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    Curse of the Four Branches is rated 3. Rated 5 out of 5 by lianneek from Awesome Well worth the money.

    One of the better adventure games on Big Fish. This is a wonderful story, well told. You got to think a bit, and sometimes the getting around and finding things get a bit clunky, but this is all story, and you want to know what happens next. And just when you think it is going to repeat itself, it throws in new characters, and new wrinkles. It is games like this that makes me dislike more the cookie cutter type of game specially the ones - find a shape to open this lock, and go back and forth, just for the sake of going back and forth.

    I dislike them more for crowding the market and driviing out of the business wonderful developers such as these.

    So I have to say goodbye to more stories from this developer, as I had to say goodbye to Edwina Margrave, and Brunhilda, and so many bright inventive games that are head and shoulders over the competition, no matter how esthetically pleasing they are.

    In the meantime enjoy, tryng to break the spell that drives women named Rhiannon to their deaths The game must keep me engaged by a good storyline if I will continue with it.

    The Syberia series is an exellent example of that. Games like this present the challenge of trying to figure out the next step--these are not for those who want to be spoon fed along the way with a lot of flash and sparkle.

    For some that could spell work and you lose interest, for others its a challenge to unravel the mystery. Rhiannon fufills that place. I have played it several times and love it everytime.

    Its different, engaging, it has a fairly solid and interesting story, while adding a bit of eeriness and sinister environment to your pursuit. I like the process, I am not seeking instant gratification. This is a game of participation and commitment and guess what duh!!! I am probably dating myself because I feel these games are falling off the interest wagon for general gamers. But for challenge, involvement, and to me stimulating gaming experience this is one of the best.

    My regret is that BFG does not offer more of this style of game.

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    Wonderful long Interesting game. He has a fantastic knack for creating wonderfully atmospheric situations. This game, like most of his has a subtle creepiness that I absolutely love. The few spine-chilling parts are never gory or pretentious but give you the shivers in exactly the right measure. I love that the story is based on a genuine welsh legend. There is a lot of reading that needs to be done to fully appreciate the game which can get boring but I personally love the level of detail and richness that it provides.

    I have to say the first time I played it I had to often check the walkthroughs because it is hard and there are a lot of links you have to be very clever and imaginative to work out but it does make sense in the end. The game play is very atmospheric which I love. However the actual mechanics seem a little jarring in that you have to look around a lot to get everything and the graphics aren't the most beautiful it's quite gloomy but if you take your time with it, it's a wonderful experience to follow the story of Rhiannon.

    It's lonnnnggg, which I liked. It's fairly chellenging and the story and scenery are really cool! At last a proper adventure game with a proper story, not a load of hidden object scenes and click puzzles 'tied' together by a lame plot the developers of this game must have really been interested in what they were doing. I really felt like I was 'playing a story'. The game whilst challenging is not very difficult, most of the puzzels are fairly logical to work out and I only had to cheat once and I kicked myself when I found the answer if you think this game is hard then you should try some text adventures for the ZX Spectrum.

    There has been some criticism of the navigation in this game and although it seems a bit awkward at first it is totally logical and not really a problem when you have got used to it. Apparently the developers of this game were working on another game called 'Coven' but unfortunatly were unable to finish it which is a real shame because we need more games like this!!

    I actually got my sister who never played large file to help me with this. She and I can hardly stand to play anything else now. You never know when someone is going to stop by. This is a fun game. A little like a good book, you will find yourself thinking about it even when your not playing.

    Trying to figure out what needs to be done next. The navigation was impossible, the scenes dull and boring, the story completely elusive to me.

    We stayed up 2 days just playing as it is nearly impossible to stop once you get rolling. It is everything that the standard HOG's aren't. I'll never be able to play another HO game now that I've discovered this genre.

    This type of game is very reminiscent of the Zelda games on Nintendo. Love Love Love it.
    Limestone formations, scenic views of Sierra Madre and Rizal province Article history: Wawa in Rodriguez formerly MontalbanRizal has long been known to outdoor enthusiasts for its beautiful Montalban Gorge and the various activities that can be done there: In addition to this, it is now being recognised as a hiking spot, with at least two of its small, rocky mountains — Mt.

    Binacayan — offering refreshingly new trails with close proximity to Metro Manila. Both mountains can be done as half-day hikes and can be combined as a nice day of adventure.

    The two mountains play a role in both history and legend.

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    The mythical folk hero Bernardo Carpio himself is said to have separated the two mountains by his brute force in an act of self-liberation, creating the gorge, the river, and the rock formations. Another version says he remains chained in the gorge, keeping the two mountains from colliding. Andres Bonifacio sought refuge in Pamitinan Cave inand it is where he proclaimed one of the first declarations of independence, and by some accounts his words are still inscribed in the cave: Pamitinan has a more established trail that takes roughly 1.

    The first part is forested, passing through some attractions such as an ancient balete, the rock climbing. The Hapunang Banoy Junction is a rest area prior to the second, rocky part the trail. This part will be enjoyable to those who are used to rock climbing or bouldering, and a bit of a challenge for beginners — for whom it will be manageable, but requiring of concentration and care.

    The rocks are surrounded with bamboo trunks, some of which have alternating sections of holdable green and thorny brown trunk segments. Wearing gloves is recommended to ensure a comfortable grip on the jagged edges of the rocks and keep your skin off thorns. There are several viewpoints along the trail, culminating in the summit which has a degree view. To the North, one can see Mt. Hapunang Banoy and a distant Mt.

    Arayat, and from northeast to south, a vast swath of Sierra Madre mountains, thankfully still green. To the west on the other hand are the rapidly-growing towns of Rizal, and the more immediate scenery of Wawa River and Mt. Binacayan, which is shorter than Mt. Pamitinan by just a few meters, has two different approaches, both of which feature a profile similar to Mt.

    Pamitinan, though the latter is a bit more unexplored as of Feb Instead of a forested ascent, however, Binacayan offers a more agricultural terrain, followed by the same rock and bamboo ascent.

    The final leg is through a ridgeline with thick foliage, requiring long steps and reaches from one limestone formation to another.

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    The summit offers similar scenery, with a more extensive view of the meanderings of Wawa River — and of course a profile picture of Mt. Pamitinan, which partially eclipses Mt. Wawa Arrival at Brgy. Binacayan Arrival at summit. Tidy up then take outbound trike Back in Manila. There is an entrance of P50 for private vehicles.
    I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

    I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.

    Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy. The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

    The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

    Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, there are millions of suns left, You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

    There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

    Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world. Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life. To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand.

    Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age, Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

    Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean, Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest. I am satisfied--I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread, Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty, Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes, That they turn from gazing after and down the road, And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent, Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?

    Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders, I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

    Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

    I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

    Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed.

    I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

    Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

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    Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

    O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children?

    They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

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    All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good. I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself, They do not know how immortal, but I know.

    Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female, For me those that have been boys and that love women, For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears, For me children and the begetters of children.

    The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen. I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load, I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other, I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck.

    The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time; You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

    I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl, Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders, On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride by the hand, She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet.

    The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him, And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd feet, And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him some coarse clean clothes, And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness, And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles; He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd north, I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner.

    She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank, She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window. Which of the young men does she like the best?

    Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. Where are you off to, lady? Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather, The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them. The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies. An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies, It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

    The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray.

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    Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire. From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

    I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, I go with the team also. In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as forward sluing, To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing, Absorbing all to myself and for this song. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes?

    It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around. I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else, And the in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me, And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.

    The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the same old law. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

    I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.

    What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my good will, Scattering it freely forever. The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray, The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, the purchaser higgling about the odd cent; The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly, The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips, The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck, The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other, Miserable!

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    I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you; The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries, On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms, The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold, The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle, As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change, The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar, In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers; Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, what salutes of cannon and small arms!

    I resist any thing better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place. The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place, The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place, The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.

    This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is, This the common air that bathes the globe. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have fail'd!

    And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair, This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning, This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again.

    Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?

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    Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has. Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish? Do I astonish more than they? This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. What is a man anyhow? All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time lost listening to me. I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.

    Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.

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    Why should I pray? Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close, I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

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    In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

    I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

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