I was just on the community page and saw a release date announcement for April 24th but when I got done dancing around and went back it was gone! Anyone else see this??
I've heard some pretty "out there" ideas for the 5th class, but boy does this take the cake! :mage:
Yeah because I'm sure that they took the time to draw it in, put it on random drops, and animations just so the barb could pick it up and shoot at beer bottles; you're right, im sure the 5th class will be a Druid/basketball player or something.
I poured so much scorn, so much insincerity, dredged up from the depths of animus pooling in the darkest crevasses of my soul, into this sarcastic attack of a post. Yet, you took it at face value, you stared the very face of passive-aggression in the eye and accept the hate filled words into your bosom as a truth, the very picture of the blessed christ-like fool. In one motion I applaud your rare messianic sincerity and weep for a world that could breed such simplicity, whether these tears are mournful or celebratory I will let your unworldly soul divine. :sorcerer:
Greetings omniscient one, it is I who in such simplicity weep at a world of men, men who can pour scorn and insincerity to a humble, and innocent bystander. To be underneath such a messiah as yourself, and to be ridiculed is an honor, As I can only look at it with great humor and project my sarcasm upon him for it only amuses myself with great success. But alas, what eludes my simple mind, is that after 20 minutes of "KQKYLE" in this thread, this is all he produced with his conceited brain.
your post has nowhere near enough wizards to be taken seriosusly
I've heard some pretty "out there" ideas for the 5th class, but boy does this take the cake! :mage:
Yeah because I'm sure that they took the time to draw it in, put it on random drops, and animations just so the barb could pick it up and shoot at beer bottles; you're right, im sure the 5th class will be a Druid/basketball player or something.
I poured so much scorn, so much insincerity, dredged up from the depths of animus pooling in the darkest crevasses of my soul, into this sarcastic attack of a post. Yet, you took it at face value, you stared the very face of passive-aggression in the eye and accept the hate filled words into your bosom as a truth, the very picture of the blessed christ-like fool. In one motion I applaud your rare messianic sincerity and weep for a world that could breed such simplicity, whether these tears are mournful or celebratory I will let your unworldly soul divine. :sorcerer:
'Ello there, I'm the cousin. I really like this idea for a resource but I think holding down the button might be a bit restrictive considering how the left mouse button is typically used for movement. A better yet similar system I think to crib from would the the 0%-100% charge meter from Secret of Mana (excluding the part where you hold a button down to charge up past 100% for a special attack of course since that would directly contradict what I just said).
Essentially each special attack would have something like 6 stages of power (0% 20% 40% 60% 80% 100%) allowing each ability to be variably used as a quick spamming move, a potent game changer, or something in between. A good regen rate I feel would be about 20%/sec with the bar maxing out at 100% from 0% only taking 5 seconds, with players ideally staying in the 20%-60% range. This would allow players to be rewarded for the kiting and maneuvering that ranged classes typically employ with larger 80%-100% forms of their attacks and conversely being punished for panicking and spamming weaker 0%-20% attacks since with the proper use of non-resource costing abilities (which would be primarily CC and evasion) a true 5TH CLASS HERE would never lose their FOCUS (the name for the resource I have come up with this very second).
I think with some adjustments to regen rate stuff and what exact abilities they'd need to be off the resource this could be a very fun and fitting mechanic for Diablo 3. Thank you for listenignt o my story the end, KQKyle grade 3. :goes back to desk to drink some fuckin apple juice:
Haha jeez Shiramune, do you work for a game developer or some art company like Massive Black or something? Those entries look all kinds of professional.
The steps were coated with dust, illuminated by a simple iron lantern, fireless yet burning bright. It was held aloft by a cloaked man, each of his steps downward sending a minuscule avalanche into the abyss below. His other hand couldn't help but be fixed on the center column of the immense spiral stairs, ready to scramble for hold if he were to lose his footing, unlikely as it was considering the scale these steps were built for. Wide, thick slabs seemingly carved out of the column itself, as though the entire structure had once been a seamless pillar of stone, sculpted by a people no less ancient or brutal than the rock itself. Stone reshaped to have purpose, to connect these people from the frozen peaks of their mountains to the hidden places under the earth that they would make their burial grounds.
He glanced towards the carvings that marred the face of the column, colored by the glowing wisps crowding the lantern with their increasingly frantic movements. Their reaction was something he had become used to, the runes found in the north always excited them. He entertained the thought that they understood the dead language, recognized words and phrases they had known, comforting them with memories. It was remarkable that the wisps had materialized at all, neither as necromantic perversions nor the vessels of demons, but as actual pure remnants of souls. The thought that they retained their personalities, much less their memories, was absurd, yet in spite of this he could not help but empathize with them, humanize them, if only to soften the burden he had placed upon himself. The glow intensified, glancing towards the rune they had reacted to he saw that it was the mark he had come to recognize as the sign that he was near the bottom. Maybe this would be the one, this crypt the one deep enough to escape the destruction that ravaged the land above. The wisps flew around each other like flies trying to escape a jar. He couldn?t help but think that they were excited too.
During his travels he found that he was not the only one who had made a bond with these spirits. His connection with them let him sense their presence, their despair radiated out from whatever vessels their guardians had chosen for them, like heat from a raging forge. Most unsettling were those who apparently used their own bodies to contain them, turning their very flesh into one of those forges, tempering the cries of the wisps into a weapon. Unleashing the torment unto their enemies as waves of fury, allowing the spirits to take command of their bodies, bolstering it with inhuman strength, the wisps and their host used each other as tools, caught in an unending battle for dominance.
The sudden drop was something he had come to expect, the first time he delved one of these crypts he had almost broken his legs, it was the water that took him by surprise. Though the water only reached up to his knees the roll he had fell into completely submerged him, soaking past his chain and through the leathers underneath. He held aloft his lantern once again and followied the pale colors as they danced across the surface of the dark water he saw that fog now covered it, originating from an alcove which the wisps were guiding him straight towards.
As he entered the chamber he was stunned by the cold that filled it, the sarcophagi lining the walls shimmering with a coat of ice, brightened not just by the ghost light emanating from his lantern but also by the mummified corpse that sat upon a throne opposite of the entrance. Pale light shone from the withered eye sockets reflecting off of the golden, gemmed adornments it wore. Mist flowed from the gaping mouth of the dead king, cut into thin tendrils by the stitches that had once bound it shut. One of these tendrils rose now, lazily floating up towards the lantern and licked across the glass that separated it from the lights within. This was all the sign he needed, he lifted his other hand to the clasp that held the lantern shut and freed it.
The second the first wisp touched the tendril he knew something was wrong. One presence he had felt among the spirits vanished, dissolving in pain and terror, consumed by the dead king. He would not do this to them. His arm yanked back but the mist was quicker, it raced up and around this forearm and gripped, the unnatural strength shattering both the lantern and his bones. He fell to his knees, already numbed by the slushed icy water, bringing him eye level to the wisps that had gathered in front of him, free of the lantern. Behind them the other tendrils began snaking their way towards them, the light in the king's eye sockets burning with intensity. There was no time to hesitate over what this would do to his soul or his own will. He consented.
The numbness left him, the pain left him, he stood up, the strength of forgotten warriors filling his body. His aura burnt away the tendril that gripped him, sending the others recoiling back into the corpse of the king. He unsheathed his sword and in one motion drove it into the mummified skull, sending papery skin and hair all around him. The mist surrounded him then, not in attack but in desperation, he heard the pleas but they were nothing like those of his wisps, they lamented the passing of a man, a single selfish king while his lamented the passing of a culture. He simply turned around and left the cavern, to climb back up to the sunlight and back to the search for a way to bring peace to the souls he guarded, leaving the king alone to find his own rest, alone, with the dark.
Sweat soaked the lining of Waheed's helm, the temptation to tear away the straps holding the burnished metal to his pate was almost too much to bare. To do so however would be suicide, the caravan was under siege.
For almost a week now the caravan he was leading to Caldeum had been beset by raiders from one of the desert tribes that rejected the trade city's claim over their desert. Waheed smiled, his first years under the employ of the old mercenary master Griez were spent purging the wastes surrounding his birthplace, the desert jewel Lut Gholein. The smile darkened, just as Lut Gholein was colored glass compared to the magnificence of Caldeum, the tribesmen he faced as a youth seemed to be nothing in comparison to the raiders that were picking them apart on the last stretch of their journey.
The first days were massacres, he quickly learned that any shortage of armor, any lack of leather or chain to cover their flesh was an invitation to be punished with an arrow coated with whatever venom these barbarians were able to coax from the native wildlife of this damned desert. Riders were only sent out to investigate the first day, they learned a hard lesson when only a few found their way out of the sandstorm that rose up around them. They told of how their horses crippled themselves stumbling over inexplicably hollow dunes and spans of glass, leaving them helpless to the volley of arrows. A lad barely into manhood was left hysterical, raving of a shadow gliding in the storm, snatching men off their horses never to be seen again. Little mind was paid to the boy's tale until the guards set out at night started vanishing, no tracks in any direction, no sign they had been there at all besides a fading scream.
Relief, Waheed knew, was soon to come, whether it was from the bar of the first tavern past Caldeum's gates or if he found it laying in the sands, his final resting place drinking down his blood. In all his years, from his childhood hunting scorpions outside the city walls to the decades spent guarding merchants and nobles on their travels, he never thought he would come to fear the dunes. Safety. Death. As long as the nightmare would end. Relief.
His smiled returned as he saw a shape rise up from the top of the dune to their right. A sole figure, the sun casting its shadow nearly to his feet. It couldn't be one of the raiders, Waheed reasoned, to show yourself as plainly, as mockingly as this to even the greenest caravan guard would be foolish. With a curse he blinked away the sweat that had dripped into his eyes, the next he saw the figure was gone, enveloped by a wall of sand cascading towards them, at its head a falcon larger than he would have ever thought possible.
Horses screamed, nearly obscuring the sound of arrows slamming into them. He tried to shout a command but it was no use, daring to open his mouth robbed his throat of what little moisture was left, choking him on the dust that surrounded them. More screams, human screams and the smell of smoke. The wagons were being set aflame. A nobleman managed to pry himself free of the pyre, his flailing tangling him in his own burning silks only to be engulfed in shadow, it was gone then, a trail of feathers and smoke in its wake. The boy, on his knees several paces ahead of Waheed, was wailing in terror as he watched the falcon meld back into the walls of shifting sand around them. Before he could call out to him he was gone, the sand had risen up and swallowed him whole and in his place stood the figure from the dune. It seemed to be made from the sand itself, from the tan cloth bound to its frame by innumerable leather bindings to the actual sand covering it, it was no wonder they had never found them. Most striking of all was the armor encasing its left forearm, plate steel that looked as though it had been all but torn apart by some beast. Waheed knew this was his only chance, he gripped the halberd that had served him well in more battles than he'd care to remember, swallowed the little moisture that had returned to his throat and charged. Even when the figure turned around well before he expected it to notice him he kept his composure. Even when the figure effortlessly parried the slash he had put all of his strength in, he kept his composure. Even when the figure slipped a knife though a part in his armor he had thought was safe, the poison instantly assailing his senses, he kept his composure. It was the shadow that fell upon them, the talons that gripped the figure by its left arm and lifted it away that made Waheed know despair. The first arrow took his grip from him, the second and third took his knees, the last, his breath.
The riders from the city found nothing but burnt wreckage and corpses. Foreigners, attracted to Caldeum by the promise of work and safety whispered to each other of demons and the return of the beings they called the Prime Evils, noting the brutality of the attack and the unusual lack of blood. The native born however recognized this all too well, a warrior of the Garuda tribe, a Falconer. When asked about the state of the corpses the reply was a saying common among the desert-born of Caldeum, 'The desert drinks deep.'
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http://i.imgur.com/B4cDr.jpg oooooh snap from the thread on the official forums!
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like every class can be a female class nukmbnuts
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I poured so much scorn, so much insincerity, dredged up from the depths of animus pooling in the darkest crevasses of my soul, into this sarcastic attack of a post. Yet, you took it at face value, you stared the very face of passive-aggression in the eye and accept the hate filled words into your bosom as a truth, the very picture of the blessed christ-like fool. In one motion I applaud your rare messianic sincerity and weep for a world that could breed such simplicity, whether these tears are mournful or celebratory I will let your unworldly soul divine. :sorcerer:
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Essentially each special attack would have something like 6 stages of power (0% 20% 40% 60% 80% 100%) allowing each ability to be variably used as a quick spamming move, a potent game changer, or something in between. A good regen rate I feel would be about 20%/sec with the bar maxing out at 100% from 0% only taking 5 seconds, with players ideally staying in the 20%-60% range. This would allow players to be rewarded for the kiting and maneuvering that ranged classes typically employ with larger 80%-100% forms of their attacks and conversely being punished for panicking and spamming weaker 0%-20% attacks since with the proper use of non-resource costing abilities (which would be primarily CC and evasion) a true 5TH CLASS HERE would never lose their FOCUS (the name for the resource I have come up with this very second).
I think with some adjustments to regen rate stuff and what exact abilities they'd need to be off the resource this could be a very fun and fitting mechanic for Diablo 3. Thank you for listenignt o my story the end, KQKyle grade 3. :goes back to desk to drink some fuckin apple juice:
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The steps were coated with dust, illuminated by a simple iron lantern, fireless yet burning bright. It was held aloft by a cloaked man, each of his steps downward sending a minuscule avalanche into the abyss below. His other hand couldn't help but be fixed on the center column of the immense spiral stairs, ready to scramble for hold if he were to lose his footing, unlikely as it was considering the scale these steps were built for. Wide, thick slabs seemingly carved out of the column itself, as though the entire structure had once been a seamless pillar of stone, sculpted by a people no less ancient or brutal than the rock itself. Stone reshaped to have purpose, to connect these people from the frozen peaks of their mountains to the hidden places under the earth that they would make their burial grounds.
He glanced towards the carvings that marred the face of the column, colored by the glowing wisps crowding the lantern with their increasingly frantic movements. Their reaction was something he had become used to, the runes found in the north always excited them. He entertained the thought that they understood the dead language, recognized words and phrases they had known, comforting them with memories. It was remarkable that the wisps had materialized at all, neither as necromantic perversions nor the vessels of demons, but as actual pure remnants of souls. The thought that they retained their personalities, much less their memories, was absurd, yet in spite of this he could not help but empathize with them, humanize them, if only to soften the burden he had placed upon himself. The glow intensified, glancing towards the rune they had reacted to he saw that it was the mark he had come to recognize as the sign that he was near the bottom. Maybe this would be the one, this crypt the one deep enough to escape the destruction that ravaged the land above. The wisps flew around each other like flies trying to escape a jar. He couldn?t help but think that they were excited too.
During his travels he found that he was not the only one who had made a bond with these spirits. His connection with them let him sense their presence, their despair radiated out from whatever vessels their guardians had chosen for them, like heat from a raging forge. Most unsettling were those who apparently used their own bodies to contain them, turning their very flesh into one of those forges, tempering the cries of the wisps into a weapon. Unleashing the torment unto their enemies as waves of fury, allowing the spirits to take command of their bodies, bolstering it with inhuman strength, the wisps and their host used each other as tools, caught in an unending battle for dominance.
The sudden drop was something he had come to expect, the first time he delved one of these crypts he had almost broken his legs, it was the water that took him by surprise. Though the water only reached up to his knees the roll he had fell into completely submerged him, soaking past his chain and through the leathers underneath. He held aloft his lantern once again and followied the pale colors as they danced across the surface of the dark water he saw that fog now covered it, originating from an alcove which the wisps were guiding him straight towards.
As he entered the chamber he was stunned by the cold that filled it, the sarcophagi lining the walls shimmering with a coat of ice, brightened not just by the ghost light emanating from his lantern but also by the mummified corpse that sat upon a throne opposite of the entrance. Pale light shone from the withered eye sockets reflecting off of the golden, gemmed adornments it wore. Mist flowed from the gaping mouth of the dead king, cut into thin tendrils by the stitches that had once bound it shut. One of these tendrils rose now, lazily floating up towards the lantern and licked across the glass that separated it from the lights within. This was all the sign he needed, he lifted his other hand to the clasp that held the lantern shut and freed it.
The second the first wisp touched the tendril he knew something was wrong. One presence he had felt among the spirits vanished, dissolving in pain and terror, consumed by the dead king. He would not do this to them. His arm yanked back but the mist was quicker, it raced up and around this forearm and gripped, the unnatural strength shattering both the lantern and his bones. He fell to his knees, already numbed by the slushed icy water, bringing him eye level to the wisps that had gathered in front of him, free of the lantern. Behind them the other tendrils began snaking their way towards them, the light in the king's eye sockets burning with intensity. There was no time to hesitate over what this would do to his soul or his own will. He consented.
The numbness left him, the pain left him, he stood up, the strength of forgotten warriors filling his body. His aura burnt away the tendril that gripped him, sending the others recoiling back into the corpse of the king. He unsheathed his sword and in one motion drove it into the mummified skull, sending papery skin and hair all around him. The mist surrounded him then, not in attack but in desperation, he heard the pleas but they were nothing like those of his wisps, they lamented the passing of a man, a single selfish king while his lamented the passing of a culture. He simply turned around and left the cavern, to climb back up to the sunlight and back to the search for a way to bring peace to the souls he guarded, leaving the king alone to find his own rest, alone, with the dark.
Woo, last minute entry! CHYEA!
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Sweat soaked the lining of Waheed's helm, the temptation to tear away the straps holding the burnished metal to his pate was almost too much to bare. To do so however would be suicide, the caravan was under siege.
For almost a week now the caravan he was leading to Caldeum had been beset by raiders from one of the desert tribes that rejected the trade city's claim over their desert. Waheed smiled, his first years under the employ of the old mercenary master Griez were spent purging the wastes surrounding his birthplace, the desert jewel Lut Gholein. The smile darkened, just as Lut Gholein was colored glass compared to the magnificence of Caldeum, the tribesmen he faced as a youth seemed to be nothing in comparison to the raiders that were picking them apart on the last stretch of their journey.
The first days were massacres, he quickly learned that any shortage of armor, any lack of leather or chain to cover their flesh was an invitation to be punished with an arrow coated with whatever venom these barbarians were able to coax from the native wildlife of this damned desert. Riders were only sent out to investigate the first day, they learned a hard lesson when only a few found their way out of the sandstorm that rose up around them. They told of how their horses crippled themselves stumbling over inexplicably hollow dunes and spans of glass, leaving them helpless to the volley of arrows. A lad barely into manhood was left hysterical, raving of a shadow gliding in the storm, snatching men off their horses never to be seen again. Little mind was paid to the boy's tale until the guards set out at night started vanishing, no tracks in any direction, no sign they had been there at all besides a fading scream.
Relief, Waheed knew, was soon to come, whether it was from the bar of the first tavern past Caldeum's gates or if he found it laying in the sands, his final resting place drinking down his blood. In all his years, from his childhood hunting scorpions outside the city walls to the decades spent guarding merchants and nobles on their travels, he never thought he would come to fear the dunes. Safety. Death. As long as the nightmare would end. Relief.
His smiled returned as he saw a shape rise up from the top of the dune to their right. A sole figure, the sun casting its shadow nearly to his feet. It couldn't be one of the raiders, Waheed reasoned, to show yourself as plainly, as mockingly as this to even the greenest caravan guard would be foolish. With a curse he blinked away the sweat that had dripped into his eyes, the next he saw the figure was gone, enveloped by a wall of sand cascading towards them, at its head a falcon larger than he would have ever thought possible.
Horses screamed, nearly obscuring the sound of arrows slamming into them. He tried to shout a command but it was no use, daring to open his mouth robbed his throat of what little moisture was left, choking him on the dust that surrounded them. More screams, human screams and the smell of smoke. The wagons were being set aflame. A nobleman managed to pry himself free of the pyre, his flailing tangling him in his own burning silks only to be engulfed in shadow, it was gone then, a trail of feathers and smoke in its wake. The boy, on his knees several paces ahead of Waheed, was wailing in terror as he watched the falcon meld back into the walls of shifting sand around them. Before he could call out to him he was gone, the sand had risen up and swallowed him whole and in his place stood the figure from the dune. It seemed to be made from the sand itself, from the tan cloth bound to its frame by innumerable leather bindings to the actual sand covering it, it was no wonder they had never found them. Most striking of all was the armor encasing its left forearm, plate steel that looked as though it had been all but torn apart by some beast. Waheed knew this was his only chance, he gripped the halberd that had served him well in more battles than he'd care to remember, swallowed the little moisture that had returned to his throat and charged. Even when the figure turned around well before he expected it to notice him he kept his composure. Even when the figure effortlessly parried the slash he had put all of his strength in, he kept his composure. Even when the figure slipped a knife though a part in his armor he had thought was safe, the poison instantly assailing his senses, he kept his composure. It was the shadow that fell upon them, the talons that gripped the figure by its left arm and lifted it away that made Waheed know despair. The first arrow took his grip from him, the second and third took his knees, the last, his breath.
The riders from the city found nothing but burnt wreckage and corpses. Foreigners, attracted to Caldeum by the promise of work and safety whispered to each other of demons and the return of the beings they called the Prime Evils, noting the brutality of the attack and the unusual lack of blood. The native born however recognized this all too well, a warrior of the Garuda tribe, a Falconer. When asked about the state of the corpses the reply was a saying common among the desert-born of Caldeum, 'The desert drinks deep.'
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Skill info about this fierce desert warrior can be found in a post by Moxjet200 in the Class Skill Contest thread found here. http://www.diablofans.com/forums/showthread.php?p=441717#post441717
Thank you for your time and for reading my story, I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it.