Alas, this so called 'real life' encroaches once more and places limitations on my yarrage. I fully intend, my friends, to continue this intrepid adventure chronicle of mine, but at a later date when I have more adventures to tell of!
The Debonair Corsair shall be with you soon, in the way fully intended.
Until that time...
The Debonair Corsair
Relieving you of your possessions - one courtesy at a time.
Sunday, 6 May 2012
Monday, 30 April 2012
It's not all chocolate boxes and roses...
And now, my good people, palaver on why sleep is your friend.
Firstly, as a veteran of sorts to this game we love if not to the yo-ho life as such, I should really have known better in the following situation.
There sat I, drifing happily in a haze of single malt and idly scanning my immediate area in my beloved Rifter, 'Betty', when I decided to make a move to a neighbouring system. Upon arrival at my intended stargate, up pops a Merlin on scanner.
'Ah ha! Fisticuffs!', think I, and rightly so, but not in the manner I had hoped.
Making the assumption that my incoming sparring partner would be up for close-range fisticuffs and sporting a fine array of blasters, I decide to load barrage into my beloved autocannons and make the attempt to keep my potentially hard-hitting but ungainly opponent at bay via canny use of my web and afterburner.
He lands on the gate, I dance carefully about his virtual person at 7km, he locks on...
(I should mention at this point that as something of a cad and bounder, I'm viewed with less than fondness on the part of Concord and flash rather splendidly in red hue.)
...and in my overeagerness for fisticuffs I fire first!
I hang my head in shame, dear readers. Had I listened to Mrs. Corsair I would have been happily and ignorantly abed in cap and nightgown, lulled by the light breathing of my sleeping baby Corsairs. Instead, I suffer the ignonimy of dull wittedness and wither under the fire of gateguns and my opponent happily rummages through the ravaged hull of my beloved Betty.
Onwards and downwards, I say!
Firstly, as a veteran of sorts to this game we love if not to the yo-ho life as such, I should really have known better in the following situation.
There sat I, drifing happily in a haze of single malt and idly scanning my immediate area in my beloved Rifter, 'Betty', when I decided to make a move to a neighbouring system. Upon arrival at my intended stargate, up pops a Merlin on scanner.
'Ah ha! Fisticuffs!', think I, and rightly so, but not in the manner I had hoped.
Making the assumption that my incoming sparring partner would be up for close-range fisticuffs and sporting a fine array of blasters, I decide to load barrage into my beloved autocannons and make the attempt to keep my potentially hard-hitting but ungainly opponent at bay via canny use of my web and afterburner.
He lands on the gate, I dance carefully about his virtual person at 7km, he locks on...
(I should mention at this point that as something of a cad and bounder, I'm viewed with less than fondness on the part of Concord and flash rather splendidly in red hue.)
...and in my overeagerness for fisticuffs I fire first!
I hang my head in shame, dear readers. Had I listened to Mrs. Corsair I would have been happily and ignorantly abed in cap and nightgown, lulled by the light breathing of my sleeping baby Corsairs. Instead, I suffer the ignonimy of dull wittedness and wither under the fire of gateguns and my opponent happily rummages through the ravaged hull of my beloved Betty.
Onwards and downwards, I say!
Thursday, 26 April 2012
A Prelude
Avast ye scallywags, ne'er-do-wells, rapscallions, cads, bounders and of course you other folk who lead more respectable and less reprehensible lives.
I intend, my good patrons, with flair and debonair, a dram of glam and a portion of pizazz, to chronicle this existence of mine as a scoundrel in the universe of EvE online - sailing the seas of lowsec and quaffing copious amounts of fine liquor whilst, bow-tie carelessly unravelled and sleeves rolled up to my refined elbows, gladly engaging in fisticuffs (see fig.1) with all and sundry in the meagre hopes of turning a profit and continuing to lead the life to which I've become accustomed . . . and perhaps even having a dab of jolly good fun by the by.
So, without further ado, I present to you The Debonair Corsair: tales of gallantry (cowardice), prowess (ineptitude), and swagger as told by yours truly, Nogusha, lately of The Black Rebel Rifter Club.
I do hope that you will enjoy our time together.
I believe the correct colloquialism is 'watch this space'. Pun entirely intended.
Tally-ho!
fig. 1 'Fisticuffs'
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