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Writer - Michael Green; Directed by - Chris Sanders; genre - Family; Resume - The Call of the Wild is a movie starring Karen Gillan, Harrison Ford, and Cara Gee. A sled dog struggles for survival in the wilds of the Yukon; Simplesmente maravilhoso 🤘🤘😍😍. Zew krwi Watch free web. Zew krwi watch free 3. Zew krwi Watch free. Looks amazing. Great photography. Zew krwi watch free trial. Is it weird that Im watching this doing a beginner series my self Im level 51 on my main account.
Jack London THE CALL OF THE WILD Chapter I. Into the Primitive “Old longings nomadic leap, Chafing at custom’s chain; Again from its brumal sleep Wakens the ferine strain. ” Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost. Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller’s place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants’ cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller’s boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon. And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless, —strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops. But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge’s sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge’s daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge’s feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge’s grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king, —king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller’s place, humans included. His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge’s inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large, —he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds, —for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a health preserver. And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozen North. But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know that Manuel, one of the gardener’s helpers, was an undesirable acquaintance. Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness—faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener’s helper do not lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny. The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers’ Association, and the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel’s treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them. “You might wrap up the goods before you deliver ‘m, ” the stranger said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck’s neck under the collar. “Twist it, an’ you’ll choke ‘m plentee, ” said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready affirmative. Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger’s hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car. The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more. “Yep, has fits, ” the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. “I’m takin’ ‘m up for the boss to ‘Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure ‘m. ” Concerning that night’s ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front. “All I get is fifty for it, ” he grumbled; “an’ I wouldn’t do it over for a thousand, cold cash. ” His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle. “How much did the other mug get? ” the saloon-keeper demanded. “A hundred, ” was the reply. “Wouldn’t take a sou less, so help me. ” “That makes a hundred and fifty, ” the saloon-keeper calculated; “and he’s worth it, or I’m a squarehead. ” The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. “If I don’t get the hydrophoby—” “It’ll be because you was born to hang, ” laughed the saloon-keeper. “Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight, ” he added. Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate. There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath and wounded pride. He could not understand what it all meant. What did they want with him, these strange men? Why were they keeping him pent up in this narrow crate? He did not know why, but he felt oppressed by the vague sense of impending calamity. Several times during the night he sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting to see the Judge, or the boys at least. But each time it was the bulging face of the saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sickly light of a tallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled in Buck’s throat was twisted into a savage growl. But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men entered and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, for they were evil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he stormed and raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and poked sticks at him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth till he realized that that was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon. Then he, and the crate in which he was imprisoned, began a passage through many hands. Clerks in the express office took charge of him; he was carted about in another wagon; a truck carried him, with an assortment of boxes and parcels, upon a ferry steamer; he was trucked off the steamer into a great railway depot, and finally he was deposited in an express car. For two days and nights this express car was dragged along at the tail of shrieking locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck neither ate nor drank. In his anger he had met the first advances of the express messengers with growls, and they had retaliated by teasing him. When he flung himself against the bars, quivering and frothing, they laughed at him and taunted him. They growled and barked like detestable dogs, mewed, and flapped their arms and crowed. It was all very silly, he knew; but therefore the more outrage to his dignity, and his anger waxed and waxed. He did not mind the hunger so much, but the lack of water caused him severe suffering and fanned his wrath to fever-pitch. For that matter, high-strung and finely sensitive, the ill treatment had flung him into a fever, which was fed by the inflammation of his parched and swollen throat and tongue. He was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had given them an unfair advantage; but now that it was off, he would show them. They would never get another rope around his neck. Upon that he was resolved. For two days and nights he neither ate nor drank, and during those two days and nights of torment, he accumulated a fund of wrath that boded ill for whoever first fell foul of him. His eyes turned blood-shot, and he was metamorphosed into a raging fiend. So changed was he that the Judge himself would not have recognized him; and the express messengers breathed with relief when they bundled him off the train at Seattle. Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small, high-walled back yard. A stout man, with a red sweater that sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the book for the driver. That was the man, Buck divined, the next tormentor, and he hurled himself savagely against the bars. The man smiled grimly, and brought a hatchet and a club. “You ain’t going to take him out now? ” the driver asked. “Sure, ” the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a pry. There was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had carried it in, and from safe perches on top the wall they prepared to watch the performance. Buck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it, surging and wrestling with it. Wherever the hatchet fell on the outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, as furiously anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was calmly intent on getting him out. “Now, you red-eyed devil, ” he said, when he had made an opening sufficient for the passage of Buck’s body. At the same time he dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand. And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together for the spring, hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his blood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched his one hundred and forty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion of two days and nights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about to close on the man, he received a shock that checked his body and brought his teeth together with an agonizing clip. He whirled over, fetching the ground on his back and side. He had never been struck by a club in his life, and did not understand. With a snarl that was part bark and more scream he was again on his feet and launched into the air. And again the shock came and he was brought crushingly to the ground. This time he was aware that it was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A dozen times he charged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him down. After a particularly fierce blow, he crawled to his feet, too dazed to rush. He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from nose and mouth and ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and flecked with bloody slaver. Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt him a frightful blow on the nose. All the pain he had endured was as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of this. With a roar that was almost lionlike in its ferocity, he again hurled himself at the man. But the man, shifting the club from right to left, coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the same time wrenching downward and backward. Buck described a complete circle in the air, and half of another, then crashed to the ground on his head and chest. For the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he had purposely withheld for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went down, knocked utterly senseless. “He’s no slouch at dog-breakin’, that’s wot I say, ” one of the men on the wall cried enthusiastically. “Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays, ” was the reply of the driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the horses. Buck’s senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay where he had fallen, and from there he watched the man in the red sweater. “’Answers to the name of Buck, ’” the man soliloquized, quoting from the saloon-keeper’s letter which had announced the consignment of the crate and contents. “Well, Buck, my boy, ” he went on in a genial voice, “we’ve had our little ruction, and the best thing we can do is to let it go at that. You’ve learned your place, and I know mine. Be a good dog and all ‘ll go well and the goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I’ll whale the stuffin’ outa you. Understand? ” As he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly pounded, and though Buck’s hair involuntarily bristled at touch of the hand, he endured it without protest. When the man brought him water he drank eagerly, and later bolted a generous meal of raw meat, chunk by chunk, from the man’s hand. He was beaten (he knew that); but he was not broken. He saw, once for all, that he stood no chance against a man with a club. He had learned the lesson, and in all his after life he never forgot it. That club was a revelation. It was his introduction to the reign of primitive law, and he met the introduction halfway. The facts of life took on a fiercer aspect; and while he faced that aspect uncowed, he faced it with all the latent cunning of his nature aroused. As the days went by, other dogs came, in crates and at the ends of ropes, some docilely, and some raging and roaring as he had come; and, one and all, he watched them pass under the dominion of the man in the red sweater. Again and again, as he looked at each brutal performance, the lesson was driven home to Buck: a man with a club was a lawgiver, a master to be obeyed, though not necessarily conciliated. Of this last Buck was never guilty, though he did see beaten dogs that fawned upon the man, and wagged their tails, and licked his hand. Also he saw one dog, that would neither conciliate nor obey, finally killed in the struggle for mastery. Now and again men came, strangers, who talked excitedly, wheedlingly, and in all kinds of fashions to the man in the red sweater. And at such times that money passed between them the strangers took one or more of the dogs away with them. Buck wondered where they went, for they never came back; but the fear of the future was strong upon him, and he was glad each time when he was not selected. Yet his time came, in the end, in the form of a little weazened man who spat broken English and many strange and uncouth exclamations which Buck could not understand. “Sacredam! ” he cried, when his eyes lit upon Buck. “Dat one dam bully dog! Eh? How moch? ” “Three hundred, and a present at that, ” was the prompt reply of the man in the red sweater. “And seem’ it’s government money, you ain’t got no kick coming, eh, Perrault? ” Perrault grinned. Considering that the price of dogs had been boomed skyward by the unwonted demand, it was not an unfair sum for so fine an animal. The Canadian Government would be no loser, nor would its despatches travel the slower. Perrault knew dogs, and when he looked at Buck he knew that he was one in a thousand—”One in ten t’ousand, ” he commented mentally. Buck saw money pass between them, and was not surprised when Curly, a good-natured Newfoundland, and he were led away by the little weazened man. That was the last he saw of the man in the red sweater, and as Curly and he looked at receding Seattle from the deck of the Narwhal, it was the last he saw of the warm Southland. Curly and he were taken below by Perrault and turned over to a black-faced giant called Francois. Perrault was a French-Canadian, and swarthy; but Francois was a French-Canadian half-breed, and twice as swarthy. They were a new kind of men to Buck (of which he was destined to see many more), and while he developed no affection for them, he none the less grew honestly to respect them. He speedily learned that Perrault and Francois were fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice, and too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs. In the ‘tween-decks of the Narwhal, Buck and Curly joined two other dogs. One of them was a big, snow-white fellow from Spitzbergen who had been brought away by a whaling captain, and who had later accompanied a Geological Survey into the Barrens. He was friendly, in a treacherous sort of way, smiling into one’s face the while he meditated some underhand trick, as, for instance, when he stole from Buck’s food at the first meal. As Buck sprang to punish him, the lash of Francois’s whip sang through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing remained to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of Francois, he decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck’s estimation. The other dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he did not attempt to steal from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, morose fellow, and he showed Curly plainly that all he desired was to be left alone, and further, that there would be trouble if he were not left alone. “Dave” he was called, and he ate and slept, or yawned between times, and took interest in nothing, not even when the Narwhal crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and rolled and pitched and bucked like a thing possessed. When Buck and Curly grew excited, half wild with fear, he raised his head as though annoyed, favored them with an incurious glance, yawned, and went to sleep again. Day and night the ship throbbed to the tireless pulse of the propeller, and though one day was very like another, it was apparent to Buck that the weather was steadily growing colder. At last, one morning, the propeller was quiet, and the Narwhal was pervaded with an atmosphere of excitement. He felt it, as did the other dogs, and knew that a change was at hand. Francois leashed them and brought them on deck. At the first step upon the cold surface, Buck’s feet sank into a white mushy something very like mud. He sprang back with a snort. More of this white stuff was falling through the air. He shook himself, but more of it fell upon him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some up on his tongue. It bit like fire, and the next instant was gone. This puzzled him. He tried it again, with the same result. The onlookers laughed uproariously, and he felt ashamed, he knew not why, for it was his first snow.
Близкие по духу theHunter: Call of the Wild объявилась в Steam в середине прошлого месяца без особого шума, но от внимательного взора опытного охотника наверняка не укрылась. И все у нее просто замечательно: открытый мир, разнообразие дичи, живописная графика и даже сетевой режим для совместных охотничьих вылазок... Но один минус сводил на нет все достоинства: техническая реализация проекта ужасна. Многие игроки мучились от частых вылетов, у кого-то игра не запускалась вовсе, да и внутренние баги местами доходили до смешного: от банального просвета текстур до совсем уж абсурдного ускоренного передвижения, если ваш персонаж задерет голову к небу. Мы долго откладывали этот обзор. Мы терпеливо выслеживали очередную лань, меняли винтовки на ружья и даже отправлялись на охоту с луком, и все это в ожидании обновлений, правящих ворох мелких недочетов. Но чуда не случилось, изменений мы не дождались, а потому и наша оценка будет ниже, чем мы надеялись. Природный колорит Первое, чем новая theHunter может вас зацепить, — это локации. Их в игре пока две: озерный край Лейтон и заказник Хиршфельден. Отличаются они не только ландшафтом и растительностью, но и видами водящейся там добычи. Для каждой местности вам предстоит подбирать соответствующее снаряжение, но поначалу об этом заботиться не придется — с базовым набором вещей набегаться успеете. Игра часто отвлекает вас от охоты, ставя нос к носу с такими красотами. Помогать вам осваиваться в мире дикой природы будет местный смотритель (он на каждой локации свой). Под его руководством предстоит изучить базовые элементы охоты — такие как поиск зверя по оставленным следам или тонкости незаметного передвижения. Иногда он будет предлагать вам выполнить тот или иной квест — проходить их не обязательно, но опыт и деньги лишними не будут. На самом деле theHunter вообще ни к чему вас не обязывает. Вы начинаете свой путь на краю локации, с винтовкой, горсткой патронов, биноклем и двумя манками, и что будет происходить дальше, зависит только от вас. Хотя это симулятор охоты, вы можете найти для себя множество других занятий, совершенно необязательно ведущих к убийству зверушек: сбор заметок, коллекционирование рогов, фотоохота и просто медитативные прогулки по чарующему осеннему лесу. Природа в theHunter заслуживает отдельного упоминания. Совокупность необычайно реалистичного леса, натуральных звуков и проработанного света обеспечивают полное погружение. Впечатления, конечно, не совсем такие, как при поездке за город уток пострелять, но очень похожие. Дотошность, с какой разработчики подошли к созданию игрового пространства, рождает необыкновенную атмосферу. Первые несколько часов мы просто завороженно слушали ночные птичьи пересвисты, шелест листьев и хруст подлеска под ногами. Охотничий домик за умеренную плату. В нем можно подождать до темноты и выйти на ночную охоту. Терпение, главное — терпение Но theHunter не симулятор турпоходов, главное тут — охота. И если захватывающие дух пейзажи игра подкидывает вам каждые пять минут, то на добычу она уже не так щедра. Животных надо искать долго и упорно. И полагаться придется только на себя — ни подсказок, ни «орлиного зрения» и стрелочек не будет. В поиске вам помогут оставленные следы и помет, звуки и популярные места обитания — к примеру, водопой. Найти зверя — лишь полдела, его еще нужно убить. Выстрелы в голову, как всегда, эффективны, но поди попади. Базовая оптика не обеспечит вам нужную кратность, и придется подбираться к добыче поближе, а это всегда чревато нежелательными последствиями. Вас могут услышать, заметить или даже учуять, если ветер не в ту сторону дунет. Тогда лань или косуля, за которой вы шли последние два часа по оврагам и буеракам, в испуге скроется, и поиски начнутся заново. Чтобы играть в theHunter, вам потребуется титанический запас терпения. Вы можете зайти в игру на восемь часов и выйти с пустыми руками. Пройти по следу десяток километров, чтобы обнаружить, что где-то сбились и просто сделали круг. Наконец, наткнуться на редкую добычу, но обнаружить, что уже растратили весь боезапас. Разумеется, игра не передает всей полноты ощущений от реальной охоты, но подбирается к этому очень близко. Тут нет подвоха и намеренного усложнения в геймдизайне — все зависит от вашего умения и вашей удачи. И это сразу переводит theHunter в разряд игр «не для всех». Согласитесь, не каждый готов потратить несколько часов на то, чтобы на корточках передвигаться между деревьями в надежде, что лиса, а ее еще разглядеть надо в высокой траве, не решит вдруг поохотиться за кроликом и не умчится в кусты на второй космической. Мигрирующую дичь тяжело нагнать: бежать слишком шумно для преследования, а идти — слишком медленно. Но, если втянуться в этот несколько монотонный геймплей, игра не заставит вас скучать. Даже баги временами играют на руку и поднимают настроение. Так, к примеру, когда мы второй час выслеживали благородного оленя — достаточно ценную добычу, — обнаружить его отчаянно бегущим внутри булыжника было даже забавно. А еще как-то раз нас забодало стадо испуганных косуль, и, поверьте, если в том же Dark Souls вы всегда знаете, где найти подлого противника и жестоко ему отомстить, то после такой нелепой смерти в theHunter вам останется только выругаться и, может, немного посмеяться. Зато каждая, даже самая мелкая, добыча наверняка доставит вам уйму удовольствия и здорово поднимет самооценку, а уж если удалось выследить и пристрелить особо редкого зверя — такие уникальные представители в игре тоже встречаются, — то вполне можно нацепить пробковый шлем и считать себя великим охотником. Ночью игра полностью преображается и даже становится немного жуткой. Не видно ни зги! У вас будет возможность покупать дополнительное снаряжение. Поначалу, после первого захода в местный магазин, может показаться, что наименований не так и много, но со временем скепсис развеется, ведь под оружие подстраиваешься, к нему привыкаешь и не с каждым потом захочешь расстаться. Помимо различных винтовок в игре есть ружья, револьверы и луки. Последние смотрятся немного вычурно на общем фоне, но у них свои задачи. Револьвер нужен не для охоты, это средство самообороны, ведь далеко не все обитатели леса будут в страхе уноситься при вашем приближении. А лук в умелых руках даже полезнее винтовки — бьет не так далеко, зато не грохочет. Также есть разные типы боеприпасов, манки для привлечения разного зверья, улучшенные бинокли и прочие аксессуары. Чтобы открыть предметы, мало на них заработать (хотя на некоторые и зарабатывать устанешь), нужно иметь необходимый уровень охотника. И тут в игре проявляются элементы ролевого жанра. У вашего персонажа есть два древа прокачки, в каждое из которых вкладываются очки определенного типа — умений или навыков, где первые отвечают за бонусы к стрельбе, а вторые — за ваше передвижение и выслеживание добычи. Очки вы получаете за уровень, уровень — за опыт, опыт — за выполненные квесты, добытые трофеи, открытые локации и прочее. Поначалу от бонусов толку немного, но со временем, развивая своего персонажа, вы уже заметите, что игра стала относиться к вам дружелюбнее. Тридцать три несчастья Нам очень не хотелось критиковать игру. Нет, какие-то минусы очевидны, но не особенно важны. К примеру, проект и правда исключительно на любителя, но это и недостатком-то не назвать, скорее особенностью. Многие игроки, соблазнившись скриншотами и послужным списком разработчиков, включающим серию взрывных боевиков Just Cause, могли решить, что бегать за волками и лосями ничуть не менее увлекательно, чем устраивать революции. И азарт, и напряжение у охоты действительно присутствуют, но не каждый их прочувствует. А если взяться за квесты, а не за свободные приключения, вы наверняка устанете плестись до цели. Даже быстрое перемещение не особенно поможет. Если помните легендарный авиасимулятор « Ил-2: Штурмовик », там было нечто похожее. Просто лететь до цели двадцать минут (а в theHunter есть и кнопка постоянного бега, и кнопка постоянного перемещения) скучно. Ведь одно дело бежать от следа к следу, наступая зверю на пятки, а другое — просто добираться из точки А в точку Б, притом очень-очень медленно. Лишь немногие из багов, встреченных в игре. Но и не в этом проблема theHunter: Call of the Wild. Вся беда, как уже говорилось, — это баги. Почти все они мелкие и незначительные, но за время прохождения их накапливается столько, что берут они числом. Если лечь на землю, можно заглянуть под локацию, если посмотреть наверх, персонаж ощутимо ускорится. Некоторые животные застревают в текстурах, а однажды целое стадо косуль увязло копытами в склоне горы. То включается эффект постоянного размытия экрана, то смартфон персонажа появляется без дисплея, а иногда игра просто вылетает без объяснения причин. Особенно ужасно то, что отдельные проблемы — к примеру, полное исчезновение звука — не решаются даже переустановкой игры, помогает только создание нового сохранения. А сохранение в игре одно, то есть при этом вы теряете весь прогресс и берете нового персонажа. Все эти ошибки слипаются в огромный снежный ком, под которым игру можно похоронить. Для Avalanche Studio совсем не в новинку затирать все достоинства игры кошмарным количеством ошибок. В их Mad Max наблюдалась почти такая же картина, но в случае с theHunter: Call of the Wild все даже обиднее. Эта игра заслуживает отличной оценки, но, видимо, не сейчас. Возможно, пройдет время, и долгожданный патч, исцеляющий все недуги проекта, появится. Ну а пока перед нами лучший в своем роде симулятор охоты и прогулок по восхитительному осеннему лесу, однако временами он становится просто-напросто неиграбелен. Порадовало живописные пейзажи; смена погодных условий, влияющих на подход к охоте; реализм; разнообразие добычи. Огорчило слишком много ошибок и багов; перебор со скучной ходьбой. Как мы играли Во что: игра предоставлена издателем. На чем: PC Сколько: пятьдесят часов. Ачивка редакции «Hunter’s Creed» Подняться на все вышки, чтобы разглядеть мир... И не проводить никаких аналогий! О локализации Английская озвучка, русское меню и субтитры. Ошибки не замечены. Выше среднего 6, 5 Оценка Игромании Вердикт Многообещающая, но слишком «сырая» игра: ей не помешало бы еще какое-то время побыть в «раннем доступе».
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I can't hear the slash's guitar sound so well. You need to react to the Richard Jewell trailer. Dud! You and zoom with the scroller on the mouse. Zew krwi watch free english. Zew krwi watch free 2016. Book Summary Buck, a huge, four-year-old half-Saint Bernard and half-Scottish shepherd dog, is living a life of civilized ease in California's Santa Clara Valley in the home of Judge Miller. It seems to be the best of all possible worlds, for Buck is the most prized animal that the Judge owns. Around this time, however, gold is discovered in the great North, and large dogs suddenly become tremendously valuable because these types of dogs are needed to haul the heavy sleds through the deep snow fields. Tragically, for Buck, one of the Judge's servants (an addictive gambler) steals Buck and sells him to a ring of thieves who are making a great deal of money by buying and selling dogs to northern traders. Buck's spirit, however, does not adapt as easily as do some of the other docile big dogs. Buck cannot tolerate being tied up and beaten; he fights against his cruel new master, but all of his efforts to escape are futile. Thus, Buck learns the new concept of "master, " even though he learns it reluctantly: a man with a club is a master and must, at all costs, be obeyed. After days of travel on both train and boat, Buck discovers that he is in the primitive North, and there he rapidly learns to conform to the laws of the primitive new world. For example, he encounters such problems as how to work as a member of a dog team pulling a sled, how to burrow into a hole in the snow in which to sleep, how to survive perpetual hunger pains, and how to rely on his native intelligence and his animal instincts. Buck also soon learns that the dominant primordial bestial instinct is very strong in him, and he learns just as quickly that when he is attacked, he must take the offensive immediately in order to survive; as a result of this type of living adjustment, Buck also learns that he has to live a life of almost continual alertness, as well as in almost continual pain and discomfort. Yet Buck has one advantage: his size makes him fearful to the other dogs. Still, however, all is far from pleasant, for even though Buck can defend himself quite well and is ever-ready to scrap with another dog, he has a secret that he must keep to himself: Because Buck has arrived so recently from civilization, the craggy ice and snow of the North tear at his paws and make his work extremely painful. After being in constant hunger for many days, Buck's old instinct to kill and eat raw meat and warm blood is rekindled within him. About this same time, Buck is constantly pitted against another powerful dog, Spitz, the lead dog of his sled team. After several skirmishes with Spitz, Buck's decisive fight with him occurs, and the result of the fight is a victory for Buck, who then becomes the lead dog. In his position of leadership, he quickly proves himself to be superior to all the other dogs and thus wins the admiration of his masters, François and Perrault, who work with Buck quite some time before they are called away to other duties. Buck's next master is a Scotch half-breed; the man is fair, but he works Buck almost beyond endurance, so much so that on a difficult run against extremely adverse conditions, most of the other dogs succumb to the wild elements. Buck, however, survives, even though he loses a significant amount of weight. Buck's next change in life occurs when he and his team are sold to three amateur adventurers — Charles, Hal, and Mercedes; they have absolutely no concept of how to discipline the dogs or even how to drive a team through the frozen northern snow. As a result of their ineptitude, the dogs' food supply is gone before the trip is half over. At this point, Buck sees the futility of trying to continue; thus, he simply refuses to return to the trace (the harness) despite the fact that he is severely beaten. Propitiously, a man named John Thornton appears and threatens the three owners if they continue to beat Buck. Buck's instinct concerning the three amateur adventurers proves to be correct; Charles, Hal, and Mercedes continue on their way across the frozen snow and ice and lose their lives, plus the lives of the rest of the dog team when they try to cross a river of melting ice. All are drowned. Meanwhile, John Thornton, who is recuperating from frostbitten feet, nurses Buck back to health and wins from Buck a deep devotion and loyalty. Yet, even though Buck is tamed to a certain extent by the kindness of his new master, at times while he sits with John Thornton in the depths of the forest, Buck hears mysterious calls from the wild — calls which awaken long-sleeping instincts within him. As John Thornton returns to civilization with Buck, a drunken miner attacks John Thornton and threatens to do him harm. Buck immediately reacts and kills the man. Later on, John Thornton is lost in some fast river rapids, and once again Buck saves his master's life by swimming to him with a tow line. On another occasion, Thornton makes a brag that Buck can pull a sled with a thousand pounds loaded atop it. Because of his great love for John Thornton, Buck finally succeeds in moving the heavy sled one hundred yards. With the money that Thornton wins from his betting feat, sixteen hundred dollars, he goes deep into the wilderness in search of a fabled lost gold mine. There, he works long and hard hours, and while Thornton's men are panning for gold, Buck often goes off by himself in the wilderness in order to stalk wild animals, or catch salmon, or run with the wild wolves; one time, he even spends four days stalking a huge bull moose. Returning to camp, Buck discovers that everyone, including John Thornton, has been killed by Yeehat Indians. Without thinking and without fear, Buck attacks the entire group of Indians, killing several and driving the rest away in such fear that the valley in which Buck revenges his master is from then on considered by the Indians to be a demonic place. After John Thornton's death, Buck is free of all his attachments to civilization, and so he joins the wild wolves, and as legend has it, he becomes the sire of a new breed of wild dogs which still exists in the wild places of the Great North, loping through the cold nights, with Buck leading them, singing "the song of the pack. ".