Death Stranding Cheat Engine Table

[Billy Cregin]

NoteA standalone solution for the Director's Cut edition is now available.

The tools allow for support of any display aspect ratio and real-time FOV adjustment in Death Stranding. The gameplay and engine-rendered cutscenes will properly fill the screen, while the state of the pre-rendered cutscenes will depend on the used solution.

Option 1:

A trainer automatically detecting any resolution and allowing to make the zoomed pre-rendered cutscenes 16:9. Left alignment of the pre-rendered cutscenes is a known issue. The tool also allows to adjust FOV at any aspect ratio.

Thanks for creating this. Unfortunately, I can't get it to work for me. I launch the game then launch the trainer, press F5 and F6 but don't see the text light up green as with the FOV section and the aspect ratio and resolution are not available in the game menu. Any idea why this is happening?

There is a separate trainer for the Director's Cut, as linked from the first line of the description. Beyond that, I'm not sure what could be the issue. I have both of the game versions installed and I don't remember the original getting any updates since I last tested it.

Whenever I try to download this chrome stops it, then when I override chrome windows defender jumps in and says its a virus and detects Program:Win32/Uwamson.A!ml and deletes it immediately, and even if I wanted to I can't seem to override this one.

It was possible to change the fov using the cheat engine table in nexus mod.

However, as a 32:9 user, cutting off the top and bottom screens in cutscenes seems to be too big a factor in the game experience.

I noticed something odd while testing.

I own the normal Death Stranding version of the epic version, but the non-director's cut version normal version worked.

But the Steam version of the director's cut version of the game does not work.

I play with 3 screens at 5760x1080 and everything works fine except that the HUD is cut both to the left and to the right. Especially the HUD to the right is anoying because of the partly unreadable hints and messages. Is there a solution for this?

Once the author awoke to a painful reflection that he knew no placewell, though his occupation had taken him to many, and that, aftertwenty-five years of describing localities and society, he would beidentified with none.

"Where shall I begin to rove within confines?" he asked, feeling thevacant spaces in his nature: the want of all those birds, forest trees,household habits, weeds, instincts of the brooks, and tints and tones ofthe local species which lie in some neighborhood's compass, and completethe pastoral mind.

Far down this peninsula lies the old town of Snow Hill, on the border ofVirginia; there the pilgrim entered the court-house, and asked to see anearly book of wills, and in it he turned to the name of a maternalancestor, of whom grand tales had been told him by an aged relative. Hisbreath was almost taken by finding the following provisions, datedFebruary 12, 1800:

The next day a doctor took the author on his rounds through "theForest," as a neighboring tract was almost too invidiously called, andthrough a deserted iron-furnace; village almost of the date of thesewills.

Everywhere he went the Entailed Hat seemed, to the stranger in the landof his forefathers, to appear in the vistas, as if some odd, reverend,avoided being was wearing it down the defiles of time. Now like HesterPrynne wearing her Scarlet Letter, and now like Gaston in his Iron Mask,this being took both sexes and different characters, as the authorweighed the probabilities of its existence. At last he began to know it,and started to portray it in a little tale.

The story broke from its confines as his own family generation hadbroken from that forest, and sought a larger hemisphere; yet, whereverthe mystic Hat proceeded, his truant fancy had also been led by hismother's hand.

Often had she told him of old Patty Cannon and her kidnapper's den, andher death in the jail of his native town. He found the legend of thatdreaded woman had strengthened instead of having faded with time, andher haunts preserved, and eye-witnesses of her deeds to be still living.

Hence, this romance has much local truth in it, and is not only thenarration of an episode, but the story of a large region comprehendingthree state jurisdictions, and also of that period when modern lifearose upon the ruins of old colonial caste.[Pg ix]

Princess Anne, as its royal name implies, is an old seat of justice, andgentle-minded town on the Eastern Shore. The ancient county of Somersethaving been divided many years before the revolutionary war, and itscourts separated, the original court-house faded from the world, and theforest pines have concealed its site. Two new towns arose, and flourishyet, around the original records gathered into their plain brickoffices, and he would be a forgetful visitor in Princess Anne who wouldnot say it had the better society. He would get assurances of this from"the best people" living there; and yet more solemn assurances from thetwo venerable churches, Presbyterian and Episcopalian, whosegrave-stones, upright or recumbent, or in family rows, say, in epitaphsLatinized, poetical, or pious, "We belonged to the society of PrincessAnne." That, at least, is the impression left on the visitor as hewanders amid their myrtle and creeper, or receives, on the wide, loamystreets, the bows of the lawyers and their clients.

The first was Jack Wonnell, a poor fellow of some remote origin who hadonce attended an auction, and bought[Pg 2] a quarter gross of beaver hats.Although that happened years before our story opens, and the fashionshad changed, Jack produced a new hat from the stock no oftener than whenhe had well worn its predecessor, and, at the rate of two hats a year,was very slowly extinguishing the store. Like most people who frequentauctions, he was not provident, except in hats, and presented astartling appearance in his patched and shrunken raiment when he mounteda bright, new tile, and took to the sidewalk. His name had become, inall grades of society, "Bell-crown."

The other eccentric citizen was the subject of a real mystery, and evenmore burlesque. He wore a hat, apparently more than a century old, of atall, steeple crown, and stiff, wavy brim, and nearly twice as high asthe cylinders or high hats of these days. It had been rubbed andrecovered and cleaned and straightened, until its grotesque appearancewas infinitely increased. If the wearer had walked out of the court ofKing James I. directly into our times and presence, he could not haveproduced a more singular effect. He did not wear this hat on everyoccasion, nor every day, but always on Sabbaths and holidays, on funeralor corporate celebrations, on certain English church days, and wheneverhe wore the remainder of his extra suit, which was likewise of thegenteel-shabby kind, and terminated by greenish gaiters, nearly thecounterpart, in color, of the hat. To daily business he wore a cheap,common broadbrim, but sometimes, for several days, on freak or unknownmethod, he wore this steeple hat, and strangers in the place generallygot an opportunity to see it.

As soon as the lather-cup and hone were agitated, Samson, withoutinquiry, went into a big green chest in the bedroom over the old woodenstore, and drew out of a leather hat-box the steeple-crown, whereMeshach Milburn himself always sacredly replaced it. Then "Samson Hat,"as the boys called him, exercised his brush vigorously, and put thequeer old head-gear in as formal shape as possible, and he silentlyattended to its rehabilitation through the medium of the village hatter,never leaving the shop until the tile had been repaired, and sufferingnone whatever to handle it except the mechanic. In addition to this,Samson cooked his master's food, and performed rough work around thestore, but had no other known qualification for a confidential servantexcept his bodily power.

He was now old, probably sixty, but still a most formidable pugilist;and he had caught, running afoot, the last wild deer in the county.Though not a drinking man Samson Hat never let a year pass withouthaving a personal battle with some young, willing, and powerful negro.His physical and mental system seemed to require some such periodicalindulgence, and he measured every negro who came to town solely in thelight of his prowess. At the appearance of some Herculean orclean-chested athlete, Samson's eye would kindle, his smile[Pg 4] start up,and his friendly salutation would be: "You're a good man! 'Most asgood as me!" He was never whipped, rumor said, but by an inoffensiveblack class-leader whom he challenged and compelled to fight.

Whenever Samson indulged his gladiatorial propensities he disappearedinto the forest whence he came, and being a free man of mentalindependence equal to his nerve, he merely waited in his lonely cabinuntil Meshach Milburn sent him word to return. Then silently the oldnegro resumed his place, looked contrition, took the few bitter,overbearing words of his master silently, and brushed the ancient hat.

Meshach kept him respectably dressed, but paid him no wages; the negrohad what he wanted, but wanted little; on more than one occasion thecourt had imposed penalties on Samson's breaches of the peace, and helay in jail, unsolicitous and proud, until Meshach Milburn paid thefine, which he did grudgingly; for money was Meshach's sole pursuit, andhe spent nothing upon himself.

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