Sorcerous Intent-40 Focus
Target-250
Critical Range 1-31
Roll=7 (Critical Success)
The blizzard howls, the storm rages as winter comes to a close in a violent crescendo of noise and hail. The logs display their impact marks even inside the cabin. Outside, people huddle in the most well-constructed buildings as their prayers to spirits reach your ears even over the noise.
You are wrestling with the blizzard itself, unbeknownst to them. Pitting the power of the blood against all the fury of nature. It roils and refuses you, battering at your spirit which you lay bare in the wind with a howl, there is a realization in your heart.
This is no normal storm, this is no earthy event, the skies here have a lord, and it is that whom you battle. Recontextualizing your efforts brings to mind the idea that should lead to success. Stalking towards the doorway, you practically rip it off its hinges, body flexed and tight with exertion and effort, and step into the chest-high snow.
Pushing it out of the way, you climb atop the snow banks as hail smashes into your body, breaking bone with audible cracks which send the villagers that can hear it into silence. The broken bones snap back into place as bruised flesh plumps to health.
You roar a challenge to the skies, rippling the snow with its volume and sending a wall of noise which deflects much of the hail for a moment. With the roar, your soul comes alight, stretching for miles around and gripping the storm with the power of stolen life. The blizzard roars against you, battering you further as you force it to slow.
Hail calms, the roar slows as you wonder work, spreading your soul thinner and thinner until the storm itself is caught in its abyssal grip, and then you halt it. The wind dies, the skies part, the sun shines. Falling to a knee, you bleed freely from your mouth onto the snow below, joints icing and muscles slowing with cold as crystals form in your body.
Yet, you are victorious.
Weather-Witchery achieved despite peculiar difficulties of the area. Magic added to the listing. For now, you broke the blizzard and kept the sun shining even in the dead of winter.
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The Issue of Means-10 Focus
Target-100
Critical Range 1
Roll=39 (Success)
You've cornered the smith, he is a large man, coming nearly to your shoulders in height and broad as one would expect. On his wall lie ingots of copper, tin and iron, haphazardly put together on the wood backed with rough stone that comprises what he calls a home.
His breathing is heavy, his heartbeat racing and fear delectably oozing off him whilst you easily handle his forge, dragging the anvil further away from the heat-producing furnace itself one-handed whilst giving a sharp gesture for him to approach and observe.
Smithing was something you've only a tad bit of experience in with certain rituals requiring it at times if memory serves. That's more than enough to teach something here, the examples of Roman steel coming to mind, not that you are aware of how that is made.
He nears after a snarl leaves your lips when he dares not move at your demand, and as you begin working, he watches with wonder as you cleave coal into chunks, hammer what you recognize as pig iron with brute power and begin the alloying of steel from the remaining raw iron chunks in his workshop.
He notes down mixture amounts as you both communicate by gesture, scale and action, even as the heat of the forge scalds your unprotected hands, you heat it further with inhuman heaves of the bellows until even his apron is not sufficient to fully protect him, forcing gloves and distance lest he is burnt.
Finally, you drag the ingot free of the sand and clay mould used, presenting it to the smith with a noise of sizzling flesh, before proceeding to drop it on his anvil, still glowing hot. A task complete, and easily at that.
Introduced crucible steel to the locals, not exactly easy for them to do, but at least they are aware of it now.
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Bread Before Circuses-10 Focus
Target-100
Critical Range 1-13
Roll=2 (Critical Success)
The thin, bony bodies of the mortals are disconcerting. They speak of vulnerability to illness, weakness of body, weakness of mind. Their diet of dried meat and bone stews in the winter with the barest of bread or root vegetables makes the scent of their blood duller, easier to resist certainly, but also, likely, slightly less filling.
An issue to solve, but how?
Long observations of the village pull your mind towards an idea. The villagers crave bread, something filling with origin in base grains to bulk out their bodies and fill their bellies where meat and berry cannot, but the land nearby simply is not useful in any real way, it freezes every other night and summer does not provide enough time for anything beyond base berries to grow.
But the solution comes, thankfully, due to your mortal years. One morning in the depths of summer where the weather has warmed you see it. A large barley-like thing with heavy beads of sustaining grains. Gently brushing a hand over the plant, you tear it out of the ground and return to the village.
Upon grabbing the attention of a young woman and forcing her to sit, you grind the plant into flour with your bare hands following it with a dash of snow nearby, melted by her hand, quickly pulled over by you, into water.
The water forms the flour into an admittedly thin dough, but presents your case well enough. She stares at it confused, words leaving her mouth "Düşünmedim, haýyş, maňa näme görkezjek bolýanyňy bilemok-Aaa!"
Grabbing her by the body and rushing out of the village, you stop ahead of the patch you found, dropping her as she catches her breath from the acceleration. Staring forward, she expresses a form of verbal surprise, standing and going near the large patch of these things you have found. She glances at you before turning to the plants and starting to gather as much as she can by hand.
Local grains growing well enough this year due to weather manipulations, enough to produce seed stock and bread for the season.
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With the year passing, winter nears once again, colossal winds bearing the fury of cold into the land, smashing apart that which was built unsteadily for temporary use and forcing the living into their homes once again.
But then, a scent hits your nose, intoxicating in its fullness. Healthy men full of vigorous blood, merely a mile away. Standing, you have to measure yourself before you rush out too suddenly, remembering that whilst the clouds cover the sun currently, trusting your life to the vagaries of nature is ill-advised.
But then, how will you approach this, unable to seek the enemies freely nor walk outside without exerting yourself and your hunger?
[X] Assault them now, call upon storms and shadow to conceal you fully from the Daystar and ravage them. Their blood calls to you. (+1 Hunger)
[X] Await their entrance into the village, trusting the clouds to stay long enough for you to take their lives. (May put villagers at risk)
[X] Something Else?
Current Hunger: 7/10
