The system has been explained in a little more detail after we asked about it in the NorseQuest discord, and I figured I'd share it here:
The system is run on d100s. Each success comes from achieving a 100 total result. For each 100 you also roll an extra d100 to add to your total.
We currently have 3d100 for combat due to our Gunslinger training, and have a flat modifier of 32 - 10 from handgun specialty, 20 from our fancy guns, and 2 from our knife.
So Left Flank requires us to achieve a 200, right flank a 300.
Right Flank, the risky path, has about a 41% chance of paying off. If we gamble on it and win, it could be huge for us, since equipment is seemingly very impactful (the guns being +20). Skills seem even more impactful, and exp is one of the rewards.
But the middle of the road path is closer to a 70% likelihood of succeeding. Getting one reward is better than getting none.
[X] Take the Right Flank, where none of your kin are (High Risk (3 Successes), High Reward (2x Roll))
Okay, with that the maths goes like (Based on Kitty's Odds Estimation)
Right Flank has ~41% chance of getting 2x rewards, so 0.82 Rewards on average
Left Flank has ~70% chance of getting 1x rewards, so 0.7 Rewards on average
Reserves has ~100% (presumably) chance of getting 0.5x rewards, so 0.5 Rewards on average.
[X] Take the Right Flank, where none of your kin are (High Risk (3 Successes), High Reward (2x Roll)
Roll 1: 131+32=163, X
Roll 2: 67+63=140, XX
Roll 3: 14+40=54, End
Fail by 1. Defense absorbs the hit. Lucky, lucky
0~0~0
The Living Saints say that twilight is the time of death. Sunup and sunset are the two most dangerous times of the day, for they are when cultivation is weakest. Transitions and crossing thresholds rapidly sap strength from soul and there are no greater changes than day to night and night to day.
Why, exactly, twilight times made cultivation weak is a mystery to Kell, but he's seen his parents in the mornings and evenings enough to make an educated guess. If cultivation is breathing, then yawns are chokepoints. Steady breathing is the key to good cultivation, at least from what Kell has gathered. Any disruption of breath disrupts the ability to cultivate. Disrupting cultivation evens otherwise unbalanced odds.
Regardless, twilight is when men across all the lands are most on-guard. It is the time when paranoia reigns supreme and tension builds endlessly to ever-greater heights. Stress floods the body as eyes trace the horizon, searching eternally for an invisible foe that may never surface. Gray hair at a young age is a common sight for those on the path of the watchman and few have an easy time making friends.
As Kell and five others take position on the right flank, he sees for himself how stress and anxiety twists the Nordenite mind.
"I feel like I'm being watched," one of the three soon-to-be-ambushed Nordenites grumbles as he clutches his musket tight to his chest, pale eyes scanning across the rocky, arid hills. With a smoothbore weapon like that, the man probably couldn't hit the broadside of a canyon at thirty paces.
"Probably are," another of the men, this one fiddling with a crank-assisted crossbow, replies as he carefully oils and cleans the iron limbs of his weapon. "Surranese mutts have no idea how to properly clear out monsters." He turns his head to the side and spits, the ground sizzling from where the acidic glob splattered. "There's probably a half-dozen suckle-snakes just waiting for you to close your eyes so they can fill you with their digestive juices and drink you from the inside out."
The first man shivers as he growls, rounding on his nominal ally with balled fists and twitching eyes, "Man Alive, will you just shut up?! You always do this, always! Always talking about how there's monsters in the wilderness just waiting to kill me! Well, I'm sick and tired of it!" He stamps a foot against the ground, eyes falling away from the horizon and to his relaxing ally.
To Kell's immediate left, Surt Korlesh—a man of a somewhat dour disposition—shoulders his rifle and carefully lines up a shot on the tall musketman. Likewise, the other firearm-wielding Surranese all pick targets and wait for attack. The few melee-specialists among them—a pair of burly twins by the names of Kol and Kal Indesh—ready their swords and spears for the coming rush of violence.
For Kell's part, he pulls back on the man who had yet to speak. Cradling a bundle of javelins in the crook of his elbow, he sits with his back to the others and his eyes fixed firmly on the setting sun. Cylinders spin into place as he recalls the day's earlier lessons.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In his mind's eye, Kell pulls both triggers in a synchronized dance. Hammers kick as guns jump, flying bullets leaving spiral-tails of disturbed air in their wake. Flowers blossom from the man's side, staining the dark green robes a foul brown in their passage. He slumps, spears falling from his arm as he spills across the ground.
"In three," Surt's whisper draws Kell from his thoughts, "two," Kell's fingers tighten around the triggers as his heart thunders like clouds in the sky, "one," breathing picks up as death rears its ugly head and the man-his-target uncorks a water lung to take a shallow swig.
"Go."
Guns roar to life as bullets fall like rain. Kell's triggers touch metal as hammers swing forward and twin revolvers buck in his hands. Bullets buzz like angry hornets as they kick up dirt and sand in their passage.
Water spills from uncorked pouch as listless fingers spasm. Javelin collapses in on himself as his namesakes tumble free from his grasp and bounce all over the ground. His jaw goes slack as eyes turn glassy and a final breath escapes his lungs. Red, brilliant, lively red, leaks from the ragged holes in his robes—exactly where Kell had imagined, exactly over the spinal column.
Crossbow falls as well, having been the target of both Surt and another rifleman. One slug took him through the chest and sent him spinning to the ground while the other—originally aimed at center mass—carved a canoe through the top of his head.
Musket, however, has a significantly better reaction time than either of his now-dead compatriots. The moment thunder roared in a clear blue sky, he threw himself to the ground and away from the hail of gunfire. Weapon in hand, Musket rolls around as he tries to shoot back.
Leaping to his feet, Kell's thumbs crank hammers back as he tracks the Nordenite's movements. Twin pistols follow salted eyes as sights fill with center mass and fingers tighten around body-warmed triggers.
In his mind's eye, Musket falls back as bullets crunch through his chest. It would be so easy, so, so easy, to pull the triggers and end it here. All it would take is a twitch of the fingers and Musket would be dead, his ka failing him in the sundown time.
So, why can't Kell pull the trigger?
Kell looks down to his hands to see them empty and his pistols nowhere to be seen. He's on his back, head turned to the sky, as an odd warmth pools against the front of his body. Fingers throb with sharp, stabbing pain and cold, unnatural numbness in equal measure as he pokes and prods at his breast. His fingers find the ragged hole in his robes and, through it, feel the odd wet warmth spreading across his chest.
Like all emotions, his horror is an odd, muted thing. Where others may scream and sob at the prospects of looming death, Kell tightens his jaw and focuses on his breathing. In and out, over and over again. His heart hammers, his head throbs, but his lungs are still intact—though every breath sends shivers of sharp pain shooting across his ribs. But as long as his lungs work, as long as air flows through his blood, his ka—even as unrealized as it is—still fills his body with strength.
Because he can breathe, because his ka still flows, means that his lungs are undamaged—a statistical improbability given where he'd been hit. As he lifts his fingers to his eyes, the lack of telltale red shines stark.
It was water, water from his water skin. Thank the Gods and all their Saints, and thank Man, honor to the forebear.
"You live, Kell?" Surt's face blocks out the sun, bushy brows folded down in concern.
"I am fine," Kell replies as he picks himself up, every motion of his forefingers sending shockwaves of pain shooting up and down his spine. They're swelling up an ugly shade of purple, a poor omen for his hands. "How goes the battle?"
"It's over and the children are secured," Surt frowns, his brows staying steady, "but, you're sure you're fine? That ka-shot hit you dead on and that's not something an un-realized just walks off."
A flicker of a frown crosses Kell's face as, with a tilt of the head, he considers the question, "My fingers may be broken, I assume from the force wrenching my pistols from my grip, but I imagine that twilight-time sapped the ka-shot of enough power for me to survive."
Surt's frown deepens, but he lets the topic drop. His hands disappear into the folds of his robes as he rustles around for a scant few heartbeats. Finding whatever it is he's looking for, his hands reappear with a pair of familiar—if dirtier—revolvers, "I grabbed your pistols for you."
"My thanks," Kell bows his head as he gingerly tucks the offered weapons into his holsters. "What condition are the children in?"
Surt glances towards the top of the hill, where Father is just now cresting, as renewed respect floods his gaze, "Jarek knows more than me, though they're all alive and breathing."
A flicker of fear creases Father's face as he lays single eye on Kell's dark-stained clothes, but fades as he recognizes that it's only water. Dashing across the short distance as ka clouds swirl around him, his thick arms pull Kell into a tight embrace that has his ribs singing songs of pain, "Oh, Kell! It's my fault and I'm sorry for it!"
Kell's brows twist in as he ignores the pain in his ribs, "Father, I do not understand. What are you sorry for?"
Father pulls back, relieving the pressure on Kell's ribs in the process, but leaves his hands on Kell's shoulders, "You aren't ready and I'm sorry for bringing you here when you're still just a boy. "
"Jarek," Surt's voice is steady and level, but with a slight edge, "Kell slew a foeman before the eyes of his people. By word of our forebears, he is a man with all that entails."
Father stiffens as his eye widens, equal measures of pride and worry warring for dominance in his dark gaze, "I... I see." Swallowing his apologies, Father stands straight and, after a moment's hesitation, releases his hold on Kell's shoulders. "Kell, your actions are now your own and I can no longer bear weight for you."
"I will make you proud, Father," a deep bow of the head follows Kell's words, though a flicker of something indiscernible passes across both Father and Surt's faces. "But, I must ask after my siblings. What is their condition?"
"The spell is strong and difficult to break," Father scowls as he focuses on the new subject with all his might. "We can do it, though we'll have to bring them back to Surran first." His eye scans the horizon as the sky grows ever-darker. "It won't be safe with all the bodies, not with sundown soon approaching." Nodding to himself, Father turns his gaze on Kell, "Kell, I won't tell you what to do, but I recommend resting your injuries in the wagons."
Kell nods and does just that. All the while, the events of the day play out over and over again. He could've done better, so much better, but his inexperience found him lacking.
Resolving to do better, he turns his salted eyes to the horizon, to Surran.
Where a pillar of black smoke now floods the sky.
A voice, Kell doesn't catch who, screams fear into the twilight hour, "Saints' Bones, Surran is burning!"
In the chaotic frenzy that follows, the men of burning Surran decide to rush back as quickly as they can. Surt and two others are staying behind to guard the sleeping children, but the rest will return to Surran.
Of course, as a man in truth now, Kell has final say in where and what he will do.
[ ] Return to Surran and face the dangers there
[ ] Stay with the children (Arc End)
(+3 XP for surviving)
(You have 0 Defense remaining, next combat failure will have lasting consequences)
0~0~0
AN: And so Kell becomes a man in the eyes of his people, but all is not well for Surran.
For the record, you will find out either way what's going on.
This vote decides on whether you end the introduction arc here—and get an opportunity to spend your XP—or to push your luck with whatever is happening in Surran.
You also have no saves (Defense) remaining, meaning that any failure in combat will have lasting consequences (such as losing a limb, items, or other)
For the record, you will find out either way what's going on.
This vote decides on whether you end the introduction arc here—and get an opportunity to spend your XP—or to push your luck with whatever is happening in Surran.
You also have no saves (Defense) remaining, meaning that any failure in combat will have lasting consequences (such as losing a limb, items, or other)
For all they say we are a man, we are not to their level. We have no defenses and no Ka abilities, so being foolhardy would likely result in permanent problems.
