View attachment 219239
Costello stands by the window of his tower, his youngest child in his embrace, surveying all around him. Gazing upon all that he has built and the never ending enemies at the gate.
His grip tightens on his child, tight but gentle. He holds it close to his chest, close to his heart, as the enemies gather and scramble at the walls. Never ending.
Shaun covers the canvas with paint, stabs and slashes at it with his brush, his brow tight and furrowed with lines and wrinkles. The heathens do not appreciate the art, the creation or the vision. All they want is to take and never give, to claw away as much as they can for free. Surrounded by these imbeciles the rage courses through him, fuels him, in every waking hour and in his dreams.
The staff, the loyal, they work tirelessly, they battle the enemies, the heathens, the thieves. Day and night it rages endlessly, from the day GBAtemp was created until the day the internet ends. Nobody thanks them, nobody acknowledges the sacrifices, for years they have resisted. They are strong thankfully, and when the day breaks they are always victorious, and nobody appreciates what they do.
They are fighting now, as we speak.
I sit alone, remembering how hard and thankless my time was here. When I led the charge every night until daybreak and fought along my brothers and my sisters.
I believed my time was done, that I had served, that I had passed on the burden to others and never wanted it back.
At least I thought I never wanted it back. Or to be more honest, I lie to myself to try and convince myself that I do not.
But the Gods of war are calling to me again.....
Costello stands by the window of his tower, his youngest child in his embrace, surveying all around him. Gazing upon all that he has built and the never ending enemies at the gate.
His grip tightens on his child, tight but gentle. He holds it close to his chest, close to his heart, as the enemies gather and scramble at the walls. Never ending.
Shaun covers the canvas with paint, stabs and slashes at it with his brush, his brow tight and furrowed with lines and wrinkles. The heathens do not appreciate the art, the creation or the vision. All they want is to take and never give, to claw away as much as they can for free. Surrounded by these imbeciles the rage courses through him, fuels him, in every waking hour and in his dreams.
The staff, the loyal, they work tirelessly, they battle the enemies, the heathens, the thieves. Day and night it rages endlessly, from the day GBAtemp was created until the day the internet ends. Nobody thanks them, nobody acknowledges the sacrifices, for years they have resisted. They are strong thankfully, and when the day breaks they are always victorious, and nobody appreciates what they do.
They are fighting now, as we speak.
I sit alone, remembering how hard and thankless my time was here. When I led the charge every night until daybreak and fought along my brothers and my sisters.
I believed my time was done, that I had served, that I had passed on the burden to others and never wanted it back.
At least I thought I never wanted it back. Or to be more honest, I lie to myself to try and convince myself that I do not.
But the Gods of war are calling to me again.....
