- Location
- England
[X] The Prince's bodyguard
Chosen of Necessity, Chosen of Dust [Exalted]
- Thread starter VagueZ
- Start date
- Fantasy Action
-
- Tags
- exalted (white wolf)
EternalObserver
eYe Gaze baCk
- Location
- The Void
[X] The Prince's tutor
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The Prince's tutor
[X] The Prince's bodyguard
[X] The Prince's tutor
This seems to synergize the most with the Tomebinder's themes.
This seems to synergize the most with the Tomebinder's themes.
WhoTheHeckity
But no one ever asks HowTheHeckity
- Location
- Murica 🦅
[X] The Prince's handmaiden
unObservant
Just drifting along, really
- Location
- USA
[X] The Prince's tutor
slybrarian
Creature of Fable
- Location
- A Far and Sunless Land
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The Prince's handmaiden
Padme shenanigans are go.
Padme shenanigans are go.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
As much as it pains me to vote against having knowledge, social skills seem more likely to be immediately important.
Edit:
Who needs logic! Who needs utility! This is a quest, damn it.
[X] The Prince's tutor
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- Reader
[X] The Prince's handmaiden
I cannot blame, but do honestly attribute this choice, to the singular grace and dedication of Peony.
I cannot blame, but do honestly attribute this choice, to the singular grace and dedication of Peony.
Last edited:
- Location
- in the trash
[X] The Prince's handmaiden
II. The Moment Of
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Winning vote:
- The Prince's tutor
It's hard, alone in the dark. You and the other four hostages can't see what's going on. All you can do is listen. There's screams, shouts, and heavy thunk noises, which could be weapons hitting wood. Or bodies.
You've been trying to construct a mental map of what's going on, which has been complicated immensely by having nothing to go on except the one cry of corsairs. It's hard to imagine who would have the audacity to attack a Ysyri vessel with a sorcerer-captain aboard. Your current theory is that, perhaps, it's some of the fae associated with the Orchid Court, but given the immensely varied and fractious nature of the Fair Folk, that doesn't narrow it down much.
Then, one of your fellows screams. You look over at him, and in the tiny amount of light that works its way into the hold, you see a snake fall into his lap, the blue and black stripes down its body speaking to its venom. The prisoner tries to brush it off his lap, but his manacles don't allow the freedom of movement that he needs.
Then the snake transforms into a human.
Now everyone, you included, shout and scramble away as best you can with your hands shackled. Your visitor is casting light himself. It would be only a bare glimmer anywhere else, but this hold is dark, so the silver gleam of the full moon on his forehead stands out. "Anathema!" calls someone, in strangely-accented Flametongue.
The interloper doesn't react to this cry. As best you can see, he's a tall, lithe man with the build of a runner or dancer, and bright eyes scan over the corners of the room, as if he's looking for something that may be hidden there.
You've never seen one before, but you know what he is with absolute certainty: this is one of the Frenzied, shape-shifting Exalts who can steal someone's appearance and voice by tearing their victim's heart out to eat. Mighty Prasad is the power that objects to them most, but they have few true allies.
You are startled, then, when he bursts into a few seconds of sustained violent motion... that frees you and the others. A strangely flowing series of kicks brings him to each hostage's manacles, and breaks the chains preventing you from moving, metal shrieking as it twists and gives way. You still have a heavy manacle on each wrist, but there's only a few inches of dangling chain below that, no longer connected to anything. Two of the hostages huddle together in a corner, and you and the other two watch him warily. "No one should die in chains," he says. "Spend your lives however you see fit." Then he vanishes nearly as quickly as he'd appeared, dashing into the cramped corridor that accesses the other below-decks areas of the ship.
You're the next one to stick your head into that space, glancing both ways, but neither human nor magically-compelled elemental is visible. The Anathema is gone, but the crew quarters and tiny galley are that way, along with the tight staircase to the deck. You'd seen them briefly as you were brought in.
As you're still trying to figure out what to do, the bulkhead opposite you explodes outwards, peppering you with wooden shrapnel.
A wooden spider the size of a good-sized dog hits the doorframe, just barely missing squashing your fingers. The elemental is dead: its abdomen has been caved in by an armored box or safe of some sort, and the tips of its thorny legs are already starting to dissolve into essence.
Belatedly, you look at the source of the spider, and see a short woman attired in a Prasadi style. She's shaking out her hands as though they're sore, which rather neatly explains what just happened.
There's too much to take in with just a glance, and it's too dark and too chaotic to be sure, but you think she's got vines at her temples, and some sort of horribly black needles piercing her here and there. She tenses, and so do you. It's not quite aggressive, just not sure where each other stand.
Before anything comes of that, the Frenzied Anathema appears in the corridor again, slipping out of the crew quarters. He and the Prasadi woman lock eyes, seemingly forgetting you, both instantly on guard against each other. The violent tension in the air is fundamentally different than it was when she looked at you.
On impulse, now that no one is looking, you crouch down next to the armored box. The impact has warped the metal, rending a hole in one side. You can see the contents: a yellow crystal the size of your thumb and a small book. You aren't sure what they are, but someone thinks they're valuable, to have locked them up. You might as well grab them, just in case—
—and then things change.
On the deck of the Impossible Perfection, Peerless Pearl stomps from one position to the other. One of his elementals, a spirit of wings and bound winds, shrouds him from the occasional javelin or arrow that comes his way.
The corsairs are some sort of fae, humanoid Fair Folk skating with their heels on the surface of the water, drawn chariot-like by reins connected to a Wyld-dolphin apiece. Six or seven of them are circling, each darting close to launch a weapon or hurl insults, then backing further away, keeping the pressure up. They haven't demanded anything, yet: they're still testing just how dangerous Pearl and his crew are, which is why all hands are on deck.
Finally, one of the corsairs seems distracted by something in the water for long enough for Pearl to target her. With a gesture of his hands, the spell he's been weaving manifests, and a storm of butterflies, crafted of sharp-edged obsidian, launches forward and catches the corsair. There's not much left after the butterflies slash through flesh.
Hopefully, that will be enough. Pearl draws himself up and looks as imperious and disinterested as possible. He only has so much sorcery that he can conjure. It's half a bluff, then, hoping that they will give up now. If they won't... he judges he should still be able to win even if they push it all the way, but he doesn't want to risk that. Not when the seeds of his advancement are in his ship's hold.
Then he sees what distracted the fae he slew. Two tentacles, both lined with suckers on one side, breach the surface, one on each side of the fae's remains, seizing it and dragging it under. Just below the surface, it's visible that they both branch from a single larger tentacle, and that one also is connected to a similar branch from a yet larger one. Beyond that, he cannot see.
The King of Dark Fathoms is here.
He's never seen it before, but it has preyed on everything from warships to whales since before the founding of Ysyr. Survivors through the centuries have described it, sharing tales of harrowing escape via luck or skill. Deliberately, knowing that the human members of his crew are watching, Pearl tilts head slightly and strokes his chin with forefinger and thumb, as if he is merely considering what feat of sorcery will drive it away. Internally, he is far less sanguine. Anger and fear fight for dominance in him. He had been so close. He was so close to fulfilling his dreams, with either of two different paths that could have paid off. Surely there must still be some way to escape with what he needs. Nothing immediately comes to mind, however. The sea surface seethes and ripples with the motion of mighty limbs beneath it. The King is larger than the Impossible Perfection in its entirety, and it is considering if this prey is worth attacking.
And only then does Peerless Pearl find the worst news of the day.
Light shines from the portholes and hatch of the ship, illuminating the sea around and showing more clearly an armored shape of something down there. The light is the dusty, pale-brown color of old paper, shot through with self-luminous blackness. It reminds him of an Exalt's anima banner, but no anima banner he's ever heard of. And that means—
"No!" Decorum and presentation forgotten, Pearl darts for the hatch even as one bifurcating tentacle heaves itself over the side of the ship, blocking his way even as it quests across the deck for living beings. Pearl's features, until now the smooth perfection of Ysyri sorcery, revert as he reclaims the magical power he had bound within his shape. Lips peel back too far from too many teeth, and fingers with too many joints ripple in complex fashion as he marshals all his power to pierce through the King's tentacle and rush belowdecks.
Below, to where someone has already been Chosen by Sophoebus.
You are unaware of the light you are generating. For you, you feel a visitor in your... mind? Dream? You're not sure. It's not where you were, at least.
"You," says a voice, "are not Peerless Pearl."
You turn, though this liminal space is just a featureless void. 'Behind' you, you see a weathered old man, wearing robes that are, somehow, also a book case, as if you could reach into them and draw forth the books that decorate the sleeves. "Who are you?" you ask, guarded. "Where are we?"
The god, for that is what he is, barks a single laugh. "I am Sophoebus, guardian of knowledge and secrets. And you—you are not Ys. That will have to do. I wish I could tell you everything you need to know, but unfortunately we lack the time. I can bend your perception a little—this discussion will be less than a second of time, but that is all I can manage. What is your name?"
"I am Prince Jinaya of Johhadim, honored god," you say, still guarded. Gods can be fickle and strange.
Sophoebus frowns. "Jinaya," he repeats, and even gets the pronunciation right, sounding a little closer to zhih-NAY-ya than most foreigners manage. "Tastes of a lie. No time for that." He shakes out his robes, and a book falls from their hem. "And no choice. O Prince, you will be my Exalt."
You rock back on your heels. To be Exalted is a grand thing: It is to be the champion of a god, a peer or even a superior in power to other gods, to act where they could not. But it is not without cost to the god. All are lessened, and many are destroyed by choosing an Exalt. All the stories you've ever heard are clear that this is the case. Which means: "Why?"
"Because someone must. Now listen: Ysyr's sorcerer-princes covet the power of the Dustspeaker's Journal, but even when I am confined to a yasal crystal, like now, it cannot be separated from me. However, I will not survive long, and the Journal holds danger Ysyr's sorcerer-princes do not understand or respect. Keep it, and yourself, away from them. There is a devil within its pages. It will not be able to speak anything it knows is untrue, but you can trust it no further than that. Beware the Immanent Lords and their servants." Every word is memorized the moment he speaks it. It is your talent, after all. However, even as you commit it to memory, you notice something: he's fading. He's both smaller than he was before, and you can see through him, when you couldn't before. Not that there's anything to see behind him in this mental space. "For whatever it is worth, I do hope that you live a long and fruitful life. I did not want to leave my duties to another, but I can no longer fulfill them myself. Fare well, Prince Jinaya of Johhadim." His voice fades, sounding as if it is from further and further away... and then nothing.
You come back to yourself. It's only been a second since you crouched to grab the gem and book, but
Light, light like the sun at midday, pours out of you, though it is the color of old paper. Fire and ink race through your limbs with every beat of your heart. Surging strength fills your body, demanding to be used. And... and more. But this has been the most confusing two minutes of your life. The swell of power Sophoebus has given you fades from an overwhelming surge to merely something like tame lightning, and the light you are radiating dies down.
But far from a discreet move to grab something valuable, the magical display has caught the attention of the Frenzied and the Prasadi woman. The Frenzied chuckles. "Well, that probably changes things," he says, rubbing his nose as if he's trying to deal with something stressful.
Then the already-abused hull of the ship shudders. Part of it groans and gives way, allowing a muscular tentacle to force its way in. It is, thankfully, at least above the waterline, so it's not accompanied by a torrent of water. A second forces its way in next to it, widening the hole... and then the bulk behind it proves to be that the two are at the end of a single larger tentacle. "The King of Dark Fathoms!" The Frenzied seems almost eager more than scared, bouncing on the ball of his feet. "I thought it wasn't anywhere close. Truce until we get away?" He glances at both the Prasadi and you. She inclines her head without speaking.
There's another scream behind you, this one cut short. This one proves to be one of your fellow captives. Another tentacle, this one smaller, has forced its way into another crack in the ship, probably the same one the Frenzied came through. The unfortunate captive is dead, smashed against the hull when the tentacle found him and tried to yank him out.
You grimly try not to panic. Wasn't there something you read about survivors who had escaped the...? Right! "There's a nerve cluster, two hands' breadths below the split in the tentacle," you call out. "It's a weak spot."
"Handy!" He replies, cheerful. "Maybe find a weapon, though," he adds, limbering up as if he's about to try to kick the tentacle to death. With a bit of shock, you realize that he might very well be intending just that. For some Exalts, their body really can deal more damage than a sword or mace.
But you're an Exalt, too, now. Are you like that? You... don't know. Maybe you should grab a weapon to defend yourself.
There's a wordless shout and one of your fellow hostages tosses a short harpoon to you. It seems like she grabbed it from the crew quarters, feeling that her chances are better if the person who just put on a magical light show, that being you, is armed.
You catch it one-handed and try to give her a firm nod.
[] It's been a bit, but you remember how to handle this
One of our protagonist's moderate skills is Close Combat, having been incidentally trained in the basics along with the real Prince. She isn't a spectacular warrior by the standards of Exalts, but she's much more effective than almost any normal mortal could hope to be.
[] You remember how close you'd get to the bullseye with these
One of our protagonist's moderate skills is Ranged Combat, having been incidentally trained in the basics along with the real Prince. She's no deadly sniper by the standards of Exalts, but she can be effective with bow or hurled javelin, more than almost any mortal could.
[] Truth be told, you have no idea how to make good use of this
Our protagonist has no skill with weapons. Her talents lie in other directions. She tutored the real Prince in the affairs of state, but when the Prince was tutored in combat, she returned to her books to ready the next lesson. That's kind of easy to regret, now.
- The Prince's tutor
It's hard, alone in the dark. You and the other four hostages can't see what's going on. All you can do is listen. There's screams, shouts, and heavy thunk noises, which could be weapons hitting wood. Or bodies.
You've been trying to construct a mental map of what's going on, which has been complicated immensely by having nothing to go on except the one cry of corsairs. It's hard to imagine who would have the audacity to attack a Ysyri vessel with a sorcerer-captain aboard. Your current theory is that, perhaps, it's some of the fae associated with the Orchid Court, but given the immensely varied and fractious nature of the Fair Folk, that doesn't narrow it down much.
Then, one of your fellows screams. You look over at him, and in the tiny amount of light that works its way into the hold, you see a snake fall into his lap, the blue and black stripes down its body speaking to its venom. The prisoner tries to brush it off his lap, but his manacles don't allow the freedom of movement that he needs.
Then the snake transforms into a human.
Now everyone, you included, shout and scramble away as best you can with your hands shackled. Your visitor is casting light himself. It would be only a bare glimmer anywhere else, but this hold is dark, so the silver gleam of the full moon on his forehead stands out. "Anathema!" calls someone, in strangely-accented Flametongue.
The interloper doesn't react to this cry. As best you can see, he's a tall, lithe man with the build of a runner or dancer, and bright eyes scan over the corners of the room, as if he's looking for something that may be hidden there.
You've never seen one before, but you know what he is with absolute certainty: this is one of the Frenzied, shape-shifting Exalts who can steal someone's appearance and voice by tearing their victim's heart out to eat. Mighty Prasad is the power that objects to them most, but they have few true allies.
You are startled, then, when he bursts into a few seconds of sustained violent motion... that frees you and the others. A strangely flowing series of kicks brings him to each hostage's manacles, and breaks the chains preventing you from moving, metal shrieking as it twists and gives way. You still have a heavy manacle on each wrist, but there's only a few inches of dangling chain below that, no longer connected to anything. Two of the hostages huddle together in a corner, and you and the other two watch him warily. "No one should die in chains," he says. "Spend your lives however you see fit." Then he vanishes nearly as quickly as he'd appeared, dashing into the cramped corridor that accesses the other below-decks areas of the ship.
You're the next one to stick your head into that space, glancing both ways, but neither human nor magically-compelled elemental is visible. The Anathema is gone, but the crew quarters and tiny galley are that way, along with the tight staircase to the deck. You'd seen them briefly as you were brought in.
As you're still trying to figure out what to do, the bulkhead opposite you explodes outwards, peppering you with wooden shrapnel.
A wooden spider the size of a good-sized dog hits the doorframe, just barely missing squashing your fingers. The elemental is dead: its abdomen has been caved in by an armored box or safe of some sort, and the tips of its thorny legs are already starting to dissolve into essence.
Belatedly, you look at the source of the spider, and see a short woman attired in a Prasadi style. She's shaking out her hands as though they're sore, which rather neatly explains what just happened.
There's too much to take in with just a glance, and it's too dark and too chaotic to be sure, but you think she's got vines at her temples, and some sort of horribly black needles piercing her here and there. She tenses, and so do you. It's not quite aggressive, just not sure where each other stand.
Before anything comes of that, the Frenzied Anathema appears in the corridor again, slipping out of the crew quarters. He and the Prasadi woman lock eyes, seemingly forgetting you, both instantly on guard against each other. The violent tension in the air is fundamentally different than it was when she looked at you.
On impulse, now that no one is looking, you crouch down next to the armored box. The impact has warped the metal, rending a hole in one side. You can see the contents: a yellow crystal the size of your thumb and a small book. You aren't sure what they are, but someone thinks they're valuable, to have locked them up. You might as well grab them, just in case—
—and then things change.
On the deck of the Impossible Perfection, Peerless Pearl stomps from one position to the other. One of his elementals, a spirit of wings and bound winds, shrouds him from the occasional javelin or arrow that comes his way.
The corsairs are some sort of fae, humanoid Fair Folk skating with their heels on the surface of the water, drawn chariot-like by reins connected to a Wyld-dolphin apiece. Six or seven of them are circling, each darting close to launch a weapon or hurl insults, then backing further away, keeping the pressure up. They haven't demanded anything, yet: they're still testing just how dangerous Pearl and his crew are, which is why all hands are on deck.
Finally, one of the corsairs seems distracted by something in the water for long enough for Pearl to target her. With a gesture of his hands, the spell he's been weaving manifests, and a storm of butterflies, crafted of sharp-edged obsidian, launches forward and catches the corsair. There's not much left after the butterflies slash through flesh.
Hopefully, that will be enough. Pearl draws himself up and looks as imperious and disinterested as possible. He only has so much sorcery that he can conjure. It's half a bluff, then, hoping that they will give up now. If they won't... he judges he should still be able to win even if they push it all the way, but he doesn't want to risk that. Not when the seeds of his advancement are in his ship's hold.
Then he sees what distracted the fae he slew. Two tentacles, both lined with suckers on one side, breach the surface, one on each side of the fae's remains, seizing it and dragging it under. Just below the surface, it's visible that they both branch from a single larger tentacle, and that one also is connected to a similar branch from a yet larger one. Beyond that, he cannot see.
The King of Dark Fathoms is here.
He's never seen it before, but it has preyed on everything from warships to whales since before the founding of Ysyr. Survivors through the centuries have described it, sharing tales of harrowing escape via luck or skill. Deliberately, knowing that the human members of his crew are watching, Pearl tilts head slightly and strokes his chin with forefinger and thumb, as if he is merely considering what feat of sorcery will drive it away. Internally, he is far less sanguine. Anger and fear fight for dominance in him. He had been so close. He was so close to fulfilling his dreams, with either of two different paths that could have paid off. Surely there must still be some way to escape with what he needs. Nothing immediately comes to mind, however. The sea surface seethes and ripples with the motion of mighty limbs beneath it. The King is larger than the Impossible Perfection in its entirety, and it is considering if this prey is worth attacking.
And only then does Peerless Pearl find the worst news of the day.
Light shines from the portholes and hatch of the ship, illuminating the sea around and showing more clearly an armored shape of something down there. The light is the dusty, pale-brown color of old paper, shot through with self-luminous blackness. It reminds him of an Exalt's anima banner, but no anima banner he's ever heard of. And that means—
"No!" Decorum and presentation forgotten, Pearl darts for the hatch even as one bifurcating tentacle heaves itself over the side of the ship, blocking his way even as it quests across the deck for living beings. Pearl's features, until now the smooth perfection of Ysyri sorcery, revert as he reclaims the magical power he had bound within his shape. Lips peel back too far from too many teeth, and fingers with too many joints ripple in complex fashion as he marshals all his power to pierce through the King's tentacle and rush belowdecks.
Below, to where someone has already been Chosen by Sophoebus.
You are unaware of the light you are generating. For you, you feel a visitor in your... mind? Dream? You're not sure. It's not where you were, at least.
"You," says a voice, "are not Peerless Pearl."
You turn, though this liminal space is just a featureless void. 'Behind' you, you see a weathered old man, wearing robes that are, somehow, also a book case, as if you could reach into them and draw forth the books that decorate the sleeves. "Who are you?" you ask, guarded. "Where are we?"
The god, for that is what he is, barks a single laugh. "I am Sophoebus, guardian of knowledge and secrets. And you—you are not Ys. That will have to do. I wish I could tell you everything you need to know, but unfortunately we lack the time. I can bend your perception a little—this discussion will be less than a second of time, but that is all I can manage. What is your name?"
"I am Prince Jinaya of Johhadim, honored god," you say, still guarded. Gods can be fickle and strange.
Sophoebus frowns. "Jinaya," he repeats, and even gets the pronunciation right, sounding a little closer to zhih-NAY-ya than most foreigners manage. "Tastes of a lie. No time for that." He shakes out his robes, and a book falls from their hem. "And no choice. O Prince, you will be my Exalt."
You rock back on your heels. To be Exalted is a grand thing: It is to be the champion of a god, a peer or even a superior in power to other gods, to act where they could not. But it is not without cost to the god. All are lessened, and many are destroyed by choosing an Exalt. All the stories you've ever heard are clear that this is the case. Which means: "Why?"
"Because someone must. Now listen: Ysyr's sorcerer-princes covet the power of the Dustspeaker's Journal, but even when I am confined to a yasal crystal, like now, it cannot be separated from me. However, I will not survive long, and the Journal holds danger Ysyr's sorcerer-princes do not understand or respect. Keep it, and yourself, away from them. There is a devil within its pages. It will not be able to speak anything it knows is untrue, but you can trust it no further than that. Beware the Immanent Lords and their servants." Every word is memorized the moment he speaks it. It is your talent, after all. However, even as you commit it to memory, you notice something: he's fading. He's both smaller than he was before, and you can see through him, when you couldn't before. Not that there's anything to see behind him in this mental space. "For whatever it is worth, I do hope that you live a long and fruitful life. I did not want to leave my duties to another, but I can no longer fulfill them myself. Fare well, Prince Jinaya of Johhadim." His voice fades, sounding as if it is from further and further away... and then nothing.
You come back to yourself. It's only been a second since you crouched to grab the gem and book, but
you are being reborn
Light, light like the sun at midday, pours out of you, though it is the color of old paper. Fire and ink race through your limbs with every beat of your heart. Surging strength fills your body, demanding to be used. And... and more. But this has been the most confusing two minutes of your life. The swell of power Sophoebus has given you fades from an overwhelming surge to merely something like tame lightning, and the light you are radiating dies down.
But far from a discreet move to grab something valuable, the magical display has caught the attention of the Frenzied and the Prasadi woman. The Frenzied chuckles. "Well, that probably changes things," he says, rubbing his nose as if he's trying to deal with something stressful.
Then the already-abused hull of the ship shudders. Part of it groans and gives way, allowing a muscular tentacle to force its way in. It is, thankfully, at least above the waterline, so it's not accompanied by a torrent of water. A second forces its way in next to it, widening the hole... and then the bulk behind it proves to be that the two are at the end of a single larger tentacle. "The King of Dark Fathoms!" The Frenzied seems almost eager more than scared, bouncing on the ball of his feet. "I thought it wasn't anywhere close. Truce until we get away?" He glances at both the Prasadi and you. She inclines her head without speaking.
There's another scream behind you, this one cut short. This one proves to be one of your fellow captives. Another tentacle, this one smaller, has forced its way into another crack in the ship, probably the same one the Frenzied came through. The unfortunate captive is dead, smashed against the hull when the tentacle found him and tried to yank him out.
You grimly try not to panic. Wasn't there something you read about survivors who had escaped the...? Right! "There's a nerve cluster, two hands' breadths below the split in the tentacle," you call out. "It's a weak spot."
"Handy!" He replies, cheerful. "Maybe find a weapon, though," he adds, limbering up as if he's about to try to kick the tentacle to death. With a bit of shock, you realize that he might very well be intending just that. For some Exalts, their body really can deal more damage than a sword or mace.
But you're an Exalt, too, now. Are you like that? You... don't know. Maybe you should grab a weapon to defend yourself.
There's a wordless shout and one of your fellow hostages tosses a short harpoon to you. It seems like she grabbed it from the crew quarters, feeling that her chances are better if the person who just put on a magical light show, that being you, is armed.
You catch it one-handed and try to give her a firm nod.
Exalted Essence has a fairly small skill list and a philosophy that every player, regardless of character, should be at least a little useful in every situation. It has two broad combat skills: ranged combat (covering everything from throwing daggers to archery to firedust-based weaponry) and close combat (covering martial arts, bare-knuckle brawling, and talent with weapons from a shortsword to a halberd).
However, it also has a way for non-combat characters to contribute: everyone can Build Power. Essence combat is built around characters (on both sides) trying to gather enough of a resource called Power to launch a decisive attack and take down the opposition. One way that a character can build power for another is to use Sagacity to give someone a plan, like we just saw her do. Of course, combat specialists will still be better at combat; this is just what we have to ensure that no player is ever left feeling like they can't contribute.
I'll talk about the details of combat more with the next post, but the short version, and the part that is relevant to this vote, is that it's okay to pick any vote. Our protagonist can be useful, any which way, so pick what you want to pick.
However, it also has a way for non-combat characters to contribute: everyone can Build Power. Essence combat is built around characters (on both sides) trying to gather enough of a resource called Power to launch a decisive attack and take down the opposition. One way that a character can build power for another is to use Sagacity to give someone a plan, like we just saw her do. Of course, combat specialists will still be better at combat; this is just what we have to ensure that no player is ever left feeling like they can't contribute.
I'll talk about the details of combat more with the next post, but the short version, and the part that is relevant to this vote, is that it's okay to pick any vote. Our protagonist can be useful, any which way, so pick what you want to pick.
[] It's been a bit, but you remember how to handle this
One of our protagonist's moderate skills is Close Combat, having been incidentally trained in the basics along with the real Prince. She isn't a spectacular warrior by the standards of Exalts, but she's much more effective than almost any normal mortal could hope to be.
[] You remember how close you'd get to the bullseye with these
One of our protagonist's moderate skills is Ranged Combat, having been incidentally trained in the basics along with the real Prince. She's no deadly sniper by the standards of Exalts, but she can be effective with bow or hurled javelin, more than almost any mortal could.
[] Truth be told, you have no idea how to make good use of this
Our protagonist has no skill with weapons. Her talents lie in other directions. She tutored the real Prince in the affairs of state, but when the Prince was tutored in combat, she returned to her books to ready the next lesson. That's kind of easy to regret, now.
- Location
- France
[X] Truth be told, you have no idea how to make good use of this
I like a protagonist who starts weak.
I like a protagonist who starts weak.
1337Procrast
Fire Emblem Enjoyer
- Location
- Australia
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Truth be told, you have no idea how to make good use of this
I think this is funnier. Our nerd is in big trouble now lmao.
I think this is funnier. Our nerd is in big trouble now lmao.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Truth be told, you have no idea how to make good use of this
Quest voters voting not to be as powerful as possible? A true wonder indeed.
Plus, this should give us more skill in other areas. I think I'd prefer social skills as a secondary focus, rather than combat.
Quest voters voting not to be as powerful as possible? A true wonder indeed.
Plus, this should give us more skill in other areas. I think I'd prefer social skills as a secondary focus, rather than combat.
- Location
- in the trash
[X] Truth be told, you have no idea how to make good use of this
this is the funnier option
this is the funnier option