[ 3 / biz / cgl / ck / diy / fa / ic / jp / lit / sci / vr / vt ] [ index / top / reports ] [ become a patron ] [ status ]
2023-11: Warosu is now out of extended maintenance.

/lit/ - Literature


View post   

File: 18 KB, 245x300, r587afadd4c8948f3ebe3ff3f255eaf39.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
20284202 No.20284202 [Reply] [Original]

He was the ghost writer, because GRRM couldn't write a thing and ended up writing two pages of pozzed crap, then Bakker came for the save and reigned supreme in the studio of japanese twinks and made them make a supreme medieval game.

>> No.20284209
File: 210 KB, 838x983, Walking Bakker.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
20284209

>> No.20284213
File: 348 KB, 585x902, Bakker’s blog war against the right.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
20284213

>> No.20284225

>>20284209
>>20284213
GRRMisery fans, its proven that he wrote two pages of boring misery, and King Bakker moved in for the save.

>> No.20284248

Elden ring is Clark Ashton smith pastiche, if you want more like elden ring just read smith. Whether his poems such as the one concerning the amber eyed witch, or the kingdom of the worm, or the more cosmic elements as represented by his long poem apocalypse of evil, or the more purely oneiric and antique can be found in stories like a vintage from Atlantis.

>> No.20284261

>>20284248
Bakker is more medieval and non-pozzed, so Elden Ring is Bakker-core.

>> No.20284263

>>20284248
This is a troll thread, no point in having a serious discussion since the OP is a raging faggot.

>> No.20284278
File: 27 KB, 250x220, 1628530530091.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
20284278

>>20284263
Bakkerchads are the only ones having long form discussions and meaningful discourse, and all you do is shitpost about trolls and OPs.

>> No.20284280

>>20284261
There is literally nothing pozzed in smith and a large portion of his stories are set in Averoigne, which is set in medieval France. Here have two excerpts from the beginning of a story.

By the Ram with a Thousand Ewes! By the Tail of Dagon and the Horns of Derceto!' said Azédarac, as he fingered the tiny, pot-bellied vial of vermilion liquid on the table before him. 'Something will have to be done with this pestilential Brother Ambrose. I have now learned that he was sent to Ximes by the Archbishop of Averoigne for no other purpose than to gather proof of my subterraneous connection with Azazel and the Old Ones. He has spied upon my evocations in the vaults, he has heard the hidden formulae, and beheld the veritable manifestation of Lilit, and even of Iog-Sotôt and Sodagui, those demons who are more ancient than the world; and this very morning, an hour agone, he has mounted his white ass for the return journey to Vyones. There are two ways — or, in a sense, there is one way — in which I can avoid the bother and inconvenience of a trial for sorcery: the contents of this vial must be administered to Ambrose before he has reached his journey's end — or, failing this, I myself shall be compelled to make use of a similar medicament.'”

Azédarac smiled confidently. 'I leave the affair — and the vial — in your hands, Jehan. Of course, no matter what the eventuation, with all the Satanic and pre-Satanic facilities at my disposal, I should be in no great danger from these addlepated bigots. However, I am very comfortably situated here in Ximes; and the lot of a Christian Bishop who lives in the odor of incense and piety, and maintains in a meanwhile a private understanding with the Adversary, is certainly preferable to the mischancy life of a hedgesorcerer. I do not care to be annoyed or disturbed, or ousted from my sinecure, if such can be avoided.

'May Moloch devour that sanctimonious little milksop of an Ambrose,' he went on. 'I must be growing old and dull, not to have suspected him before this. It was the horrorstricken and averted look he has been wearing lately that made me think he had peered through the keyhole on the subterranean rites. Then, when I heard he was leaving, I wisely thought to review my library; and I have found that the Book of Eibon, which contains the oldest incantations, and the secret, man-forgotten lore of Iog-Sotôt and Sodagui, is now missing. As you know, I had replaced the former binding of aboriginal, sub-human skin with the sheep-leather of a Christian missal, and had surrounded the volume with rows of legitimate prayer-books. Ambrose is carrying it away under his robe as proof conclusive that I am addicted to the Black Arts. No one in Averoigne will be able ta read the immemorial Hyperborean script; but the dragon's-blood illuminations and drawings will be enough to damn me.'