip from the small fishing town of Dover to the massive buzzing metropolis of London. The roads were relatively decent, too, they found, compared to most of what they had been driving on this whole time. But eventually, a whole week after having received the initial report, they arrived in London. It was the early hours of the morning when they made it to the heart of the city and had seen the city transform from the pulsing beast illuminated by blue and orange at night to the somewhat quieter, brighter place it became in the day. --------