A New Home for Themed Challenges and Halls of Fame – Redux

Five years after I wrote a post with the same title, announcing the move of the community archives of recorded Mass Effect 3 Multiplayer games from their original abode on the Bioware Social Network forums (that were being shut down at the time) to a dedicated website at www.prestaciouschallenges.com, I made my old dream come true and turned those archives into an online database accessible through a website of my own making at mehof.smehur.com.

This project has taken me over half a year (and counting) of daily work, fueled in equal parts by the intractable passion for programming and the undying fandom zeal, and laced with so much fun that I’m sure to remember it fondly forever. I’m so very glad and proud that it’s finally live (although it’s still not 100% done).

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Athusia, the neurologist, looked at him from across the table. The light of the folding lamp appeared as two tiny pinpricks in dark, violet-framed eyes as he stared, for ten seconds if not more, at Saren’s face.

“At ease,” Saren said at last. Athusia let the datapad fall between his hands. It clacked against the rest.

“You said it yourself: it wasn’t a dream. I shouldn’t keep you,” Athusia replied after another long pause. The chair swivelled to the left as he stood. “I should return to my work.”

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The next morning, Nihlus gets up early to prepare breakfast. The weather outside is still terrible. The storm had lessened during the night, but by the time he got back in bed, it had picked up again, accompanied by a fresh chorus of ferocious howls. Now, hard clumps of snow are smacking against the window like the wind’s percussive accompaniment. He swirls the leftover tequila and drains it in one gulp, setting the flask on the table with a loud thunk. There.

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He followed the faint smell of smoke to a stall near the edge of the market, sandwiched between an asari confectionery and a hanar diner. The place looked clean, freshly renovated, with spotless white tiles and clear glass tanks, not a speck of mold in sight. A neon orange sign hung over the storefront, some of the letters flickering once in a while. It was supposed to be artistic, he figured. The glass seemed to be hand-blown, and a permit on the Presidium was much too expensive for such oversights.

The woman behind the counter stood up when he approached. “What’ll it be?”

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