и

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWFEVbfCcOY
каде каде по спирщо дъха
дори и едина свестна музика не успяха да направят

Композиторът и на двата саундтрака е един и същ.

Въпреки че нямах никакво съмнение, че веднага ще има негативни мнения.

http://dragonage.bioware.com/da2/world/ ... s/merrill/

Сигурно някой я помни от Origins.

Колкото до саундрака, графиката и тн - хора, спрете да се оплаквате. Очеизвадно е, че играта още не е съвсем завършена. Предполагам нещата ще бъдат поне малко поизгладени. Спрете с тоя негативизъм. Това са Bioware, играта ще е добра. Може да не е на нивото на Origins, но пак ще е задоволителна. В момента мненията ви не са обективни по простата причина, че все още никой не е пробвал играта. Изчакайте да я изпробвате сами и тогава мрънкайте, че не е достатъчно силна.

^първо мога да ти кажа че играта е била завършена още януари месец
и второ защо от перфектно трябва да отиваме на задоволително
и да Драксис забелязах че е от един и същ композитор но песента на Оригинс все пак е много по силна

Наистина е доста по-слаб от първия. Но съм сигурен, че ще ми хареса.

Всъщност темите са много близки като звучене.

На един и същ композитор, за една и съща игра, на една и съща тематика - много ясно че ще имат близко звучене. Бахти малоумника, пак нищо не каза. И все пак първата е къде къде напред в материала.

Значи според теб са почти еднакви, но едната е много по-добра от другата

StoRmsE3ker, недей да се чудиш на гения на този индивид, той е просто неповторим.

Хейло 2 и 3, си приличат много, но 3 е много по-добра. Код 4 и Код 6 са на практика почти еднакви във всяко едно отношение, но 4ката е много по-добра. Саундтрака на Даф Пънк е с едни и същи мотиви, но в Трон се открояват 4-5 парчета над останалите. Матриците са поредица, но първата е много по-добра от останалите Да продължавам ли ? Даже не знам, защо ви го написах като сте такива тъпи бастуни. Може да съм неповторим, но не съм поредния дрисльо с мания да гледа анимета и да си пълни с лайна главата, които другите трябва да му търпят. Много добре говори за мен, че повечето от форума ги дразня с поведението си, защото то е точно обратно на изостаналите недораслаяци.

Две неща като си приличат, не може едното да е на светлинни години ли ? И на мен повърнята Duty Calls ми прилича на Код 4, но едното е опит да си забавен, а другото е най-доброто фпс до момента.

По мое мнение, саундтраковете и на двете Dragon Age са пълен шит. В Origins едва не стигнах до там да изключа напълно аудиото, всички тракове бяха малко или много идентични с всички останали. Едни и същи нотки, отново, и отново, и отново... Истински епичните тонове бяха на три места - когато тъмнородените нападат и армията на Ферелден се спуска срещу тях; когато Бан Тийган отговаря "Did he also do what was best for your husband, Your Majesty?" на Анора; и когато Пазителят е прочистил площада пред портите и войниците на Арл Еймон го "насъскват". Толкоз, нито повече, нито по-малко. Затова ме боли, затова и ме е яд за тези педерастки саундтракове, защото знам, че Айнон Зур може много повече.

Виждате ли как мразя новото за сметка на старото, едното от тях дори преди да съм го чул?

DJ Cat, една и съща игра, един и същи композитор, различно звучене, по двойки: 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2. Естествено има сходни елементи, но те са много по-малко от тези, които се наблюдават между темите на първата и втората част на Dragon Age, които следват една и съща структура и едни и същи мотиви се повтарят и в двете теми. Мелодията също е много близка като цяло и ако върху цигулката от втората тема се сложат барабаните и рогът от първата, то двете музики стават практически неразличими. Според мен темата на втората игра страда точно защото е толкова близка до темата на първата, но се опитва да улови фокусът на тази игра - човешката история, а не големият конфликт. Ако музиката беше писана от нищото, а не като rehash на старата тема, то щеше да се получи много по-добре.

Аз споделям мнението на Draksis, че и двете теми са безмозъчно тъпи и да харесваш едната, а не другата е абсурдно, точно както да харесваш Halo 3 или Modern Warfare, но не и Halo 2 и Modern Warfare 2 е абсурдно. Сходството като цяло носи и сходно качество и съответно сходна аудитория, която да харесва продукта.

Сега знам, че ще ми излезеш с 1 милион глупости, как не съм бил прав, които не са основани на никаква логика и никакви факти, и пак ще излееш мисловната си кал по мой адрес, но пак ще ти го кажа - ти си глупав и се опитваш да се заяждаш. Неуспешно.

Мен лично ми се губи женския глас в темата на втората, щото това беше нещото, което ми харесваше докато играех първата. Но може би ми харесваще щото я чувах постоянно и я свързвам с хубаво прекараните часове в нея. Иначе целия score беше доста слаб. Старите дрънчения на Zur в ID и BG звучат едно такова клиширано епично, някак не ме грабват като музика, освен че и тях свързвам с игрите (ама Icewind не съм играл)... абе ще видим. Почна да ме хваща ентусиазма за играта, а още не съм доиграл първата с всичките й DLC-та. Ще сторя това след края на сесията в очакване на 2-ката.

Аре бе, няма ли да я качат няклъде преди да излезе

Само да обобщя кво знам до тук:

Играта ще е с по-грозна графика, ще махнат магии, геймплей като на DMC (одиш и режеш), за спътниците луут няма, не можеш да си избираш раса,, много по-конзолно ориентирана (луута, менюта и т.н.).



Абе супер ще е...

Ами нищо не знаеш явно Графиката е по-стилизирана, което не значи по-грозна, а просто различна. Магиите ще са всъщност повече - по-малко основни магии, но всяка магия може да се кустомизира, геймплеят се запазва като само на ниска трудност можеш да минеш с управлението само на главния си герой, което и преди беше горе-долу така, лут за спътниците има, просто външно няма да се променят с всяка различна броня и менютата са съвършенно различни за различните версии на играта.

Масивни спойлери. Не е препоръчително да четете.

Isabela

The woman that walks into the Hanged Man is a sight, bedraggled and scruffy, like a rat that’s been soaking in the bilge for a week. Her ripped, weather-beaten smock is stained with soot from Lowtown’s chimneys and her boots, while of fine leather, are well-worn and crudely patched in a number of places. Her bearing, however, is proud, even arrogant, and she strides into the tavern like she owns the place.

“They told me I could get a drink here,” she says, coming toward the bar with a singular purpose. She slaps a half-dozen silver coins onto my counter. “What’ll this get me?”

“It’ll get you drunk enough,” I say.

“Then keep the liquor coming till the coin runs out. And make it strong.”

I wipe a chipped clay tumbler with my apron and fill it with the tavern’s most potent brew. She snatches it from my hand before I’m done pouring, and downs the drink in one gulp.

“You really needed that, didn’t you?” I pour her another drink.

“You have no idea.” She sighs and rubs her temples. “They call me Isabela, by the way. You might as well learn the name. I think I’m going to be here a while.”

It doesn’t take long for a foul-smelling longshoreman to show up. Isabela stiffens as she feels a hand, low on her back. The longshoreman opens his mouth to say something, but never gets the chance. Isabela grabs the man by the wrist, twisting his arm behind him. His cry is one of shock rather than pain, but that quickly changes as Isabela rams her elbow into the back of the neck, slamming his face into the wooden bar-top.

“Touch me again, and I’ll break more than just these,” she hisses in his ear. And then she snaps the fingers of the offending hand. I hear a crunch, several sickening pops, and a howl of pain. The longshoreman slinks away, cradling his hand and spitting curses.

“What?” she says, holding the empty tumbler out for a refill and daring me to make a comment, any comment. I gesture towards her striking outfit—nothing but a chemise worn without the benefit of a jacket or cloak, covering only the barest minimum required for decency. Put on something like that, and you’re going to get attention whether you want it or not.

“What? This?” She picks at the laces on her bodice, then lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Would’ve dressed up for you, but I left all my polite clothes at the bottom of the ocean.”

As I ponder the meaning of that statement, one of a group of Lowtown ruffians sidles up to the bar. He smirks, greasy lips sliding over yellow teeth in an expression that’s more grimace than smile. “I’m Lucky,” he says.

“Is that a name, or a description?” she asks, not even looking at him.

“It’s both. And If you’re new in Kirkwall, you’ll want to talk to me. My boys and I know everything going on in this town.”

“You know,” says Isabela, coldly. “I once knew a dog named Lucky. Obnoxious little thing, and too stupid to know when he was two yaps away from a kick in the side.”

Lucky turns beet red, and glances at his mates for moral support. Lucky’s boys jeer and laugh, offering no support whatsoever, and Lucky beats a hasty retreat. Isabela plays with the clay tumbler, turning it around this way and that, examining its numerous imperfections. Her eyes narrow.

“Wait,” she says suddenly. “If you know everything going on in Kirkwall, maybe we should talk.”

Lucky nods and grins. Isabela turns to him and I catch a mischievous glint in her eye.

“You see,” she says, smiling for the first time. “I lost something in a shipwreck, and I’d like for it to be found.”

Anders

The light here isn't right. It's too yellow. Too harsh. And it all comes from above. For a moment, I'm not sure why that seems wrong. The sun… that's always been there, right? What am I remembering?

The word comes back to me. The Fade. I am a mage. I've spent time in the place I remember. It is a land of mist, of dreams. And I'm right; the light there is different, emanating from the ground, the walls, not a single pinpoint source. But I've never been more than a visitor there. Why does it suddenly feel like home?

What else can't I remember?

I sit up, and the light brightens, darkens, steadies. The throb in my head returns and without thinking, I draw on a breath of mana to drive it away. The pain lifts as the magic settles over it, soothing and cooling. I try to think. Let's start with something simple. My name. What is my name?

I am Anders.
I am Justice.
This never used to be so hard.

Suddenly it comes back to me. Justice's voice, my voice, speaking through the rotting face of the body he once claimed. "It is time. You have shown me an injustice greater than any I have faced. Do you have the courage to accept my aid?"

I knew what he offered.

To stay in the mortal realm, he needs a host, a body to inhabit for a lifetime, not a corpse which will rot out from beneath him. If I gave him that, he would give me all he had, all he was. Together, we could remake Thedas into a world where justice rules, not fear.

A world with no Circle. No templars. A world where every mage can learn to use their gifts and still return home at night. Where no mother ever need hide her child… or lose him to the fear of his neighbors. Where magic is recognized as a gift of the Maker, not the curse it has become.

It's almost too much to imagine. The Circle, the templars, they've shaped my life. I was no more than twelve when they came for me. My mother wept when they fixed the chains to my wrists, but my father was glad to see me gone. He had been afraid, ever since the fire in the barn. Not just afraid of what I could do, but afraid of me, afraid my magic was punishment for whatever petty sins he imagined the Maker sat in judgment upon.

I always knew I wouldn't submit. I could never be what they wanted from me -- compliant, obedient, guilty. But before Justice, I was alone. I never thought beyond my own escape: Where would I hide? How long before they found me?

Now, even that thought repulses me. Why should so many others live with what I will not? Why must the Circle of Magi stand? Just because it always has, just because those who read Andraste's words twisted them to mean that mages must be prisoners? Why has there never been a revolution?

"He's coming to." A voice, getting closer. Someone I know. A Grey Warden.

"What in the Maker's name happened to him?" There are two of them. This one I don't know.

"He just went crazy. His eyes were glowing… His bloody skin cracked open and it was like he was on fire inside. Just kept raving… something about injustice, a revolution. Thought I was going to have to put the blighter down like a mad dog, then he just collapsed."

"Damned mages."

I struggle to stand, to open my eyes and face them like a man, not the chewed-up pile of hurlock spew I feel like. I can see them now. It's Rolan; of course it is. The price I had to pay for the Grey Wardens' generosity in recruiting me out from under the templars' noses. He was one of them, before his Chantry was destroyed by the darkspawn and he felt the calling to join the Wardens. No one ever said a deal had been struck, but as soon as the templars stopped their protests, Rolan turned up in the Wardens, and we've fielded every assignment together since. It's all too clear the templars sent him to keep watch.

And whatever possessed me to make my deal with Justice anywhere he might witness?

As he appears, I regret that choice of words, because something stirs inside me, and I wonder if it's harder for Justice to exert his will in a body that a living consciousness still inhabits. But it's a futile question, because his thoughts are mine and he is me, and I'm no longer sure what I was even asking.

Rolan is in front of me now, and the white griffin on his chest plate blurs in my sight with the steel-grey sword-of-flames on his companion's armor, and I know with white-hot certainty that Rolan has betrayed me.

"The Wardens agreed we can't harbor an abomination," he is saying, nasal voice vibrating with smug satisfaction, and I don't need to hear more. He's brought the templars down on me, on us, and this is just what we've been waiting for.

I don't see myself when I change, only the reflection in their eyes and the sound of their screams. My arm lashes out and silverite doesn't so much break as explode in a shower of molten metal. The sword melts, running down the templar's chest, and I follow up with a wave of flames which scorch the flesh from his face, leaving only bone so hot it smolders. The trees are burning… the tent… everything around us.

Rolan is still standing, and I smell the lyrium he drank, which guarded him from the blast. But he's afraid. I see his shield jerk and know he barely resisted the urge to flee, and I have a sudden thought, "What am I?" for I've seen him face both broodmothers and abominations without fear.

And then his sword is level with my chest, and I let it come, because it is only steel and cannot hurt me, for I am not of mortal men. And when it sinks hilt-deep in my flesh with no reaction, that's when he gives up. He turns and runs, and from behind, I tear his head off at the neck, no magic, just me, whatever that is now. His blood splashes into my open mouth and it tastes like honeyed wine and the warmth spreads through me.

He hated me, and he is dead. He feared me, and he is dead. He hunted me, and he is dead.

They will all die. Every templar, every holy sister who stands in the way of our freedom will die in agony and their deaths will be our fuel. We will have justice. We will have vengeance.

And suddenly I'm alone, standing in a burning forest, with the bodies of templars and wardens at my feet. So many, and I didn't even know they were there. Didn't even know I had killed them, but the evidence is all around me. Not the aftermath of a battle as I've known it, but a bloody abattoir of rent limbs and torn and eaten flesh.

This is not justice. This is not the spirit who was my friend, my self. What has he become? What have I become? We must get out of here. There is no place for me in the Grey Wardens now.

Is there a place for me anywhere?