I'd just like to point out the one wrong thing here, which is actually rather important. Counterattacks go through steps 1-8 for each attack, which is important because it means there is no area to declare counterattacks in when resolving one already. This is helpful because it means the "no countering counters" rule is not only a thing to point out, but actually something inherently involved in the basic process of resolving them.
General Exalted Thread
azoicennead
Overly-Affectionate Zombie Squad
- Pronouns
- He/They
I'm sure there's an edge case where having an explicit "re-roll defense" step would be useful, but I don't feel like digging for it. Really, though, it's an artifact of 2e where there was rolling if you enhanced your DV, so there could then be rerolling. 3rd Excellency could easily be shifted to Step 5.
I do agree that all combat charms should have had their step tagged, though.
Good point, corrected.
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
WHO LIKES AWKWARDLY LONG-WINDED DEMONS
I KNOW YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~
(it's not my fault, escorp cornered the market on succinct write-ups)
Rokaszeru, a Requiem for the Impaler Grove
Twelfth Soul of the Silver Forest
Demon of the Third Circle
Love me, he breathes and the warmth sends sweet shivers down your spine, love me and adore me and never let me me fade. Polish the memory of me until it shines. Keep me eternally bright in your mind's eye. The Host knew him, how could they not? He was at the forefront of countless battle-lines, dazzling as the dawn and drawing fire from every direction. He was the architect of most woeful intrigues, cinnabar dusted designs just visible at the moment of betrayal for he could not bear to leave the victims ignorant. A carmine-clad champion of the Primordial legions, all casual grace and contemptuous skill. A trickster-titan of guile and cheek and winning, razor-edged smiles. As soon to spare you on the field as run you through and heft your body high for all to see. As soon to shake your hand as slice the skin free from your living bones. His favored targets were the mighty, the wealthy, the sanctimonious. Those poor paragons who thought to look down upon him, to pass judgement upon him. Before the Exalted it was his kin and he slew their champions, seduced their loves, and burned their holdings with abandon. Basking in the silver-sap poisoned adulation of innumerable men and gods and demons.
The war was a welcome diversion for him and they both. Ever the thief he he stole the mantle of underdog from the Host and, in all fairness, wore it well. He, a paragon with a citadels and slaves and lands, self-consciously styling himself as the roguish rebel: all good cheer and wry commentary, one mistimed move away from the back foot. Recklessly pushing his limits further and farther, the better to greedily lap up the tainted love of Lords and Serfs alike. Glorious, glamorous, and charmingly cruel, drunk upon the increasingly desperate praise of the masses. He never thought they'd actually lose. Even as the brass and basalt bones of Malfeast, once-Theion, closed around him he cradled his head in shaking hands. Blindly searching for the seam in the reflection reality, for the tear in the artificial nightmare Szoreny had made.
Hell was not kind to him. Bent and broken and twisted upon themselves, their greater selves mutilated and inverted, the Unquestionable were left with little to do but lick their wounds and re-litigate the war. Tense, haunted silence turned to soft murmurs. Murmurs gave way to ugly, spiteful, mutters as half-healed wounds were worn raw by rough tongues: "was it not Rokaszeru who injured me so badly once upon a time", some hissed, "if it were not for him I might have been victorious". "Was it not Rokaszeru who stole such beautiful things from me," others snapped, "if it were not for him might I have more sweetness to soothe this pain". "Was it not Rokaszeru who undermined us, injured us, in his mad quest for glory," the chorus snarled, their voices rising to a roar, "was it not Rokaszeru? Was it not the Impaler Grove? Was it not that bastard fox?" In fear and disgrace he fled from the company of his peers, hiding himself in the soft shadows beneath the earth to avoid their wrath. Wrapped in the blossoms and branches of Szoreny. Many of his once-enemies have long since forgotten their hate, new concerns supplanting old grudges as slow millenia of apathy wear that keening edge to a blunted wedge. But their rejection was shattering, ruining, for a creature accustomed wholly to victory and admiration and he has not dared think to challenge them again.
Rokaszeru is a fox-faced giant. The mein of that vulpine scavenger merged with the anatomy of a colossal man. Ruby lips drawn over shining, silver fangs; lacquered nails gleaming crimson as they dig into the rests of his wooden throne. Splendid fur blending and bleeding, scarlet seeping into a now-leaden grey. From brow to snout runs a perfect, shimmering mirror of mercury, rimmed in red. Devouring the sockets where his eyes should be, obliterating whatever features he might have otherwise had. Years of furtive secrecy and shameful scavenging have taken a grim toll: his once-magnificent muscles are wasted and worn now. Sinews thin and veins swollen against the skin. Spots of iron-dark tarnish have crept in at the extremities and cracks web and branch across his ribs. Branches of the Thousand Recursion Prince descend from the ceiling and earthen walls of his domain. Threading through the colossal cinnabar petals that frame his seat. Splicing themselves into bone and meat and nerve, dripping in tinctures to relieve the pain.
From the ceiling of this half-lit realm hang shaped saplings. Upon the point of each is frozen a ghostly dream, a perfectly captured memory recalled from a hundred angles, the raw sensations perfectly recreated. These are his self and solace: an immaculate record of his greatest victories and triumphs. He loses entire months and seasons re-living them. Recalling now-faded triumphs in stunning detail. Remembering when he shone so bright that it seemed as if Ligier himself could not look away.
Notes and Abilities: Physically Rokaszeru is immensely frail. His chipped self-confidence has made him brittle and he loathes exposure and vulnerability, rendering him of limited utility in war. He has not taken up his blossom-emblazoned cloak or red-wrapped glaive since the First Age and, in truth, sourly suspects that all record of him has passed out of mortal minds. But this is not to say that he is necessarily useless: the Requiem for the Impaler Grove may still enrapture mortal hearts and minds with his impossible beauty and enduring grandeur. Mirrored face flashing with all the brilliance of the Unconquered Sun itself. Within his sprawling sanctum lay tokens and prizes from across the ages, his once-precious trophies gathering dust. Some are stolen, some fairly won, some taken only for the sake of an idle whim. He would part with them if he thought they might bring him some reflection of glory again. Anything to be whole.
When a Requiem for the Impaler Grove walks in Creation his steps burn and smoke, plumes of cinnamon dust staining the sky. Reflective surfaces freeze and replay images of the past while a twelve-petaled blossom seems to overlay the sun. He may escape his prison when the last recollections of a civilization's greatest triumphs are lost to living memory, their epic history and bloodied deeds tilled beneath farmland and babbling streams. However he rarely takes advantage of the opportunity when presented.
Rokaszeru and the Althing: A Requiem for the Impaler Grove's involvement in the Reclamation is largely that of a passive observer, yet it is this voyeuristic tendency that makes him nearly invaluable as a patron. When not lost in the pleasant haze of memories Rokaszeru constantly watches from the mirrored depths of Szoreny's bark. A witness to the endless upheaval within Malfeas, the sublime ascensions and devastating crashes. He even watches those who think themselves shadowy observers in turn, idly gaming out their plots and plans. Any Infernal who gains access to his affections gains access to this vast network and the treasure trove of leverage and secrets contained therein.
However any other arrangement with Rokazseru would require meaningful efforts at rehabilitation and healing. Yet, even there, the dividends could very well be worth the enormous expense of time and energy: while past his prime the Vermillion Victor Chased in Silver Sin is still tremendously skilled, fantastically cunning, and, above all, disgustingly lucky. With his abilities properly applied he could upset the established hierarchy of the Mirror Tree, to say nothing of the chaotic spill-over into other Mythoi.
Caelestis, the Ronin Mantled in Rain
Expressive Soul of a Requiem for the Impaler Grove
Demon of the Second Circle
He calls himself the Immortal Storm. It's one-part posturing to two parts talisman: he must show no fear, he must show no weakness, he must not weep for if he weeps he will be giving voice to his fear and if he does that then he is weak. And if he is weak he will die, swiftly and shamefully like the Expressive Soul before him. She was much beloved, as all the rest of Rokaszeru's Pantheon is quick to say. She was courageous and cunning, daring and decisive. She could soothe the tension and strife within their ranks, joining them together in pursuit of glorious purpose and shared advancement (no small feat among a company of envious, suspicious demons). She survived the Primordial War and for what? To be obliterated by the blow of an enraged titan. Wiped off the face of Creation so that, instead, Caelestis could stand where she stood. Speak the words she should have spoken. Try and fail where she would have succeeded.
There's none of that stentorian intonation when he speaks, none of that overwhelming charisma, those sweet, easy, words or those classical features that so embody demonic virtue. He does not look the part of a leader (it suits him, he isn't): rather he seems more some Dynast taking a year off from his studies; caught halfway between his pleasure yacht and some distant battlefield. Somewhere between perpetually surprised, eternally melodramatic, and endlessly self-conscious. Plates of bark cling to his torso, his limbs, like curved pieces of armor. Quicksilver roots burrow out from his chest, wending all around him in a grotesque parody of honed musculature. His visible flesh is bloodlessly pale, the eye drawn to the silvery, feathery hair that spills down to his shoulders. Crimson petals frame his face, folding in and fusing to a rich, cherry-red visor. In one hand he carries a curved sword that sparks and crackles, wondrous iron-grey metal arcing, edge gleaming with leashed electricity.
He cut it himself from Szoreny's heartwood, it represents one of two triumphs. He cut it and sharpened it and shaped it until it fit his palm perfectly. He practiced with it for endless hours, learning at the feet of Hell's swordsmen until he was capable of executing their techniques with something beyond mere competency. This, perhaps, best encapsulates the paradox of Caelestis, out of all of the souls composing the Vermilion Victor Chased in Silver Sin he is the one with the best hope of improving their lot. Not only is he able to win, he is able to lose. To accept it, internalize it, and adapt. To acknowledge it happened and redouble his efforts, to move beyond the pain. But he is disliked, unloved, and so his dreams are rejected. The past is better, and what new glories he could manage would be feeble things, not worth the effort, the expense, or risk.
Notes and Abilities: The Ronin Mantled in Rain is a tenacious swordsman and, what he lacks in refined mastery, he compensates for with sheer breadth of range and dogged determination. His style is known as Rain Glistening on Glass and emphasizes adapting and incorporating the techniques of others on the fly. Weaving their strikes into your own patterns, letting the endless storm of blows serve only to add to your splendid shine. Sorcerers commonly summon him as a bodyguard or champion, charging him with protecting their bodies or the execution of their goals. Those more inclined to the study of demon physiology instead, at times, summon him to study his armor. The body beneath is frail, withered and emaciated. Yet he has so enhanced himself that he is able to keep pace with infernal duelists and hellish champions. He maintains an intense and utterly one-sided rivalry with the Demon Lord Siyaar for slights given during training.
The strength of his dedication wrings moisture from the air, shrouding him in perpetual rain. The weight of his duty leaves thunder booming in his footsteps. His wrath is lightning, silver-white and shockingly bright. He may escape Hell when crippled men stand and fight with their parent's weapons, appearing for the course of a single battle. Leaving behind an inverted sapling suit to grow from the chest of his "summoner" when he departs.
I KNOW YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~
(it's not my fault, escorp cornered the market on succinct write-ups)
Rokaszeru, a Requiem for the Impaler Grove
Twelfth Soul of the Silver Forest
Demon of the Third Circle
Love me, he breathes and the warmth sends sweet shivers down your spine, love me and adore me and never let me me fade. Polish the memory of me until it shines. Keep me eternally bright in your mind's eye. The Host knew him, how could they not? He was at the forefront of countless battle-lines, dazzling as the dawn and drawing fire from every direction. He was the architect of most woeful intrigues, cinnabar dusted designs just visible at the moment of betrayal for he could not bear to leave the victims ignorant. A carmine-clad champion of the Primordial legions, all casual grace and contemptuous skill. A trickster-titan of guile and cheek and winning, razor-edged smiles. As soon to spare you on the field as run you through and heft your body high for all to see. As soon to shake your hand as slice the skin free from your living bones. His favored targets were the mighty, the wealthy, the sanctimonious. Those poor paragons who thought to look down upon him, to pass judgement upon him. Before the Exalted it was his kin and he slew their champions, seduced their loves, and burned their holdings with abandon. Basking in the silver-sap poisoned adulation of innumerable men and gods and demons.
The war was a welcome diversion for him and they both. Ever the thief he he stole the mantle of underdog from the Host and, in all fairness, wore it well. He, a paragon with a citadels and slaves and lands, self-consciously styling himself as the roguish rebel: all good cheer and wry commentary, one mistimed move away from the back foot. Recklessly pushing his limits further and farther, the better to greedily lap up the tainted love of Lords and Serfs alike. Glorious, glamorous, and charmingly cruel, drunk upon the increasingly desperate praise of the masses. He never thought they'd actually lose. Even as the brass and basalt bones of Malfeast, once-Theion, closed around him he cradled his head in shaking hands. Blindly searching for the seam in the reflection reality, for the tear in the artificial nightmare Szoreny had made.
Hell was not kind to him. Bent and broken and twisted upon themselves, their greater selves mutilated and inverted, the Unquestionable were left with little to do but lick their wounds and re-litigate the war. Tense, haunted silence turned to soft murmurs. Murmurs gave way to ugly, spiteful, mutters as half-healed wounds were worn raw by rough tongues: "was it not Rokaszeru who injured me so badly once upon a time", some hissed, "if it were not for him I might have been victorious". "Was it not Rokaszeru who stole such beautiful things from me," others snapped, "if it were not for him might I have more sweetness to soothe this pain". "Was it not Rokaszeru who undermined us, injured us, in his mad quest for glory," the chorus snarled, their voices rising to a roar, "was it not Rokaszeru? Was it not the Impaler Grove? Was it not that bastard fox?" In fear and disgrace he fled from the company of his peers, hiding himself in the soft shadows beneath the earth to avoid their wrath. Wrapped in the blossoms and branches of Szoreny. Many of his once-enemies have long since forgotten their hate, new concerns supplanting old grudges as slow millenia of apathy wear that keening edge to a blunted wedge. But their rejection was shattering, ruining, for a creature accustomed wholly to victory and admiration and he has not dared think to challenge them again.
Rokaszeru is a fox-faced giant. The mein of that vulpine scavenger merged with the anatomy of a colossal man. Ruby lips drawn over shining, silver fangs; lacquered nails gleaming crimson as they dig into the rests of his wooden throne. Splendid fur blending and bleeding, scarlet seeping into a now-leaden grey. From brow to snout runs a perfect, shimmering mirror of mercury, rimmed in red. Devouring the sockets where his eyes should be, obliterating whatever features he might have otherwise had. Years of furtive secrecy and shameful scavenging have taken a grim toll: his once-magnificent muscles are wasted and worn now. Sinews thin and veins swollen against the skin. Spots of iron-dark tarnish have crept in at the extremities and cracks web and branch across his ribs. Branches of the Thousand Recursion Prince descend from the ceiling and earthen walls of his domain. Threading through the colossal cinnabar petals that frame his seat. Splicing themselves into bone and meat and nerve, dripping in tinctures to relieve the pain.
From the ceiling of this half-lit realm hang shaped saplings. Upon the point of each is frozen a ghostly dream, a perfectly captured memory recalled from a hundred angles, the raw sensations perfectly recreated. These are his self and solace: an immaculate record of his greatest victories and triumphs. He loses entire months and seasons re-living them. Recalling now-faded triumphs in stunning detail. Remembering when he shone so bright that it seemed as if Ligier himself could not look away.
Notes and Abilities: Physically Rokaszeru is immensely frail. His chipped self-confidence has made him brittle and he loathes exposure and vulnerability, rendering him of limited utility in war. He has not taken up his blossom-emblazoned cloak or red-wrapped glaive since the First Age and, in truth, sourly suspects that all record of him has passed out of mortal minds. But this is not to say that he is necessarily useless: the Requiem for the Impaler Grove may still enrapture mortal hearts and minds with his impossible beauty and enduring grandeur. Mirrored face flashing with all the brilliance of the Unconquered Sun itself. Within his sprawling sanctum lay tokens and prizes from across the ages, his once-precious trophies gathering dust. Some are stolen, some fairly won, some taken only for the sake of an idle whim. He would part with them if he thought they might bring him some reflection of glory again. Anything to be whole.
When a Requiem for the Impaler Grove walks in Creation his steps burn and smoke, plumes of cinnamon dust staining the sky. Reflective surfaces freeze and replay images of the past while a twelve-petaled blossom seems to overlay the sun. He may escape his prison when the last recollections of a civilization's greatest triumphs are lost to living memory, their epic history and bloodied deeds tilled beneath farmland and babbling streams. However he rarely takes advantage of the opportunity when presented.
Rokaszeru and the Althing: A Requiem for the Impaler Grove's involvement in the Reclamation is largely that of a passive observer, yet it is this voyeuristic tendency that makes him nearly invaluable as a patron. When not lost in the pleasant haze of memories Rokaszeru constantly watches from the mirrored depths of Szoreny's bark. A witness to the endless upheaval within Malfeas, the sublime ascensions and devastating crashes. He even watches those who think themselves shadowy observers in turn, idly gaming out their plots and plans. Any Infernal who gains access to his affections gains access to this vast network and the treasure trove of leverage and secrets contained therein.
However any other arrangement with Rokazseru would require meaningful efforts at rehabilitation and healing. Yet, even there, the dividends could very well be worth the enormous expense of time and energy: while past his prime the Vermillion Victor Chased in Silver Sin is still tremendously skilled, fantastically cunning, and, above all, disgustingly lucky. With his abilities properly applied he could upset the established hierarchy of the Mirror Tree, to say nothing of the chaotic spill-over into other Mythoi.
Caelestis, the Ronin Mantled in Rain
Expressive Soul of a Requiem for the Impaler Grove
Demon of the Second Circle
He calls himself the Immortal Storm. It's one-part posturing to two parts talisman: he must show no fear, he must show no weakness, he must not weep for if he weeps he will be giving voice to his fear and if he does that then he is weak. And if he is weak he will die, swiftly and shamefully like the Expressive Soul before him. She was much beloved, as all the rest of Rokaszeru's Pantheon is quick to say. She was courageous and cunning, daring and decisive. She could soothe the tension and strife within their ranks, joining them together in pursuit of glorious purpose and shared advancement (no small feat among a company of envious, suspicious demons). She survived the Primordial War and for what? To be obliterated by the blow of an enraged titan. Wiped off the face of Creation so that, instead, Caelestis could stand where she stood. Speak the words she should have spoken. Try and fail where she would have succeeded.
There's none of that stentorian intonation when he speaks, none of that overwhelming charisma, those sweet, easy, words or those classical features that so embody demonic virtue. He does not look the part of a leader (it suits him, he isn't): rather he seems more some Dynast taking a year off from his studies; caught halfway between his pleasure yacht and some distant battlefield. Somewhere between perpetually surprised, eternally melodramatic, and endlessly self-conscious. Plates of bark cling to his torso, his limbs, like curved pieces of armor. Quicksilver roots burrow out from his chest, wending all around him in a grotesque parody of honed musculature. His visible flesh is bloodlessly pale, the eye drawn to the silvery, feathery hair that spills down to his shoulders. Crimson petals frame his face, folding in and fusing to a rich, cherry-red visor. In one hand he carries a curved sword that sparks and crackles, wondrous iron-grey metal arcing, edge gleaming with leashed electricity.
He cut it himself from Szoreny's heartwood, it represents one of two triumphs. He cut it and sharpened it and shaped it until it fit his palm perfectly. He practiced with it for endless hours, learning at the feet of Hell's swordsmen until he was capable of executing their techniques with something beyond mere competency. This, perhaps, best encapsulates the paradox of Caelestis, out of all of the souls composing the Vermilion Victor Chased in Silver Sin he is the one with the best hope of improving their lot. Not only is he able to win, he is able to lose. To accept it, internalize it, and adapt. To acknowledge it happened and redouble his efforts, to move beyond the pain. But he is disliked, unloved, and so his dreams are rejected. The past is better, and what new glories he could manage would be feeble things, not worth the effort, the expense, or risk.
Notes and Abilities: The Ronin Mantled in Rain is a tenacious swordsman and, what he lacks in refined mastery, he compensates for with sheer breadth of range and dogged determination. His style is known as Rain Glistening on Glass and emphasizes adapting and incorporating the techniques of others on the fly. Weaving their strikes into your own patterns, letting the endless storm of blows serve only to add to your splendid shine. Sorcerers commonly summon him as a bodyguard or champion, charging him with protecting their bodies or the execution of their goals. Those more inclined to the study of demon physiology instead, at times, summon him to study his armor. The body beneath is frail, withered and emaciated. Yet he has so enhanced himself that he is able to keep pace with infernal duelists and hellish champions. He maintains an intense and utterly one-sided rivalry with the Demon Lord Siyaar for slights given during training.
The strength of his dedication wrings moisture from the air, shrouding him in perpetual rain. The weight of his duty leaves thunder booming in his footsteps. His wrath is lightning, silver-white and shockingly bright. He may escape Hell when crippled men stand and fight with their parent's weapons, appearing for the course of a single battle. Leaving behind an inverted sapling suit to grow from the chest of his "summoner" when he departs.
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- Location
- New York City
No, it was in the leak as well. The leak isn't paginated, but in there it's on page 303 of the PDF.
It's no biggy, this kind of thing happens all the time in this thread.
Last edited:
Graypairofsocks
What is Grammar?
- Location
- earth
Why does this thread have multiple opening posters?
Lealope
Not yet invincible
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I'm guessing the collaborative threads function works by giving normal posters the ability to threadmark by tagging them as opening posters.
grommile
nasty-minded old cynic
- Location
- NERV-Mercia
- Pronouns
- Traditional/Animate
Exactly so.
This probably falls under the general heading of "fundamental limitations of the XenForo software".
- Location
- Singapore
So.... a terrestrial working can induce mutations. Going by Revlid's mutations list, that means a mortal sorcerer, using finesse 5, ambition 2, can grant himself a massively expanded lifespan, and then immortality.
Have you thought of perhaps a character who is, like, a normal sorcerer? Not exalted. But immensely old. With accompanying sorcerous pacts, demon summons, and knowledge of spells as well as sorcerous workings for power? Might make for a good antagonist. Or a mentor.
Have you thought of perhaps a character who is, like, a normal sorcerer? Not exalted. But immensely old. With accompanying sorcerous pacts, demon summons, and knowledge of spells as well as sorcerous workings for power? Might make for a good antagonist. Or a mentor.
I would caution against using homebrew made for 2e to determine what sorcerous workings in 3e are capable of. However good it might be, I doubt it's the balance point the writers for 3e were using.
On the subject of immortality through workings, you might be interested in this section.
Exalted Third Edition p.486 said:
- Location
- Singapore
Its just that...
When they said immortal, did they mean eternally young, or indestructible.
Dark eldar are immortal, in the sense that, as long as a haemonculi has a portion of their flesh, they can be regenerated and resurrected from death.
On the other hand, you can have characters that are eternally youthful, but can be slain like any other.
Tl; dr, i think when they said immortality, i think they meant Koschei the deathless
When they said immortal, did they mean eternally young, or indestructible.
Dark eldar are immortal, in the sense that, as long as a haemonculi has a portion of their flesh, they can be regenerated and resurrected from death.
On the other hand, you can have characters that are eternally youthful, but can be slain like any other.
Tl; dr, i think when they said immortality, i think they meant Koschei the deathless
OctarineShrike
Avatar of Mandos
Indestructibility risks the fate of the Neverborn if someone manages to kill them anyway. Room for both depending on the needs of your scenario.
- Location
- Gladstone, OR
It's generally expected that in Exalted, they mean it in terms of 'chinese' immortality- like never dying of old age, but not being immune to harm. Koschei is a good example of a complex, conditional immortality though. Note that the Exalted save a couple of thematic exceptions are not immortal and in one case cannot ever be Immortal. (Sidereals). But, to your standard dirt-farming peasant, even a Dragonblooded can be percieved as an ageless permanent fixture.
Now, being Exalted does not preclude someone from taking Koschei-style measures, but thematically and for the health of the game design, you always want such things to have a degree of play, flexibility. You have to be able to find the needle that pierces the egg, but that quest is not supposed to be easy. This is why 3e's Dual Magnus Prana and a bunch of other charms are poorly designed, because there's no play and flexibility to how they work or are countered.
Player Characters are intended to achieve these exceptional circumstances/conditions. However, you should also note that in 2e, there was a deliberate design subversion- most forms of 'can't die' are explicitly ignored by Ghost-Eating Technique, by design. There was a firm pattern of 'The buck stops here' in how Exalted dealt with problems. A Solar doesn't need to find Koschei's needle. He just kills Koschei, because he knows how to kill the unkillable.
Graypairofsocks
What is Grammar?
- Location
- earth
IIRC there are several things that Ghost-Eating Technique doesn't work on (I am not talking about the deathlords).
There is a rather significant difference between forms of immortality:
-Does not age? Relatively simple.
-Does not die if killed? Rare, but we see it has precedent, but it always has a cost, though not always a irrecoverable one, the Neverborn show one end of that..
-Regenerates from a scrap? If you have regenerative healing, then such a wound merely incapacitated you but your opponent can't recognize that.
-Impossible to hurt? This is a little outside genre. But not completely!
But it wouldn't be very fun for the most part as you go to the more extreme end of things.
.
- Location
- Singapore
Such as?
Is there going to be a dedicated sorcery book? I find the shape sorcery and sorcerous workings to be quite interesting. Though i wish that they didn't remove benediction of archgenesis
If you're referring to 3e, Benediction of Archgenesis still exists. It's the very first Solar Circle spell listed.
- Location
- Singapore
Holy shit sorry.
Its just that i got the feeling that... well, sorcery's large scale permanent changes have been replaced by sorcerous workings. Which was why the ambition 1 solar circle working involved lush forests in deserts.
- Location
- United States
Workings are supposed to represent the sorcerer's ability to do unique, more-or-less one-off wondrous things, because from 1e onward, sorcery was hyped as a very flexible discipline but it failed to play out that way, because if I only know three spells then I can only do three things. If a sorcerer wants to replicate a working on the regular, they should take the time to figure the working out as a spell and codify it.
- Location
- Singapore
Would they also give a guide on how to homebrew spells?
Graypairofsocks
What is Grammar?
- Location
- earth
Several behemoths arguably can't killed with it.
This tree called Elysande, can't die unless all trees in creation die.
There is this other one made out of pages called Halkomelem, who we don't know how he can be killed.
There is also the Vodak, who has to be dumped in the mouth of oblivion in order for him to die.
Those 3 basically reform if killed.
There are others that can't die, so it's not really usable to kill them in the first place.
Juggernaut, can't die until some specific point in time.
Arad the hunter may be completely immortal, it isn't really clear.
- Location
- Singapore
Where did the 1st 2 come from?
I know vodak is from the north
I know vodak is from the north
Graypairofsocks
What is Grammar?
- Location
- earth
The page thing is from celestial compass malfeas.
The other, I think is from under the rose. I'm not sure.
The other, I think is from under the rose. I'm not sure.
Don't Know about the first, but the second is from the Compass: Malfeas book.
There's also Oliphim, the diver-looking Behemoth of the West who cannot die by GET. He can only be killed by someone on the level of the Incarna, Yozis, or potentially a Solar Circle spell designed specifically to kill him.