I expect the travel portion of the fishing trip is the merest fraction of the time investment, considering the Elixir is able to maintain trading ties. So it probably cuts down a one or two day trip to a 12 hour or 24h one, with the rest of the time investment actually dealing with the competition.
A Simple Transaction I
- Thread starter Rihaku
- Start date
- Original
I expect the travel portion of the fishing trip is the merest fraction of the time investment, considering the Elixir is able to maintain trading ties. So it probably cuts down a one or two day trip to a 12 hour or 24h one, with the rest of the time investment actually dealing with the competition.
Are we really going to waste time fishing? The only benefit that the contest offers that cannot be obtained with the tower is Doom experience. On the other hand we could be improving Evening Sky, farming advancements, getting new magic systems, obtaining artifacts for our and Letrizia's panoply and improving our resident squishy buffbot and stealth generator.
If you are worried about the death chance then I'm sorry to surprise you but the next "outpaced" Apocryphal proc is going to be nastier than sudden 4 pick kaiju fight and an incoming duel. Our interesting times scale with Hunger and at this rate our companions are going to be splattered. Do you also want to give an excuse for the Republic to send hostage taking Kill Teams against us or worse a full on Armament? Failing in social interaction at the fishing contest might not get us immediately killed but merely delays the inevitable boss fights.
If you are worried about the death chance then I'm sorry to surprise you but the next "outpaced" Apocryphal proc is going to be nastier than sudden 4 pick kaiju fight and an incoming duel. Our interesting times scale with Hunger and at this rate our companions are going to be splattered. Do you also want to give an excuse for the Republic to send hostage taking Kill Teams against us or worse a full on Armament? Failing in social interaction at the fishing contest might not get us immediately killed but merely delays the inevitable boss fights.
Zampano
🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
- Location
- Simping for DSB
The time estimates given in each blurb are explicitly tied to "distance".
It's a matter of algebra that the Decimation Lens can only halve the time to completion of the tower if (1) the "completion" time mentioned is the travel time, specifically or (2) actually solving the Tower is a trivial fraction of the overall time required for "completion" of the entire task.
I have already explained the main reason why I think (2) is unlikely: The tower is described by the same adjective used for an Arete expenditure that resists Nullity. But more generally, the tower is described as fuckhuge big. Razing a superstructure to the ground is likely to take more than a single day. (Especially if it is defended!)
Nah, it's both.
In regards to how fast completion of either actual task is, I imagine it depends heavily on our power for the Tower (Similar to how we could've beaten the temple in a day if swole enough), and how well we can suborn the apparatus of the competition to speed things up while still having it 'count' for Fishing.
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Zampano
🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
- Location
- Simping for DSB
There are some interesting arguments in this paragraph. I think it will help to split them out, but feel free to correct me if I've misconstrued your position.
- Voters should not be worried about death chance in the Tower because
- ...the next time Apocryphal Curse procs the fight will be more dangerous than a sudden 4-pick Kaiju fight and an incoming duel
- Apocryphal Curse procs are scaled to Hunger and will, eventually, be wildly beyond the capabilities of our companions
- Apocryphal Curse procs building on interactions during the fishing contest could be very bad, including
- Kill Teams
- Full Armament
- inevitable boss fights
With regards to the scaling of the Curse, it is hardly an imminent concern that our companions will be splattered by a random proc. With the introduction of Aobaru, our party has scaled even further beyond the (current) power of the Apocryphal Curse. Gisena has a potential-focused Chief Dominion, and can already provide rudimentary mitigation via single-use items. Imagine if Ber's successor shows up unannounced and our only gripe is that he used up our stock of grenades & personal energy shields.
Meanwhile, Letrizia has an Armament.
The final argument proposes that the consequences of the Fishing Contest will be easy for the AC to bend into "interesting times;" by implication the Contest's fallout would be worse than the Tower's fallout. But this point is pure speculation. The Tower's blurb indicates that there is a "Tyrant of unfathomable malice." Suppose that, as the blurb suggests, we do not kill the Tyrant of the Tower. That is a ready-made villain for the AC to empower for revenge. Dude has unfathomable malice. That's, like, a major red flag for recurring villains.
And before you suggest that we simply kill anyone that dares oppose us, remember that Rihaku said that some decisions could make the Tower even more dangerous than the Temple:
Deciding to 1v1 the ruler of a Temple that pierces the firmament seems like the top of the list of tactics that might make our job harder.
What really gets me about this post, however, is that you can't really believe the first two arguments at the same time. If the Apocryphal Curse inevitably scales to Hunger, and our followers will be left behind, then we shouldn't be maximizing our Rank gain in the short term. Pursuing a tactic that empowers Hunter explicitly raises the level of danger for our companions. But Gisena has a Ring focused on Artifice, which builds in strength over time. Aobaru has an EFB-tier element that scales without bound. Letrizia has an Armament. These are resources that benefit from a smooth, gradual curve of increased power for Hunger.
Now, you're going to object because the Tower blurb promises a mystery box of magic items or magic systems that our companions could use. But magic items are a static power boost, which is completely trumped by your observation that Hunger's power scales. Magic systems can be made to scale, occasionally, but that takes Arete expenditure. Rushing for the Tower for the chance of a magic system that will keep up (with Accretion, lol) delays the EFBs that will be needed for Hunger himself. It was like pulling teeth getting the thread to spend 7 Arete on True Vigorflame, which explicitly had EFB-level scaling potential. Do you really expect the thread to invest in magic systems while also rushing OaF / ADS?
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Then fuck everything I guess. Lets waste time fishing instead of doing something more productive. I'm too salty right now that instead of pursuing power we are doing this useless thing.
Rihaku
The Internet
A look into matters Imperial... the full bonus chapter will be going up for Patrons in two hours from this post! As this is a time-limited bonus chapter, only current Patrons at that time will be eligible to receive it. Get in before the deadline while you can!
The Pauper-Prince
Clad in the gold and grey of Empire, the Armament loomed before him, the long angular bulk of its shadow casting his path into darkness. Bare yellow lighting flanked its sides, alone and unadorned in the vast industrial cage of its launching bay. Through the thick thermplast windows flanking its Deployment Column he saw a whirl and spray of stars, gleaming detritus like a cracked egg as they hurtled through the depths of space.
He proceeded steadily down the catwalk, helmet tucked under his right arm, the ungloved hand of his left idly rubbing the burns on his face. Two on his cheeks, ragged and lean like a saber-cat's fangs; one thick and mottled along the lower side of his neck, well wide of his jugular; and finally the crescent-shaped scar over his left eye which they said was so distinctive of the Seventh Pauper-Prince. It was curious, how often the staff would ask if his burns hurt, questioning why he hadn't gotten them removed. Of course they hurt, but what did that matter? Seventh of seven he'd once been, and now the only one remaining. What had he to remind him of them except for those burns?
Attramemnar was in a good mood today, the lackadaisical slump of its shoulders lending it an unseemly jauntiness as it lounged in its Column. The Imperial Armament was usually a coldly reserved sort, though it'd always belied a special fondness for Seven. Sometimes he wondered whether that was the only reason his counterparts had all died.
"You are a Pauper-Prince," Father had told him, the day he'd reached ten years of age. "The Seventh and the smallest, as I was. You will be scorned, beaten, shot at and burned. The world will be your enemy, your family no less so. Fight desperately as you may avoid the grave. Merely survive and you will be hunted, cut apart like game, your corpse displayed as such."
'To live you must thrive. You must grow strong, stronger than any of the others, alone or alongside their allies. Do not envy the Royals, who appear to be afforded every choice and luxury. They may dance through life, but they will never rule. They will never wear my crown. They will only ever be Highness, never Majesty. Only a Pauper-Prince, or Princess, may rule. Attramemnar will accept nothing less."
The Pauper-Prince
Clad in the gold and grey of Empire, the Armament loomed before him, the long angular bulk of its shadow casting his path into darkness. Bare yellow lighting flanked its sides, alone and unadorned in the vast industrial cage of its launching bay. Through the thick thermplast windows flanking its Deployment Column he saw a whirl and spray of stars, gleaming detritus like a cracked egg as they hurtled through the depths of space.
He proceeded steadily down the catwalk, helmet tucked under his right arm, the ungloved hand of his left idly rubbing the burns on his face. Two on his cheeks, ragged and lean like a saber-cat's fangs; one thick and mottled along the lower side of his neck, well wide of his jugular; and finally the crescent-shaped scar over his left eye which they said was so distinctive of the Seventh Pauper-Prince. It was curious, how often the staff would ask if his burns hurt, questioning why he hadn't gotten them removed. Of course they hurt, but what did that matter? Seventh of seven he'd once been, and now the only one remaining. What had he to remind him of them except for those burns?
Attramemnar was in a good mood today, the lackadaisical slump of its shoulders lending it an unseemly jauntiness as it lounged in its Column. The Imperial Armament was usually a coldly reserved sort, though it'd always belied a special fondness for Seven. Sometimes he wondered whether that was the only reason his counterparts had all died.
"You are a Pauper-Prince," Father had told him, the day he'd reached ten years of age. "The Seventh and the smallest, as I was. You will be scorned, beaten, shot at and burned. The world will be your enemy, your family no less so. Fight desperately as you may avoid the grave. Merely survive and you will be hunted, cut apart like game, your corpse displayed as such."
'To live you must thrive. You must grow strong, stronger than any of the others, alone or alongside their allies. Do not envy the Royals, who appear to be afforded every choice and luxury. They may dance through life, but they will never rule. They will never wear my crown. They will only ever be Highness, never Majesty. Only a Pauper-Prince, or Princess, may rule. Attramemnar will accept nothing less."
Fanwork 1771 words
[ ] A Fish Out of Legend - Rumor foretells of a continental beast whose overturnings send entire oceans a-roil, whose roar is the death of island chains and whose latticed fin in rise-and-fall spawns tsunami waves capable of wiping entire civilizations away like grout before the cleaner.
-and then Nekhbet sees the wave and she knows that this is the center of her life, that this is the jagged edge of loss that will divide all of her into 'before' and 'after'. Or it will be her death.
It is vast beyond reckoning. It is ascending into the sky, it is the sea woken from its bed and standing upright. It is miles highs and still rising, it drives the clouds in the sky before it. It is coming towards her silently and very fast, but there is still time.
"I love you" she tell her husband, her beautiful husband. She strokes his hair, and for a moment the weight of him and her is a weight beyond any dream of lifting, love is a chain dragging her down to death. In her hands is everything she ever wanted and can never have, in her hands is everything. There is nothing but here. There is nowhere else.
He sees the wave too. Stares in blank comprehension, animal-dumb, a deer frozen as it stares down the barrel of a gun.
She is an animal too but a different sort of animal.
She tells him her love again but her lips are melting down into a cruel beak and her words are a vulture's cries. There are feathers beneath her skin and with each bloody rake of her talons she frees them from their prison of flesh, tears off her breasts to let her plumage pour forth, shakes herself free from bloody strips of woman-flesh, and with her wings she grasps the air and flies.
The crest of the wave ascends above the setting sun and darkens the crimson sunset to algae green. The ocean is a curtain drawn across half the world, the orb of the sun slowly darkening as it drowns. For a little while she can see the last remnants of the sun, the orb squashed into an oval by the diffraction of light through the thicker bottom-half of the wave, then though the upper atmosphere is still blue the shadow of the wave darkens the whole world.
She can only see the wave, shining from within from the devoured sun. It is the wrath of god. It is the end of all things. Its beauty is the beauty of all things great and terrible. She looks upon it and feels that humility of spirit that men call terror and worship.
Her hometown meets death with stoic indifference. She sees them far below gathering in little clusters, some with their backs to the wave, others unable to look away. A few individual scurry about in blind panic but are caught by larger groups and made still.
There are a few people running for high ground, but most give up quickly. There is a great deal of sex happening, much of which would have been unspeakably taboo only hours before. A few of them have bird animal forms like herself, but they are eagles and songbirds and seagulls, and she is a leviathan-vulture, the god-eater bird, whose domain is the upper atmosphere, whose eyes can see a dead leviathan a thousand kilometers away and whose wings can bear her unto the uttermost ends of the world. They do may do their best but some gulfs are insurmountable.
The wave rises from the depths of the sea to the upper reaches of the Troposphere. It has caught all the Cumulus clouds for ten thousand miles and is pushing them before it like a snowplow, drifts of cloud the size of nations pouring over the top of the wave. The wind tears at her wings as the very sky flees what comes.
Her sister has gathered her children about her in the storage cave. Nekhbet calls on her Wise Blood and hears her sister as she says
"It will be okay." She is smiling and stroking her littlest daughter. "The ocean was napping, but then it woke up and turned over in its sleep. It is frightening, but the water will pass over the cave and we'll be fine."
"Then why aren't grandma and grandpa and auntie and all the others here?" her oldest asks.
"When you become an adult you get a second animal form," she tells them. "Your great uncle is a tiger, but he has a secret form as well, a giant so big and so strong that the wave cannot touch him, with limbs as big around as a hundred ceder trees. He'll go for a little swim and then he'll be fine. Or he'll roar at the wave and scare it away. He can hear you right now, and he'll keep you and everyone else safe. Now, I saw you playing with Bebe. What game were you playing?"
The sun has been swallowed and the night sky is bright with stars. The storm that has wrapped itself around the wave has ignited and now lightning strobes madly, claws of searing brilliance raking the dark waters.
Those with aquatic forms are leaping from the clifftop, shedding their human forms in sprays of discarded flesh and blood and plunging into the raging sea as sleek porpoises and fish and even a sea wurm.
She sees uncle atop the cliff, naked, arms stretched out and leaning forward to embrace the wind. He leaps, twists in mid-air with cat-like grace to tear his false skin and from the husk comes a divine tiger with fur the color of fresh-fallen snow and eyes of glowing gold. He lands atop the surface of the water and roars, and all the waves around him are flattened by his voice, and she can hear the sound of it even here. Then he runs across the top of the water, faster and and faster, until he plunges into the storm and is lost.
She can see whales and leviathans and a thousand things no man has ever lived to name caught in the wave and swirling down like gobs of shit in a toilet bowl, she sees bloody corpses the size of islands pounded into raw meat and violently ejected into the air to be cooked by lightning. She is higher than she has ever flown but the air is still thick and she is ascending faster than she has ever fallen, for the whole of the sky is rising with her and fleeing with her and she is but a scrap of feather stretched out like a sail to catch it.
They said her soul was that of a vulture and they were right, for she has never felt more alive or more real than in this moment of utter devastation.
She sees her brother making tea far below. Pours the water into the kettle, sets it on the stovetop. Glances out the window and sees the end of all things. Turns up the heat.
His animal form is a bear, with great shining eyes and teeth strong enough to bite a man in half and gentle enough to lift her without harm. But bears cannot drink tea so he is human still. She reaches out to him with her Wise Blood and into his mind she says 'Brother, I love you.'
'Of course. You've said it many times, as have I.' He is very matter of fact. 'Two tea bags, I think. They won't have time to steep properly but with two of them they'll be done in time.'
'Is that all you can think of? Tea?'
'Why not?' He pours the water into his mug and steps outside to his chair on the porch. 'There is nothing we can do. There is nothing left undone. The wave acts within its nature; so do I.' He takes a sip of his tea. 'Same as it ever was. I love you sister. Fly high.'
He finishes the last of his tea and sets the porcelain cup down carefully on a drink coaster. 'Until we meet again'.
And then the wave is there and he is gone.
...
Then comes at last the sound of the end of the world, lightning flaring sheetwise across the wave turning night into a blinding haze of white and blue, the once-staccato sound of the drums of hell grown so fast that it has become a continuous and agonizing aural beating. A thousand devils hammering black and wild upon the anvil of the world, the wave like the edge of the reaper's blade, lightning like chains across the shivering black face of the abyss.
She looks up and see's in the wave's crest the end of the world. Her wings burn with Saint Elmo's fire. She is beyond words and thought. From her scarlet beak comes a scream, the ragged thread of humanity of her cry the only possible answer to such monstrous and unthinkable immensity.
The storm reaches her, envelops her in its screaming dark, slashes at her with ten-thousand frozen knives and beats her with an hailstones that tear bloody holes in her and she can see only dark and hear only that screaming rage and feel only agony and there is no up or down or beginning or-
-end. As she is torn from the raging white and into the sky above.
The sun is here, setting red and bloody into the haze of mist. The world churns beneath her, the sky clutches her, but she is free.
She climbs, higher and higher, above clouds through which lightning courses, ten thousand filaments igniting and burning out in an instant. She calls upon her Wise Blood and the wounds heal, and new feathers sprout. And she realizes that somehow, she will live.
...
She circles the place where they died for three days, searching for survivors. Other waves come and go but she is god-vulture. She is above, far above, such things.
Traumatic memories, she thinks, are like signposts in that all your other memories organize themselves in relationship to them. She will remember this forever. On her dying day she will close her eyes and be able to name every person she saw die down below, she will know where they died and how they died, she will know their last words better than she knows her own name.
At last she loses hope, and turns her eyes to the origin of the waves.
The Wave
[ ] A Fish Out of Legend - Rumor foretells of a continental beast whose overturnings send entire oceans a-roil, whose roar is the death of island chains and whose latticed fin in rise-and-fall spawns tsunami waves capable of wiping entire civilizations away like grout before the cleaner.
-and then Nekhbet sees the wave and she knows that this is the center of her life, that this is the jagged edge of loss that will divide all of her into 'before' and 'after'. Or it will be her death.
It is vast beyond reckoning. It is ascending into the sky, it is the sea woken from its bed and standing upright. It is miles highs and still rising, it drives the clouds in the sky before it. It is coming towards her silently and very fast, but there is still time.
"I love you" she tell her husband, her beautiful husband. She strokes his hair, and for a moment the weight of him and her is a weight beyond any dream of lifting, love is a chain dragging her down to death. In her hands is everything she ever wanted and can never have, in her hands is everything. There is nothing but here. There is nowhere else.
He sees the wave too. Stares in blank comprehension, animal-dumb, a deer frozen as it stares down the barrel of a gun.
She is an animal too but a different sort of animal.
She tells him her love again but her lips are melting down into a cruel beak and her words are a vulture's cries. There are feathers beneath her skin and with each bloody rake of her talons she frees them from their prison of flesh, tears off her breasts to let her plumage pour forth, shakes herself free from bloody strips of woman-flesh, and with her wings she grasps the air and flies.
The crest of the wave ascends above the setting sun and darkens the crimson sunset to algae green. The ocean is a curtain drawn across half the world, the orb of the sun slowly darkening as it drowns. For a little while she can see the last remnants of the sun, the orb squashed into an oval by the diffraction of light through the thicker bottom-half of the wave, then though the upper atmosphere is still blue the shadow of the wave darkens the whole world.
She can only see the wave, shining from within from the devoured sun. It is the wrath of god. It is the end of all things. Its beauty is the beauty of all things great and terrible. She looks upon it and feels that humility of spirit that men call terror and worship.
Her hometown meets death with stoic indifference. She sees them far below gathering in little clusters, some with their backs to the wave, others unable to look away. A few individual scurry about in blind panic but are caught by larger groups and made still.
There are a few people running for high ground, but most give up quickly. There is a great deal of sex happening, much of which would have been unspeakably taboo only hours before. A few of them have bird animal forms like herself, but they are eagles and songbirds and seagulls, and she is a leviathan-vulture, the god-eater bird, whose domain is the upper atmosphere, whose eyes can see a dead leviathan a thousand kilometers away and whose wings can bear her unto the uttermost ends of the world. They do may do their best but some gulfs are insurmountable.
The wave rises from the depths of the sea to the upper reaches of the Troposphere. It has caught all the Cumulus clouds for ten thousand miles and is pushing them before it like a snowplow, drifts of cloud the size of nations pouring over the top of the wave. The wind tears at her wings as the very sky flees what comes.
Her sister has gathered her children about her in the storage cave. Nekhbet calls on her Wise Blood and hears her sister as she says
"It will be okay." She is smiling and stroking her littlest daughter. "The ocean was napping, but then it woke up and turned over in its sleep. It is frightening, but the water will pass over the cave and we'll be fine."
"Then why aren't grandma and grandpa and auntie and all the others here?" her oldest asks.
"When you become an adult you get a second animal form," she tells them. "Your great uncle is a tiger, but he has a secret form as well, a giant so big and so strong that the wave cannot touch him, with limbs as big around as a hundred ceder trees. He'll go for a little swim and then he'll be fine. Or he'll roar at the wave and scare it away. He can hear you right now, and he'll keep you and everyone else safe. Now, I saw you playing with Bebe. What game were you playing?"
The sun has been swallowed and the night sky is bright with stars. The storm that has wrapped itself around the wave has ignited and now lightning strobes madly, claws of searing brilliance raking the dark waters.
Those with aquatic forms are leaping from the clifftop, shedding their human forms in sprays of discarded flesh and blood and plunging into the raging sea as sleek porpoises and fish and even a sea wurm.
She sees uncle atop the cliff, naked, arms stretched out and leaning forward to embrace the wind. He leaps, twists in mid-air with cat-like grace to tear his false skin and from the husk comes a divine tiger with fur the color of fresh-fallen snow and eyes of glowing gold. He lands atop the surface of the water and roars, and all the waves around him are flattened by his voice, and she can hear the sound of it even here. Then he runs across the top of the water, faster and and faster, until he plunges into the storm and is lost.
She can see whales and leviathans and a thousand things no man has ever lived to name caught in the wave and swirling down like gobs of shit in a toilet bowl, she sees bloody corpses the size of islands pounded into raw meat and violently ejected into the air to be cooked by lightning. She is higher than she has ever flown but the air is still thick and she is ascending faster than she has ever fallen, for the whole of the sky is rising with her and fleeing with her and she is but a scrap of feather stretched out like a sail to catch it.
They said her soul was that of a vulture and they were right, for she has never felt more alive or more real than in this moment of utter devastation.
She sees her brother making tea far below. Pours the water into the kettle, sets it on the stovetop. Glances out the window and sees the end of all things. Turns up the heat.
His animal form is a bear, with great shining eyes and teeth strong enough to bite a man in half and gentle enough to lift her without harm. But bears cannot drink tea so he is human still. She reaches out to him with her Wise Blood and into his mind she says 'Brother, I love you.'
'Of course. You've said it many times, as have I.' He is very matter of fact. 'Two tea bags, I think. They won't have time to steep properly but with two of them they'll be done in time.'
'Is that all you can think of? Tea?'
'Why not?' He pours the water into his mug and steps outside to his chair on the porch. 'There is nothing we can do. There is nothing left undone. The wave acts within its nature; so do I.' He takes a sip of his tea. 'Same as it ever was. I love you sister. Fly high.'
He finishes the last of his tea and sets the porcelain cup down carefully on a drink coaster. 'Until we meet again'.
And then the wave is there and he is gone.
...
Then comes at last the sound of the end of the world, lightning flaring sheetwise across the wave turning night into a blinding haze of white and blue, the once-staccato sound of the drums of hell grown so fast that it has become a continuous and agonizing aural beating. A thousand devils hammering black and wild upon the anvil of the world, the wave like the edge of the reaper's blade, lightning like chains across the shivering black face of the abyss.
She looks up and see's in the wave's crest the end of the world. Her wings burn with Saint Elmo's fire. She is beyond words and thought. From her scarlet beak comes a scream, the ragged thread of humanity of her cry the only possible answer to such monstrous and unthinkable immensity.
The storm reaches her, envelops her in its screaming dark, slashes at her with ten-thousand frozen knives and beats her with an hailstones that tear bloody holes in her and she can see only dark and hear only that screaming rage and feel only agony and there is no up or down or beginning or-
-end. As she is torn from the raging white and into the sky above.
The sun is here, setting red and bloody into the haze of mist. The world churns beneath her, the sky clutches her, but she is free.
She climbs, higher and higher, above clouds through which lightning courses, ten thousand filaments igniting and burning out in an instant. She calls upon her Wise Blood and the wounds heal, and new feathers sprout. And she realizes that somehow, she will live.
...
She circles the place where they died for three days, searching for survivors. Other waves come and go but she is god-vulture. She is above, far above, such things.
Traumatic memories, she thinks, are like signposts in that all your other memories organize themselves in relationship to them. She will remember this forever. On her dying day she will close her eyes and be able to name every person she saw die down below, she will know where they died and how they died, she will know their last words better than she knows her own name.
At last she loses hope, and turns her eyes to the origin of the waves.
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Why do I get the feeling that this Armament has a very familiar Curse? Apocryphal-chan has a new teammate, and I think we might even be a one of the procs for the poor Pauper-Prince
Enohthree
Hypersane
It's fairly possible that we could reach and then finish the entire contest in the time it would take to simply arrive at the tower, even if we didn't take the travel reduction for the contest and did for the tower. We can use the extra time to do other productive things.
Rihaku
The Internet
Baihu No!! Even the King of Beasts was no match for Leviathan unbound from his primeval abyss! What have you wrought...
Great omake, I very much enjoyed the imagery!
Rihaku
The Internet
You could join the Foremost and have your theories known for fact! Or fiction...
There's much to do in both places, you won't lack for adventure either way!
Aabcehmu
Confusion as a Natural State of Being
- Location
- Chicago, IL
- Pronouns
- Any/All
[ ] Doom of the Piscine - You are abjectly incapable of motivating yourself when not fully submersed in a large body water. At full strength, even something as utterly basic as breathing will escape you if so much as a single hair on your head is above water. The amount of water required grows as your power does, so be wary of not growing too big for your pond. There are numerous avenues of mitigation, however. Reduction in the size of the body of water, allowance for small portions of yourself to be above water, obtaining a modicum of motivation when not fully submersed, and the ability to be motivated in environs which are sufficiently similar, physically or metaphorically, such as an ocean of liquid methane, or the luminiferous aether of deep space.
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Rihaku
The Internet
An incredibly tight vote! At this rate we'll have to see how the argument and omake power shakes out.
Zampano
🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
- Location
- Simping for DSB
I mean, I hadn't really thought about the difference tbh. I suppose that I meant that the option that gets written about is the "winning" option.
Is there a loophole there? I guess you could drop an Omake reserve, but I don't want my friendly wager to endanger Arete generation so I'm inclined to incentivize posting omakes asap...
What are your thoughts?
Aabcehmu
Confusion as a Natural State of Being
- Location
- Chicago, IL
- Pronouns
- Any/All
I am pretty strongly in favor of it just being whichever gets written about, I just realized that it was a potential source of legitimate confusion and wanted to clarify.
Aabcehmu
Confusion as a Natural State of Being
- Location
- Chicago, IL
- Pronouns
- Any/All
Well, I'll raise my standing offer of one marker up to two in this case, alongside all the usual terms.