They eat people. I don't want to criticize their culinary preferences, but you know? I suspect Seram will not be too bothered about this.
Edit: Ninja'd
A Simple Transaction
- Thread starter Rihaku
- Start date
- Original
Edit: Ninja'd
Rihaku
The Internet
...So, just to clear, you are willing to risk several months of having "can die to random events" low physical stats in exchange for this 1-2% possible increase in power?
I'm sure he was very offended by being the target of their culinary depredations specifically, though he may or may not care about the general case.
They attack him by sight and are implied to eat people.
Even if humans are just as big assholes (uncertain but not necessarily wrong), not killing orcs is hilariously impractical and, unless there are conveniently farmable powerful non-sentients around, we have to murderhobo someone if we want to murderhobo at all, which we do.
Might as well be the ones that attack us and give more XP per capita.
Lealope
Not yet invincible
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Better than nothing means horrendously inefficient as opposed to completely useless. It's still much worse than training Amplitude or killing orcs. We do not have the resources to make physical training productive. And our current Will is on the character sheet.
Sure and, if the nobles do end up locking us out of any benefits we kind of really need anyways or it turns out we gotta murder the crown prince or whatever, we can turn around and take advantage of the fact that, while they had us kill tons of orcs to consolidate their own strength, ours increased exponentially and just maybe our by now feared and well-developed martial prowess allows us to intimidate and impress the
Bit of a toss-up in regards to how much of a grudge the orcs hold, but having butchered a sizable part of their people already has to count for something, even if it isn't Presence: Intimidation.
Salty
Shadow Cabal Assumptor Supreme
- Location
- Sun, Moon, Talia
- Pronouns
- I/Me
We're not immune to mind manipulation. We are somewhat immunized to assaults on our Soul, but I wouldn't trust the Accursed to have made it fully immune to all avenues of attack so soon.
I recognize that the behavior exhibited thus far is quite horrific by the standards of modern morality and believe that all of Seram's current action thus far have been justified. My argument is that as far as Seram is aware the horrific actions have been demonstrated by a small selection of isolated individuals and cannot be assumed to be the default behavior common to all members of the Orcish race. Seram should also recognize that even though many cultures throughout human history have regularly conducted similar or worse raids the idea that all Humans are irredeamly evil to the extent that hunting them for profiit is morally acceptable would be considered ridiculous.
Seram does not currently possess enough information to justify the killing of Orcs based purely on their race. The result of this is that choosing to embark on a campaign of Orcish genocide in order to rapidly gain EXP should be considered an extremely evil action that runs counter to the personality thus far demonstrated by Seram and thst would be condemmed by the standards of conventional morality[/QUOTE]
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Shard
One and Many
- Location
- Malaysia
We're immune to both mind and soul attacks beyond a certain allowable threshold. I'm uncertain what that 'allowable threshold' is.
The Accursed would certainly take basic, negligible cost measures to protect his Cursebearers. They do ease the curse he's suffering under, after all, and the ease-off is greater as they grow in power.
For power, Seram has accepted a near eternal job of slaughtering people. Maybe he decides not to go through with it in the end and accepts death, but as long as he can make the case to himself then he's proven willing to get down to the killing. Especially as he's already gotten his feet wet due to the orcs (and the curse) making it easy for him.
As long as the orcs react aggressively to him which again the curse heavily tilts the odds in favor of, even if he's doing something like intruding on their village I think he'll be able to justify killing them just fine to himself. If he runs into some Guru orc that tries to talk him down maybe he starts having some trouble sure.
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Jesus, less moralizing and more stabbing Chaotic Evil XP bags.
[X] Strength
[X] Mark: Orcsbane
Immortal Sheath serves as a nice crutch for our shit constitution, so we can put off raising that for a bit; meanwhile, increasing strength translates to a direct increase in our ability to deal meaningful damage and lug shit around.
More importantly, it fulfills that lonely dream of all shut-ins: a sexy bod with none of that unsexy dieting and effort involved, ugh. Now there's time better spent training Amplitude.
THIS ONE WEIRD TRICK
THE ACCURSED HATES IT
in other news: ORCS LEAVE THIS PLACE
[X] Mark: Orcsbane
Immortal Sheath serves as a nice crutch for our shit constitution, so we can put off raising that for a bit; meanwhile, increasing strength translates to a direct increase in our ability to deal meaningful damage and lug shit around.
More importantly, it fulfills that lonely dream of all shut-ins: a sexy bod with none of that unsexy dieting and effort involved, ugh. Now there's time better spent training Amplitude.
THIS ONE WEIRD TRICK
THE ACCURSED HATES IT
in other news: ORCS LEAVE THIS PLACE
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You're all fools. Seram should instead leverage his formidable skills as a Computer Repair Technician. Is there some way we can perform an SQL injection on the orc databases? Surely the failure of their sophisticated communication network will cause unparalleled dismay among the greenskin scum.
Or put points into his STR/CON and suddenly his shirt doesn't fit. Pecs? Biceps? Seram hasn't needed to undo the top button of his shirt to take it off in years.
it's been a long day
without you, my friend
and i'll tell you all about it when i see you again
~~~
LIVING LIFE A QUARTER MILE AT A TIME
1810 words
~~~
On Vastun, there is only racing.
Racing in the daylight. Racing at night. Racing in the skyways of the hovertrains, or the tunnels of the undercity. Here in Neo-Mega-CyTokyo, descendants of the mountain-men and drift-kings of old race neck and neck, a hunger for the swerve and the need for speed pounding in their very bloodstream.
In the corporate prix, advances in G-Diffusion systems and suspensor frames have made a safe spectacle of the once honourable sport. But in the tunnels and ultracrete parks of the hives, purists of the art drive without regard, eschewing all but the barest of safety technologies in the pursuit of almighty velocity. Every ten years, thousands of night-racers court high-speed termination to see who will be crowned…
SPEED KING.
~~~
Romus bristled. The stranger, after paying his entrance fee to a disquieted bookmaker, was leaning on his gross mockery of a vehicle. Yes, the rules allowed for such a monstrosity (speed, after all, could come from the darkest corners of corporacratic science), but it was an affront to his sensibility.
The stranger was driving a minivan. Not a hovervan, not a retrofitted cybertank, not even a boosted cargo trawler. A four-tired, silver, soccer mom automobile.
Romus' dislike of him, some instant instinct forged the moment he noticed the name on the charter, had only gained further evidence in support. Seram Law.
Seram.
Law.
Romus shuddered. On his honour as Romus Axle Wagonborne, he would show this impetuous limpet upstart the true meaning of racing. The only measure of a man worth taking…
Was his laptime.
~~~
By the time Romus had turned into his starting position, the stranger was already out of mind. In the cybertarmac, there was no room for thought, only the swift, discerning instinct of the racer and his machine. And Romus' hovering aeroscaper, the Grey Wolf, was the finest machine here. Molded in the shape of a broadhead arrow, hand-tuned with adjustable friction manifold generators and the latest Toyota Hyperion sixty-pylon engine, it was a lean, mean, speed machine.
Two rows away, he heard the puttering protests of the stranger Law's minivan as the six-cylinder diesel engine coughed to life. Looking in the mirror, Law was jerking at an arrested seatbelt, before calming down and pulling it smoothly into place.
Romus felt the gorge of acid-like pain that marked the beginning of a stress ulcer.
And then, beside the Grey Wolf, a sleek dark racer drifted into place. Its paint was like a midnight pool, lit by red neon strips that adorned it from headlight to bumper. Three hover nacelles purred smoothly, radiating only the barest of waste photons as they lifted what had to be at least four tonnes of vehicle without a single shiver.
The Black Thunder. Thought to have exited the circuit years ago in a tragic multi-car pileup that killed its driver, the eminent Twitch Jumpstar, its reemergence and subsequent victories at Ionline and the Copper Cable was the talk of the network. Rumours of the pilot's identity abounded, some saying a stranger had taken his name, while others thought the Jumpstar had been resurrected through corp-tech nanosorcery.
Romus had once admired Black Thunder, but such things of childhood he had put away long ago. He tried to peer through the tinted glass, but saw only the shadow of a shock-helm. Well, Twitch Jumpstar or not, nobody would defeat Romus this day.
"Yo, yo, yo, what up!" The internal radios blared with the voice of the MC. "Welcome one and all to the race, the one and only VELOCITY CUP! Of these thirty finalists, culled down from a thousand competitors, will emerge ONE. SPEED. KING."
Even here in the racechannel, the roar of the masses reached Romus' ears.
"Seven zones lie between the start and the end. Seven zones of hazardous environments, where there are no rules! Except no bumping, pushing, or jacking. Now ARE YOU READY?"
The crowd cheered, a sonic barrage of force.
"IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU'RE READY! RACERS, MARK!"
Romus throttled the plasmaclutch. The lights flashed ahead, red, yellow, green!
"GO!!!!!"
~~~
It was only after a series of tight helix turns corkscrewing down an abandoned silo, that Romus noticed the headlights of the suburban hatchback. Somehow, the stranger was keeping up, his four-wheel minivan drifting with the rest of the treaded scalers and hoverjets at hundreds of kilometres per hour. The other racers seemed just as perplexed, multi-tonne behemoths trying not to run over the automobile beneath their suspensorfields.
The minivan's acceleration wasn't anything special. But whatever it had under the hood seemed to be capable of outputting without limit, and the minivan's cruising speed seemed to match the hypertech jetstreamers without catastrophic stress—
The minivan flicked on a turn signal, just as the helix devolved into a downhill slope. With a fluid, slalom-like motion, it weaved between the leading racers, a tiny white brick among neon steel behemoths and halogen shrouds.
At the end of the slope was a sharp turn that opened into the zone drop. Romus dropped friction as his pulse engine fired, flinging him into a long curving drift along the ceiling of the tunnel. As the arc of his turn completed, he saw the minivan slide into a reverse drift, Law waving just as it drove off the edge.
~~~
In the vertical drop into Lavazone, Romus, along with many other racers, kept an eye on the ludicrous minivan. It seemed to have no method of aerial maneuvering, spinning in freefall until aerodynamics had forced it into a downward position. The rear wheels began to spin, blurring as the ground approached.
An errant thermal nudged it to the bunker face. Its wheels made contact. The minivan surged downward in a sudden burst of traction, low-riding the curve into horizontal track with sparks flinging from the undercarriage before its suspension bounced it across the first smelting pit, landing on the rim of the second and driving around.
The Grey Wolf plunged into molten iron, before bursting free and skimming across its surface. Romus increased power to the cryojets, and pedaled the accelerator. It was a risky move, but he had confidence his coolant would hold out. The plebeian racers, likely specialized for the other zones, could only take solid ground.
Wait, was the Black Thunder following him? Fool! Romus had worked for months on the thermal engineering. No matter how powerful the Black Thunder's retrofitted hover engine was, its thermal cross-section couldn't withstand this proximity.
But, as Romus watched, it followed him unerringly. Impossible. How was he doing this?
And why was the fucking minivan still ahead?
~~~
They burst into Desertzone, towering dunes of slag runoff powdered into fine iron sand over years of mismanaged recycling. Romus closed off the intake valves, converting entirely to impulse motivation. The parade of racers that survived the heat of Lavazone rocketed ahead, but they would pay for it with the erosion of the internals.
"Wuh-oh! Looks like a wind's picking up!"
Romus gritted his teeth, as a sudden buffet of industrial airflow threw the Grey Wolf from the bridge track into a grey bluff of flux derivatives, tumbling him across the steel desert. Precious seconds were lost as he overturned the vehicle, cutting through the sands to reach the next zone directly. As the wind picked up, a storm of metal dust churned up, drowning his sensors. He could only trust in his instincts, and—
Next to him, the minivan was trundling through with the alacrity of a four-wheel drive, its windscreen wipers going at full speed. The driver, noticing Romus' gaze, saluted him.
Romus hated him so much.
~~~
Junglezone. A hundred thousand square kilometres of arcology infrastructure, cultivating lost bioweapons long since obsolete. As Romus traversed the uneven loam and artificial tropics, he saw the wrecks and corpses of failed drivers who had underestimated the hardiness of the creatures here. But Romus would not be one of them.
Above him, the rectangular shadow of a minivan blotted the sky as it traveled the branches. Romus ignored it.
~~~
"Welcome to the Wastelands, racers! Watch out for the deathbots; even if they got thrown away, they still pack a mean punch!"
Romus fumed, hammering the brake and pivoting on a node of friction to smash a cyberbot with the engines of Grey Wolf, spinning out as an avalanche of discarded cybergarbage tumbled around him.
Black Thunder raced ahead, a tide of warmachines trailing the racer on the horizon. He soared past Romus, a streak of dark glass and red light. He seemed untouchable, something that didn't fit within the confines of Romus' rear-view mirror.
Speaking of, the goddamn minivan was still here, somehow. And was honking at him to either speed up or get out of the inside lane.
An errant military drone crashed into the minivan, turning it askew. It almost crashed, but quick countersteering turned it into an inertial drift, letting it glide into the corner. As the Grey Wolf, massing several tonnes more, was forced by centripetal force to the outer barrier of the corner, the minivan drifted in front of him, hugging the inner lane and jetting off ahead.
God, Romus hated him so much.
~~~
It was here. The final stretch. Lightstar Bridge, a hardlight track used for optical transmissions. There were only three racers now, all the rest having broken long before.
Romus, and his Grey Wolf.
The Black Thunder, its driver unknown.
And the fucking minivan, still going strong. Romus flipped it off on principle.
It all came down to this. Romus thumbed the hydro, superdense fuel catalysts plunging into his engine. The Black Thunder zoomed faster, a crimson streak of light. And the minivan was…
Why was he putting on more seatbelts.
Romus felt the stop before the speedometer needle crashed, flinging him into the front of the cockpit. The Black Thunder spun out, sputtering and tilting dangerously as it approached the edge—
And fell over. Down into the abyss of the computronium core, desperate flares of jets and suspensor fields failing to catch. Romus spared one eye to watch the dwindling light, the death of a legend forever seared into his memory.
And the other eye watched the fucking minivan cross the checkered line.
~~~
Later, no matter how far Romus searched, there was no sign of the man named Seram Law, nor the minivan that had upset the entire underworld of Vastun. Unsatisfied, he nevertheless took the silver medallion, and went home.
Days later, a silver minivan Toyota Nova was on sale. Boasting 'only minor wear and tear,' it was on sale for only three thousand Neo-yen. When it was towed to Romus' hab-block, he found nothing but a completely normal minivan.
~~~
Seram yawned. Man, that was hard work, but he managed it. Shame about the driver, but how could a hovercar be the hero of the world, anyway?
Whatever.
~~~
AN: OONTZ OONTZ OONTZ OONTZ
Or put points into his STR/CON and suddenly his shirt doesn't fit. Pecs? Biceps? Seram hasn't needed to undo the top button of his shirt to take it off in years.
it's been a long day
without you, my friend
and i'll tell you all about it when i see you again
~~~
LIVING LIFE A QUARTER MILE AT A TIME
1810 words
~~~
On Vastun, there is only racing.
Racing in the daylight. Racing at night. Racing in the skyways of the hovertrains, or the tunnels of the undercity. Here in Neo-Mega-CyTokyo, descendants of the mountain-men and drift-kings of old race neck and neck, a hunger for the swerve and the need for speed pounding in their very bloodstream.
In the corporate prix, advances in G-Diffusion systems and suspensor frames have made a safe spectacle of the once honourable sport. But in the tunnels and ultracrete parks of the hives, purists of the art drive without regard, eschewing all but the barest of safety technologies in the pursuit of almighty velocity. Every ten years, thousands of night-racers court high-speed termination to see who will be crowned…
SPEED KING.
~~~
Romus bristled. The stranger, after paying his entrance fee to a disquieted bookmaker, was leaning on his gross mockery of a vehicle. Yes, the rules allowed for such a monstrosity (speed, after all, could come from the darkest corners of corporacratic science), but it was an affront to his sensibility.
The stranger was driving a minivan. Not a hovervan, not a retrofitted cybertank, not even a boosted cargo trawler. A four-tired, silver, soccer mom automobile.
Romus' dislike of him, some instant instinct forged the moment he noticed the name on the charter, had only gained further evidence in support. Seram Law.
Seram.
Law.
Romus shuddered. On his honour as Romus Axle Wagonborne, he would show this impetuous limpet upstart the true meaning of racing. The only measure of a man worth taking…
Was his laptime.
~~~
By the time Romus had turned into his starting position, the stranger was already out of mind. In the cybertarmac, there was no room for thought, only the swift, discerning instinct of the racer and his machine. And Romus' hovering aeroscaper, the Grey Wolf, was the finest machine here. Molded in the shape of a broadhead arrow, hand-tuned with adjustable friction manifold generators and the latest Toyota Hyperion sixty-pylon engine, it was a lean, mean, speed machine.
Two rows away, he heard the puttering protests of the stranger Law's minivan as the six-cylinder diesel engine coughed to life. Looking in the mirror, Law was jerking at an arrested seatbelt, before calming down and pulling it smoothly into place.
Romus felt the gorge of acid-like pain that marked the beginning of a stress ulcer.
And then, beside the Grey Wolf, a sleek dark racer drifted into place. Its paint was like a midnight pool, lit by red neon strips that adorned it from headlight to bumper. Three hover nacelles purred smoothly, radiating only the barest of waste photons as they lifted what had to be at least four tonnes of vehicle without a single shiver.
The Black Thunder. Thought to have exited the circuit years ago in a tragic multi-car pileup that killed its driver, the eminent Twitch Jumpstar, its reemergence and subsequent victories at Ionline and the Copper Cable was the talk of the network. Rumours of the pilot's identity abounded, some saying a stranger had taken his name, while others thought the Jumpstar had been resurrected through corp-tech nanosorcery.
Romus had once admired Black Thunder, but such things of childhood he had put away long ago. He tried to peer through the tinted glass, but saw only the shadow of a shock-helm. Well, Twitch Jumpstar or not, nobody would defeat Romus this day.
"Yo, yo, yo, what up!" The internal radios blared with the voice of the MC. "Welcome one and all to the race, the one and only VELOCITY CUP! Of these thirty finalists, culled down from a thousand competitors, will emerge ONE. SPEED. KING."
Even here in the racechannel, the roar of the masses reached Romus' ears.
"Seven zones lie between the start and the end. Seven zones of hazardous environments, where there are no rules! Except no bumping, pushing, or jacking. Now ARE YOU READY?"
The crowd cheered, a sonic barrage of force.
"IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU'RE READY! RACERS, MARK!"
Romus throttled the plasmaclutch. The lights flashed ahead, red, yellow, green!
"GO!!!!!"
~~~
It was only after a series of tight helix turns corkscrewing down an abandoned silo, that Romus noticed the headlights of the suburban hatchback. Somehow, the stranger was keeping up, his four-wheel minivan drifting with the rest of the treaded scalers and hoverjets at hundreds of kilometres per hour. The other racers seemed just as perplexed, multi-tonne behemoths trying not to run over the automobile beneath their suspensorfields.
The minivan's acceleration wasn't anything special. But whatever it had under the hood seemed to be capable of outputting without limit, and the minivan's cruising speed seemed to match the hypertech jetstreamers without catastrophic stress—
The minivan flicked on a turn signal, just as the helix devolved into a downhill slope. With a fluid, slalom-like motion, it weaved between the leading racers, a tiny white brick among neon steel behemoths and halogen shrouds.
At the end of the slope was a sharp turn that opened into the zone drop. Romus dropped friction as his pulse engine fired, flinging him into a long curving drift along the ceiling of the tunnel. As the arc of his turn completed, he saw the minivan slide into a reverse drift, Law waving just as it drove off the edge.
~~~
In the vertical drop into Lavazone, Romus, along with many other racers, kept an eye on the ludicrous minivan. It seemed to have no method of aerial maneuvering, spinning in freefall until aerodynamics had forced it into a downward position. The rear wheels began to spin, blurring as the ground approached.
An errant thermal nudged it to the bunker face. Its wheels made contact. The minivan surged downward in a sudden burst of traction, low-riding the curve into horizontal track with sparks flinging from the undercarriage before its suspension bounced it across the first smelting pit, landing on the rim of the second and driving around.
The Grey Wolf plunged into molten iron, before bursting free and skimming across its surface. Romus increased power to the cryojets, and pedaled the accelerator. It was a risky move, but he had confidence his coolant would hold out. The plebeian racers, likely specialized for the other zones, could only take solid ground.
Wait, was the Black Thunder following him? Fool! Romus had worked for months on the thermal engineering. No matter how powerful the Black Thunder's retrofitted hover engine was, its thermal cross-section couldn't withstand this proximity.
But, as Romus watched, it followed him unerringly. Impossible. How was he doing this?
And why was the fucking minivan still ahead?
~~~
They burst into Desertzone, towering dunes of slag runoff powdered into fine iron sand over years of mismanaged recycling. Romus closed off the intake valves, converting entirely to impulse motivation. The parade of racers that survived the heat of Lavazone rocketed ahead, but they would pay for it with the erosion of the internals.
"Wuh-oh! Looks like a wind's picking up!"
Romus gritted his teeth, as a sudden buffet of industrial airflow threw the Grey Wolf from the bridge track into a grey bluff of flux derivatives, tumbling him across the steel desert. Precious seconds were lost as he overturned the vehicle, cutting through the sands to reach the next zone directly. As the wind picked up, a storm of metal dust churned up, drowning his sensors. He could only trust in his instincts, and—
Next to him, the minivan was trundling through with the alacrity of a four-wheel drive, its windscreen wipers going at full speed. The driver, noticing Romus' gaze, saluted him.
Romus hated him so much.
~~~
Junglezone. A hundred thousand square kilometres of arcology infrastructure, cultivating lost bioweapons long since obsolete. As Romus traversed the uneven loam and artificial tropics, he saw the wrecks and corpses of failed drivers who had underestimated the hardiness of the creatures here. But Romus would not be one of them.
Above him, the rectangular shadow of a minivan blotted the sky as it traveled the branches. Romus ignored it.
~~~
"Welcome to the Wastelands, racers! Watch out for the deathbots; even if they got thrown away, they still pack a mean punch!"
Romus fumed, hammering the brake and pivoting on a node of friction to smash a cyberbot with the engines of Grey Wolf, spinning out as an avalanche of discarded cybergarbage tumbled around him.
Black Thunder raced ahead, a tide of warmachines trailing the racer on the horizon. He soared past Romus, a streak of dark glass and red light. He seemed untouchable, something that didn't fit within the confines of Romus' rear-view mirror.
Speaking of, the goddamn minivan was still here, somehow. And was honking at him to either speed up or get out of the inside lane.
An errant military drone crashed into the minivan, turning it askew. It almost crashed, but quick countersteering turned it into an inertial drift, letting it glide into the corner. As the Grey Wolf, massing several tonnes more, was forced by centripetal force to the outer barrier of the corner, the minivan drifted in front of him, hugging the inner lane and jetting off ahead.
God, Romus hated him so much.
~~~
It was here. The final stretch. Lightstar Bridge, a hardlight track used for optical transmissions. There were only three racers now, all the rest having broken long before.
Romus, and his Grey Wolf.
The Black Thunder, its driver unknown.
And the fucking minivan, still going strong. Romus flipped it off on principle.
It all came down to this. Romus thumbed the hydro, superdense fuel catalysts plunging into his engine. The Black Thunder zoomed faster, a crimson streak of light. And the minivan was…
Why was he putting on more seatbelts.
Romus felt the stop before the speedometer needle crashed, flinging him into the front of the cockpit. The Black Thunder spun out, sputtering and tilting dangerously as it approached the edge—
And fell over. Down into the abyss of the computronium core, desperate flares of jets and suspensor fields failing to catch. Romus spared one eye to watch the dwindling light, the death of a legend forever seared into his memory.
And the other eye watched the fucking minivan cross the checkered line.
~~~
Later, no matter how far Romus searched, there was no sign of the man named Seram Law, nor the minivan that had upset the entire underworld of Vastun. Unsatisfied, he nevertheless took the silver medallion, and went home.
Days later, a silver minivan Toyota Nova was on sale. Boasting 'only minor wear and tear,' it was on sale for only three thousand Neo-yen. When it was towed to Romus' hab-block, he found nothing but a completely normal minivan.
~~~
Seram yawned. Man, that was hard work, but he managed it. Shame about the driver, but how could a hovercar be the hero of the world, anyway?
Whatever.
~~~
AN: OONTZ OONTZ OONTZ OONTZ
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Salty
Shadow Cabal Assumptor Supreme
- Location
- Sun, Moon, Talia
- Pronouns
- I/Me
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Duquette7
I am Fire, and I am Rain
I think people missed this one, and combined with this.
Makes me think this might be a one time chance to Alter our Primary Remittance to include a Social Skill. As the Title text says
"Social skills are beyond the remit of your Progression system, but with this Title you may create and employ the favored adversarial social Skill of the Accursed, Presence: Intimidation"
Yes their is an opportunity cost as far as ork slayage, but I think we will regret passing on this.
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Ignore Satan's shiny, shiny distractions.
While i have no idea how much XP we need for the next level, i assume that it will be up to 50% of the last one, so around 30k. On the other hand, Orcs gave us quite a lot - assuming that at average each Ork is worth those 1400xp the first one was, we got 8400xp from Orcs total. Since, after the quest, we only needed 6000 to level up, that means that we have at least around 2000xp carrying over to the level 21.
Now, i have no doubt that some Orcs will be worth more xp, but even using that 1400 we only need to kill twenty of them which is .. kinda doable. Of course, it's possible that Orcs will give less xp as we level up, but i think that at least the next level should be firmly in our grasp.
Now, i have no doubt that some Orcs will be worth more xp, but even using that 1400 we only need to kill twenty of them which is .. kinda doable. Of course, it's possible that Orcs will give less xp as we level up, but i think that at least the next level should be firmly in our grasp.
Duquette7
I am Fire, and I am Rain
It's a one time opportunity to alter our main power up to give us possibly the only Social Skill we will ever get, seeing as Rihaku said this was relatively unique among Curesbarers.
So, not only would this give us a unique progressable Skill in the field we are weakest in, it is also a skill the Accursed uses personally, as in one of his favorites.
I think that is Worth a Title slot.
Especially as every social situation we engage in will start out Hostile due to our Brand, which means every social move we make will benefit from this.
Yes, this is an exceedingly rare social skill. The problem is, it is just compounding negative reactions on negative reactions. Considering we won't have the force of accursed to back up our intimidation, and they'll already hate us, the moment someone calls our intimidation bluff we are screwed. Hatred, while making social interaction difficult, is unlikely to cause spontaneous violence unless they're already predisposed to it. Hatred and intimidation will cause violence in a lot more people.
RedV
Refuelling
- Location
- Right here
Social skills appear to be always relevant. If the Accursed feels that Presence: Intimidation his relevant at his powerlevel, it is likely relevant at ours, and will continue to remain so.
Meanwhile Orcbane is useless in generic sci-fi world without Orcs to kill.
Meanwhile Orcbane is useless in generic sci-fi world without Orcs to kill.
We're already stronger than the entire village, and I believe Seram is sensible enough (or Quest voters are sensible enough) to only negotiate from a position of strength with Intimidation and just not use the skill with girlfriend/in laws/anyone we want positive relationship with.
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