[EQII] Lion’s Mane Vestige Room – The Baubleshire

While I wait for my new microphone to show up, I thought I’d show off one of my favourite housing builds. This home belongs to my halfling inquisitor, Petites. She lives in Baubleshire, and I think this home is a fantastic example of how you don’t need to own a big flashy house in order to have it represent your character well.

These houses tend to have very high ceilings which just didn’t suit the small halfling aesthetic, so I used ornate ferrite tables expanded to their largest size to create room pillars and lower ceilings.

A cozy fireplace with some books, perfect for those rainy Baubleshire days.

It just wouldn’t be a halfling home without some sort of kitchen – and of course, a lot of food.

A seating area, complete with aquarium. Keep in mind that all of these smaller rooms are inside a single inn room. I have the 2nd room blocked off and currently used for storage.

Finally, the bedroom. Everything in this house is cozy and halfling sized. It’s not too crowded, but still displays some fantastic collectables that I’ve earned over the years. This is one of my smallest builds, both in physical size, and in items used. It’s also one of my favourites.

Once I get my microphone and I’m all set up to record some videos again I’ll be posting tours of this (and my other homes) over on YouTube, so be sure to watch this space for details on that. Next up, I’ll be showing off my personal library, where I have over 700 player-written books that I’ve collected over the years!

As always, happy gaming, no matter where you find yourself.

[EVE Online] War Update

Filed by Gallente Citizen 4586793463

It began like most disasters in New Eden do — not with an explosion, but with a series of CONCORD notifications.

At first, Gallente Citizen thought it was a glitch. The Alliance feed kept lighting up, a steady drumbeat of messages from CONCORD that all read the same:

CONCORD War Update: Post Nut Clarity With The Boys has left Pandemic Horde.
CONCORD War Update: Our Sanctum has left Pandemic Horde.
CONCORD War Update: u.k militia forces has left Pandemic Horde.

And on it went.

The sound became background noise in the clone bay — the soft ping of corporate departures rolling in like rain on a tin roof. By the time Fusion Enterprises Ltd and Inner Legacy were gone, most pilots had stopped pretending not to notice.

In the hangars of F7C-H0, pilots floated between ships in that quiet, aimless way people do when they aren’t sure if they still have a home. Crates of ammunition sat unopened. Ship fittings were half-finished. The market buy orders looked like they’d been placed by ghosts.

Captain Johnny Trousersnake’s name was still pinned to the top of every alliance broadcast, but the tone in his pings had started to change — less rallying, more “we’re monitoring the situation.”

[Trousersnake Broadcast]:
“We’ve had some corporations make different choices recently. We wish them well. The Horde remains strong and united.”

In local, someone replied:

“Define strong.”

The list kept growing.

Royalty. has left Pandemic Horde.
Death’sEnd has left Pandemic Horde.
Splash Inc. has left Pandemic Horde.
Sand Storm Town INC. has left Pandemic Horde.

Every line felt like another plank being pried off a sinking ship.

By the time Office of Krabbing Regulation and Auditing left, Gallente Citizen could only laugh. The accountants had fled. That was never a good sign.

The comms chatter grew restless. Some pilots were angry, others mournful, a few just relieved to have an excuse to go somewhere else. Everyone had a theory — that Gobbins’ departure announcement had shaken the leadership, that Johnny wasn’t ready, that the move to Cloud Ring was a mistake.

Gallente Citizen listened quietly, leaning against a shuttle wing, the blue glow of Cloud Ring’s nebula reflecting off their visor.

“Are you going too?” someone asked over fleet chat.

“Nah,” Gallente replied. “I’ve already unpacked my stuff.”

There was a pause. Then someone chuckled.

“So you’re staying?”

“For now.”

It wasn’t loyalty. It was inertia. Horde might be bleeding corporations, but it was still home — at least until something better came along.

When MASS, one of the older names in the ticker, finally left, the alliance feed fell silent. Even CONCORD seemed tired of reporting it.

Golden Fleece has left Pandemic Horde.

The last one.

After that, nothing.

The absence of sound was deafening.

Gallente Citizen opened the Alliance Members window. The list looked thinner now — hollowed out. But there were still names there. Familiar ones. The pilots who stuck around not because of promises or speeches, but because they hadn’t yet decided to quit.

They closed the window and smiled faintly.

“Still plenty of us left to lose.”

Then they climbed into their Zealot, powered up the engines, and began another patrol of F7C’s gates. Not because it mattered, but because routine was comforting.

Somewhere in a distant comms relay, another CONCORD message queued up, waiting to be sent.
Gallente Citizen didn’t bother checking who it was this time.

They’d see soon enough.

[EVE Online] The Exodus to F7C-H0

Filed by Gallente Citizen 4586793463

R-AG was dying, and everyone knew it.

The alarms had been constant for days — not the sharp kind that demanded action, but the slow, low groan of a structure bleeding out. The once-golden lights of the Keepstar had dimmed to a tired amber, and clone bays across the system began to blink red one by one.

[Station Broadcast]:
“Clone service unavailable. Please contact your nearest medical technician.”

There were no medical technicians left. They’d packed up with everyone else.

Gallente Citizen’s final clone in R-AG was gone before they even realized it — the system logs reporting “data corruption” in a tone that sounded almost apologetic. The armor alarms followed soon after. The Keepstar’s outer plating flickered, burned, and went silent.

It wasn’t an explosion. It was a surrender.

And so, they left.

The evacuation to MTO2-2 was quiet — quieter than it had any right to be. The Goons still had their camps, but even their smartbombs seemed halfhearted, the way a guard dog might bark at a fence it knows won’t stand much longer.

Gallente Citizen flew through the wreckage of R-AG’s final stand, the twisted husks of Zealots and Ravens tumbling together in lazy orbit. The once-proud Keepstar loomed behind, a hollow cathedral of smoke and fire.

[Fleet Ping]: “Form up in MTO2-2. Town hall soon™.”

The word “soon” did a lot of heavy lifting.

By the time they docked, hundreds of other pilots were already crowding local comms — half of them still disoriented from deathcloning, the other half demanding to know if Gobbins was really gone this time.

He wasn’t. But the news was still monumental.

[Town Hall Transmission Begins]

“The next leader of Pandemic Horde will be… Johnny Trousersnake.”

Silence.

Then laughter. Then disbelief. Then a rising tide of pings and pantaloon memes flooding alliance chat.

Gallente Citizen listened without comment. They’d seen worse transitions. Once, back in lowsec, a corporation had elected a guy whose sole qualification was owning a microphone. At least Trousersnake had that.

“We’re moving to F7C-H0 in Cloud Ring. We’ll rebuild there. We’ll start over.”

A new home. A fresh start. A region most of the fleet couldn’t even pronounce.

Still — it was something.

Gallente Citizen self destructed to Cistuvaert V — a school system, quiet, untouched by nullsec politics. The aura of new capsuleers training at the Academy filled local with chatter and optimism.

It was peaceful there. Too peaceful.

They lingered for a moment, staring out at the nebula from the docking ring, remembering what it was like before clone bays, before citadels, before alliances with names like “Horde” and “Imperium.”

Then, with a sigh, they set their course: Cistuvaert → F7C-H0.

The journey was uneventful. No gatecamps, no smartbombs, no bubble traps. Just empty space and a few curious CONCORD patrols that didn’t bother scanning them. It was almost unsettling — as though the universe itself was taking a break from trying to kill anyone.

When the shuttle dropped out of warp over F7C, the sight was strange.

A Fortizar, bearing the logo of The Initiative. Not Horde’s.

But it would do.

Gallente Citizen docked, claimed a hangar slot, and installed a new clone. The sterile hum of the medical bay was oddly comforting.

[Clone Technician]: “Welcome to your new home.”

[Gallente Citizen]: “We’ll see.”

They sat on the observation deck, watching the soft blues of Cloud Ring stretch into infinity. Somewhere out there, Trousersnake was making speeches. Somewhere else, Gobbins was still pretending he hadn’t left yet.

But here, in this quiet moment, there was no war. No shouting. No drama. Just the hum of a Fortizar waiting to become something more.

Gallente Citizen opened their logbook, typed the title, and saved it.

‘The Exodus to F7C: Notes from the Quiet Between Wars.’

Then they leaned back in their chair and whispered,

“At least the trip was peaceful.”

[EVE Online] The Breakout at R-AG7W

Filed by Gallente Citizen 4586793463

Three fleets, one plan.

Two of them would muster in MTO2-2 — a solid forward point. The third, smaller fleet, would stage from R-AG, still under the watchful eyes (and smartbombs) of the Goons’ hellcamp.

Gallente Citizen 4586793463 was in that third fleet.

They hadn’t volunteered. They’d just clicked “X up” too quickly in the ping channel, and now they were part of something called “Fleet Three: Maelstrom Shield” under the command of Captain Nina.

It was supposed to be straightforward: break the camp, and slowly head to rendezvous with the others. Easy. Routine. Practically tradition.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

The staging hangars in R-AG were alive with comms chatter as the fleet assembled.

[Fleet Broadcast]: “Maelstroms only. Shield logi. Bring ammo.”

Gallente Citizen had never owned a Maelstrom.
They were expensive, loud, and looked like flying furniture.

Still, they borrowed one. Temporarily.

Then, minutes before undock, a new ping came through.

[Captain Nina]: “Change of plans. Zealots instead.”

A moment of silence followed, broken only by a confused Maelstrom pilot typing “???” in fleet chat.

[Someone]: “Didn’t we just buy the Maelstroms?”

[Captain Nina]: “Yes. Sell them back. We’re going Zealots. Lasers are prettier.”

[Fleet Member]: “Why?”

[Captain Nina]: “Because gold pen.”

It was an explanation that explained nothing, but it was Horde, and that was enough.

Within twenty minutes, the Maelstrom fleet had become a tangle of mismatched Zealots. Some plated, some not, some accidentally armor-tanked and shield-tanked, all of them eager and slightly terrified.

Gallente Citizen fit one with leftover modules and prayed the lasers would at least fire.

When they undocked, the void was chaos. The R-AG camp still burned with hostile bubbles, but Captain Nina’s voice was steady.

[Captain Nina]: “Keep me at 1,000 range, We’re breaking out.”

They warped as one. Or close enough to one. Explosions bloomed in the dark, a dozen Zealots vanished instantly, vaporized mid-warp, but the fleet punched through.

Against the odds, they reached MTO2-2. The two waiting fleets cheered as the ragged Zealot gang arrived, smoke still trailing from their hulls.

Three fleets now stood united: two proper, one improvised. It was messy, loud, and very much Horde.

Their next jump brought them into HD-JVQ, where the Goons were waiting.

Ravens. Dozens of them. Sleek, expensive, smug.

[Captain Nina]: “Primary the Raven Navies! Burn!”

Beams lanced out. Explosions followed. A few Raven Navies popped gloriously — but then local spiked.

[FC]: “How many more of them?”

[Scout]: “Yes.”

It was not the answer anyone wanted.

The sky filled with missiles and bombs. Horde ships melted under the barrage. Pandemic Horde tried to hold the line, but the enemy numbers were obscene.

[Captain Nina]: “…Stand down. Pull out if you can.”

The silence that followed was almost reverent. A few typed “???” in fleet chat again. One Zealot posted a sad emoji.

But the order stood.

The fleet warped off in tatters, their victory limited to a few smoking Raven wrecks and a lot of existential confusion.

Gallente Citizen’s Zealot didn’t survive the retreat. Their pod awoke in R-AG, the familiar sound of station alarms echoing in the background.

From the observation deck, they watched the system burn, the dual Keepstars glinting against a backdrop of wrecks and bubble fields.

Someone in local typed:

“We killed a few Raven Navies tho.”

Gallente Citizen just leaned back in their chair, coffee in hand, and muttered,

“Gold pen, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.”

Then they opened a fresh notepad entry and typed the title for their next report:

‘The Breakout at R-AG: A Study in Improvised Zealotry.’

[EVE Online] The Broseidon Gambit

Filed by Gallente Citizen 4586793463

Captain Gobbins announced he was stepping down.

Not gone, exactly — just stepping down, in the same way a capsuleer says they’re taking a break from EVE and then logs in six hours later to check the market.

The announcement dropped into the alliance broadcast system mid-cycle, sandwiched between a doctrine reminder and a mining tax clarification:

[Alliance Broadcast]:
“I’ll be stepping back from leadership for now. Continue business as usual. Train Maelstroms. o7”

And that was it. No fanfare. No farewell fleet. Just an oddly understated endnote from the man who’d led one of New Eden’s biggest coalitions for years.

Within minutes, the ping was buried beneath hundreds of messages arguing about whether the new staging system in R-AG should have a Keepstar emoji in the MOTD.

Business, as ever, continued.

Meanwhile, in the same constellation, something strange was happening.

Captain Broseidon — multiboxing mining specialist, self-proclaimed industrial visionary, and chronic overachiever — had been busy. He claimed to be “strengthening the region’s infrastructure.” What he didn’t mention was that his idea of infrastructure involved anchoring an entirely new Keepstar right beside Horde’s existing one in R-AG.

When questioned, he reportedly told someone in fleet chat:

“Don’t worry, it’s strategic redundancy.”

By the time anyone noticed, the structure was already anchoring — a massive, gleaming citadel parked less than a grid away from Horde’s own Keepstar, the space equivalent of building a rival’s palace directly across the street and spray-painting your name on the front.

A director pinged the leadership channel:

[Director’s Channel]:
“Anyone else seeing this anchoring timer in R-AG?”

[Another]:
“Yeah, it’s… ours?”

[First Director]:
“Not exactly. It’s Broseidon’s.”

The silence that followed could have frozen a sun.

[Director]:
“You’re kidding.”

[Reply]:
“Nope. And rumor says he’s talking to Goons.”

Three minutes remained on the anchoring timer.

Three minutes between “strange personal project” and “diplomatic catastrophe.”

The directors moved fast. Broseidon was expelled from the alliance before the timer hit zero, and the structure’s fate was sealed — it would now take six days to finish anchoring, and Broseidon was now a man without a home, staring at his half-finished citadel from the outside.

But if the story ended there, it wouldn’t be EVE.

Because Goons came.

They didn’t just come — they hell camped R-AG. Carriers, dictors, titans, bubbles stretching across every gate. Horde pilots logged in to find local spiking like a fever, and pings flying faster than cynos.

[Alliance Broadcast]:
“Do not undock capitals in R-AG. Repeat, DO NOT. Broseidon has made… choices.”

As the siege dragged on, someone updated the MOTD:

“Welcome to R-AG: now featuring two Keepstars, one alliance crisis, and an existential question about leadership succession.”

Some whispered that Gobbins’ decision to step back had somehow sparked the chaos. Others said it was just Horde being Horde — that entropy was the natural state of things, and leadership changes were merely punctuation marks in an ongoing farce.

Gallente Citizen 4586793463, sipping their lukewarm coffee from a borrowed station office, summarized the situation succinctly:

“Captain Gobbins is stepping down, but no one’s sure what that means.

Captain Broseidon defected to Goons and built a Keepstar beside ours.

The Goons hell camped the system in solidarity.

Horde is fine. Everything is fine. Nothing is on fire except R-AG, and that’s probably normal.”

They paused, saving the report to their datapad before adding one last note:

“New title suggestion for the alliance newsfeed:
‘The Broseidon Gambit — or How to Lose a Keepstar in Three Minutes.’”