Danny's characterization here is pretty good, a "father to his men" sort . This is a nice update, GL, looking forward to more.
Memoirs of a Human Flashlight Thread 2: Now with more Arguments! [Exalted/Worm]
- Thread starter Golden Lark
- Start date
-
- Tags
- exalted (white wolf) worm
Even a Solar can't be good at everything. I'm willing to cut a heroic mortal single father some slack.Yog said:
??? Danny's not a Solar.Sunder the Gold said:
Mortals get a two die penalty for attempting an ability they don't have any dots in. Exalts don't, that means that if Taylor has good attributes she is capable of functioning as a fairly skilled if not fully professional individual at things she has never attempted before. If she has any dots in craft wood she is probably as qualified to fix the house as any contractor they could hire would be. Even if she doesn't she is probably capable of doing a fairly good job.
That is before any charms are involved at all.
That is before any charms are involved at all.
.IronSun.
I don't descriminate, I hate all of you equally.
- Location
- IN UR BASE, PUNCHIN UR DOODZ
So long as he doesn't get hit with that 'Everyone forgets you' crap.Jouaint said:
Biigoh
Tanuki
- Location
- Tanukia
It works on EVERYONE within fate. Exalts and essence users just get the ability to use charms to help resist the forgetting part as a dice roll is involved.Brellin said:
Arcane Fate was the result of the Sidereals covering up their role in the Usurpation.Stormseed said:
It depends on wits+integrity-3, if you have a high enough score and get lucky you will remember the sidereal, though there are charms that make one immune, but even heroic mortals can make that roll some of the time.Brellin said:
Surprisingly, yes, it does.Brellin said:
Provided a Solar doesn't take the appropriate counter measures, they'll forget Sidereals the same as anyone else.
I gather that it wouldn't affect beings outside of Fate at all then? Abyssals and such...biigoh said:
Biigoh
Tanuki
- Location
- Tanukia
Are [target] inside fate? If yes, then it affects them. If no, it doesn't affect them.Oni said:
Raksha laugh at the cosplaying Sidereals... :3
greensun
You shall all burn beneath my light!!!
Abyssals are in fate, though not entirely since their status as being both alive and dead does freaky things to the Loom, and Infernals are completely immune since they do not operate on the Loom at all. Instead they use their own internal causality.Oni said:
Golden Lark
The First Fiction User
1418+1180+1077=3675 out of 7000
Essence 3.1.1
If there were any after-effects as to my little bit of sniping during my intro speech, they were never explained to me. I started going out on patrol like the others, and more or less shifted into being a Ward completely. Weekly duties, public appearances, the works.
None of that stopped me from the occasional nightly hacking spree.
I had been making minor forays into my compromised server and the keylogger's records. Eventually I got a password and started to gently poke around the network. Home share of my victim, his resume, then the likely places he'd access as part of his job that I deduced from said resume. Each time I left a bit of further infrastructure in my wake. Sometimes it was corrected or erased, sometimes it wasn't. Eventually I realized that anything I did directly from the compromised web server wasn't being undone.
This made less and less sense.
I both secured my path to said server more and grew bolder in my adventures 'past' it. I was finding all sorts of stuff left lying around on the network in not-particularly secure places. I also began to realize that virus scanning and other passive countermeasures would fail on any given machine as soon as I made a connection from my 'home' webserver. Like whatever protected the network was deathly allergic to that one machine and any other device connected to it. Not one to question my good fortune, I just stretched out my probing over the nights to more places I could 'black out.' I did not dismiss the idea I had fallen into a gigantic honeypot, however. No backtraces were being attempted.
Eventually I found reference to a chain of e-mails about some dumb employee that got fired for pushing a ridiculous plan too hard to the top even after he had been told no by multiple levels of management. I wouldn't have noticed it but it was a reference in so many nasty e-mails that it had become something of an in-joke across the whole PRT/Protectorate; asking your peers if they were going to pull a Stevenson after getting a proposal shot down. Curiosity got the better of me and I went to try to find a copy of the Stevenson Proposal.
After directing my efforts into digging up various e-mails from further and further back, it became apparent that no digital copies of the proposal seemed to exist. Eventually I found someone (from Brockton Bay's PRT no less) bragging that they had printed it out to serve as a paperweight and emergency blunt weapon. Cruel, but useful for my purposes.
Later that week I had whipped up a batch of sandwiches and made a whirlwind tour of the PRT side of the facility, offering sandwiches and asking if anyone else inside might like any. I was ushered into the various departments and introduced to the various stuff, to mixed receptions. Every one of them changed their tone for the better on getting a sandwich. I made a point of hitting the stagehands' area and rewarding AV guy for the great timing. Eventually I got ushered through the part of the building where the guy that wrote the mean mail was.
He got a sandwich, I swiped the terribly thick packet from his shelf when no one was looking. I smuggled it out under my tray and got it back to my room without much effort.
That night I started to read.
[***]
Well, my power let me cheat, so it didn't take long. A fully fleshed out plan of how to globally end human hunger. Every factor addressed, every detail notated. Well, with one glaring pattern of expections.
The plan lacked a human element. It decreed all sorts of things be improved or fixed or tweaked in procedures and policies and even law, but didn't account for how the people who would be held responsible for the previous system would be treated. Following a plan like this through would have gotten thousands of people fired or humiliated, and have put thousands more in awkward political situations if they tried to funnel money from local pork to feeding strange foreigners. This became evident from the second page, and the pattern continued. To the very end.
The plan, as it was, was perfect. It just lacked the same meticulous level of detail and thought whenever people and their feelings were relevant. There was a mild arrogance throughout the whole thing, like people weren't good enough to do this before it had been written and should be held accountable for it. Understandable feelings for someone that could think this whole thing through.
The saddest part was that human hunger was likely to be the least of our problems, in the wake of the Endbringers. That alone probably cause anyone with political motivations to simply toss the packet in the garbage.
Still. This . . . wasn't useless. It wasn't worthless. I found myself typing up a fresh copy into digital form over the next couple nights; the original text verbatim, with annotations and corrections for the years that had passed since the original draft, and justifications of the 'human' changes I would make. Insistence that laws be changed were morphed into campaignable reasons to do so. A theme of hope in the face of the Endbringers added a positive spin on a dreary topic. Massive changes to the Department of Agriculture could be framed in a more liberal progressive light than a searing critique and tearing down of an outdated institution. This continued each night for a week, depsite attempts by Clockblocker to pull me out of my 'cave.'
My sun bleached, whitened, damaged cave.
My typing was interrupted by a scream when my monitor shorted out. It was mine. Then I blinked and realized I was almost fully glowing. I had been warned about 'maxing out' and causing the towering column of light to appear when not necessary. I had to sheepishly wait to 'cool off' then go beg Dennis and Missy to submit a request for fresh equipment on my behalf; and for an analysis of the damage I had done to my previous possessions. The whole wards team had cycled through a second set of costumes since starting to work with me; my bleaching effect was not kind to any fabric, heroic or not.
One awkward series of requisitions later, and I had a new PC. Apparently my sandwiches had won me more friends in corporate than I had realized. I resolved to press that advantage.
Interruption finished, I finished my revision and opened up Outlook. Hovering between what identity I wished to use, I settled on my heroic one.
Mr. Stevenson:
We haven't met, and I apologize for my forthrightness, but I have attached a copy of your proposal to this e-mail complete with some revisions. If this is no longer of interest to you then please disregard this mail. Otherwise, I can summarize my revisions as follows . . .
[***]
At an immaculately crafted and polished desk, a well-manicured hand manipulated a spotless mouse. It paused, and a slight twitch betrayed a sharp intake of breath, followed by a shudder of what might have been rage, or the anticipation of such. Two clicks followed by a scroll wheel's soothing spin.
Another spin.
And another.
An indeterminate amount of time later, that hand pressed a button on a phone.
"Sir?"
"Cancel my appointments for tomorrow, and arrange a list of appropriate gifts and compensation for each party. Secure the raw materials for those and have them delivered to my workshop as soon as feasible."
"Of course sir. Shall I phrase the cancellations in any particular way?"
A relevant question, presented properly.
"Yes. Let them know I received some news that has cost me a good night's sleep."
A pause.
"Shall I arrange a correction, sir?"
Correction. Their word for dealing with human errors, among other ones.
"That will not be necessary. The news was good."
"Very well sir. Is there anything else?"
"No, that will be all. Thank you."
The button was pressed again.
A handcrafted leather cushioned chair sighed as its burden lifted from it. A mind filled with thoughts of exacting precision considered the odds of subterfuge, juvenile delinquency, and/or a sting operation.
Those odds were dismissed.
A silver-threaded mask considered its reflection for a while over the backdrop of Boston's night traffic. The mask was removed and a bare face of flesh and imperfections stared back.
"It seems I need to confirm," it said.
Essence 3.1.1
If there were any after-effects as to my little bit of sniping during my intro speech, they were never explained to me. I started going out on patrol like the others, and more or less shifted into being a Ward completely. Weekly duties, public appearances, the works.
None of that stopped me from the occasional nightly hacking spree.
I had been making minor forays into my compromised server and the keylogger's records. Eventually I got a password and started to gently poke around the network. Home share of my victim, his resume, then the likely places he'd access as part of his job that I deduced from said resume. Each time I left a bit of further infrastructure in my wake. Sometimes it was corrected or erased, sometimes it wasn't. Eventually I realized that anything I did directly from the compromised web server wasn't being undone.
This made less and less sense.
I both secured my path to said server more and grew bolder in my adventures 'past' it. I was finding all sorts of stuff left lying around on the network in not-particularly secure places. I also began to realize that virus scanning and other passive countermeasures would fail on any given machine as soon as I made a connection from my 'home' webserver. Like whatever protected the network was deathly allergic to that one machine and any other device connected to it. Not one to question my good fortune, I just stretched out my probing over the nights to more places I could 'black out.' I did not dismiss the idea I had fallen into a gigantic honeypot, however. No backtraces were being attempted.
Eventually I found reference to a chain of e-mails about some dumb employee that got fired for pushing a ridiculous plan too hard to the top even after he had been told no by multiple levels of management. I wouldn't have noticed it but it was a reference in so many nasty e-mails that it had become something of an in-joke across the whole PRT/Protectorate; asking your peers if they were going to pull a Stevenson after getting a proposal shot down. Curiosity got the better of me and I went to try to find a copy of the Stevenson Proposal.
After directing my efforts into digging up various e-mails from further and further back, it became apparent that no digital copies of the proposal seemed to exist. Eventually I found someone (from Brockton Bay's PRT no less) bragging that they had printed it out to serve as a paperweight and emergency blunt weapon. Cruel, but useful for my purposes.
Later that week I had whipped up a batch of sandwiches and made a whirlwind tour of the PRT side of the facility, offering sandwiches and asking if anyone else inside might like any. I was ushered into the various departments and introduced to the various stuff, to mixed receptions. Every one of them changed their tone for the better on getting a sandwich. I made a point of hitting the stagehands' area and rewarding AV guy for the great timing. Eventually I got ushered through the part of the building where the guy that wrote the mean mail was.
He got a sandwich, I swiped the terribly thick packet from his shelf when no one was looking. I smuggled it out under my tray and got it back to my room without much effort.
That night I started to read.
[***]
Well, my power let me cheat, so it didn't take long. A fully fleshed out plan of how to globally end human hunger. Every factor addressed, every detail notated. Well, with one glaring pattern of expections.
The plan lacked a human element. It decreed all sorts of things be improved or fixed or tweaked in procedures and policies and even law, but didn't account for how the people who would be held responsible for the previous system would be treated. Following a plan like this through would have gotten thousands of people fired or humiliated, and have put thousands more in awkward political situations if they tried to funnel money from local pork to feeding strange foreigners. This became evident from the second page, and the pattern continued. To the very end.
The plan, as it was, was perfect. It just lacked the same meticulous level of detail and thought whenever people and their feelings were relevant. There was a mild arrogance throughout the whole thing, like people weren't good enough to do this before it had been written and should be held accountable for it. Understandable feelings for someone that could think this whole thing through.
The saddest part was that human hunger was likely to be the least of our problems, in the wake of the Endbringers. That alone probably cause anyone with political motivations to simply toss the packet in the garbage.
Still. This . . . wasn't useless. It wasn't worthless. I found myself typing up a fresh copy into digital form over the next couple nights; the original text verbatim, with annotations and corrections for the years that had passed since the original draft, and justifications of the 'human' changes I would make. Insistence that laws be changed were morphed into campaignable reasons to do so. A theme of hope in the face of the Endbringers added a positive spin on a dreary topic. Massive changes to the Department of Agriculture could be framed in a more liberal progressive light than a searing critique and tearing down of an outdated institution. This continued each night for a week, depsite attempts by Clockblocker to pull me out of my 'cave.'
My sun bleached, whitened, damaged cave.
My typing was interrupted by a scream when my monitor shorted out. It was mine. Then I blinked and realized I was almost fully glowing. I had been warned about 'maxing out' and causing the towering column of light to appear when not necessary. I had to sheepishly wait to 'cool off' then go beg Dennis and Missy to submit a request for fresh equipment on my behalf; and for an analysis of the damage I had done to my previous possessions. The whole wards team had cycled through a second set of costumes since starting to work with me; my bleaching effect was not kind to any fabric, heroic or not.
One awkward series of requisitions later, and I had a new PC. Apparently my sandwiches had won me more friends in corporate than I had realized. I resolved to press that advantage.
Interruption finished, I finished my revision and opened up Outlook. Hovering between what identity I wished to use, I settled on my heroic one.
Mr. Stevenson:
We haven't met, and I apologize for my forthrightness, but I have attached a copy of your proposal to this e-mail complete with some revisions. If this is no longer of interest to you then please disregard this mail. Otherwise, I can summarize my revisions as follows . . .
[***]
At an immaculately crafted and polished desk, a well-manicured hand manipulated a spotless mouse. It paused, and a slight twitch betrayed a sharp intake of breath, followed by a shudder of what might have been rage, or the anticipation of such. Two clicks followed by a scroll wheel's soothing spin.
Another spin.
And another.
An indeterminate amount of time later, that hand pressed a button on a phone.
"Sir?"
"Cancel my appointments for tomorrow, and arrange a list of appropriate gifts and compensation for each party. Secure the raw materials for those and have them delivered to my workshop as soon as feasible."
"Of course sir. Shall I phrase the cancellations in any particular way?"
A relevant question, presented properly.
"Yes. Let them know I received some news that has cost me a good night's sleep."
A pause.
"Shall I arrange a correction, sir?"
Correction. Their word for dealing with human errors, among other ones.
"That will not be necessary. The news was good."
"Very well sir. Is there anything else?"
"No, that will be all. Thank you."
The button was pressed again.
A handcrafted leather cushioned chair sighed as its burden lifted from it. A mind filled with thoughts of exacting precision considered the odds of subterfuge, juvenile delinquency, and/or a sting operation.
Those odds were dismissed.
A silver-threaded mask considered its reflection for a while over the backdrop of Boston's night traffic. The mask was removed and a bare face of flesh and imperfections stared back.
"It seems I need to confirm," it said.
Well.....
That got his attention.
That got his attention.
Guardian Box
Beloved Tomboyish Girl
- Location
- Hellsing Mansion
GLORIOUS SOLAR BULLSHIT strikes again.
- Location
- The end of all things
Accord can make a plan that could solve world hunger, but a fledgling Solar can make it perfect.
I for one would like to welcome our new Solar Overlady and would like to remind her that as a hungry mouth delicious sandwiches would be nice.
I for one would like to welcome our new Solar Overlady and would like to remind her that as a hungry mouth delicious sandwiches would be nice.
Well now, a nascent alliance with Accord, eh? I smell PLOT!
Ridiculously Average Guy
I'm you, but stronger
- Location
-
Once Accord finds out that her power is literally perfection, Pretty sure he'll be moving to Brokton Bay.
earthboy
(verified ape)
- Location
- NYC
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Heh. And opening a shrine.Ridiculously Average Guy said:
... actually, you know, the more I think about it, the more he fits as a highly qualified priest to the nascent God-Empress.
1/ His temple will be perfect in aesthetic and execution.
2/ His behavior will be without reproach: he's got to have fairly high Temperance, Valor, and Conviction.
3/ "Human sacrifice" is totes on the menu.
4/ Compassion? Try the other office.
confusopoly
Metaphor Overextended. Ow.
- Location
- Germany
- Pronouns
- he/his
I'm still kind of amazed that he manages to have a spotlessly clean computer mouse. I always thought that that was pretty much impossible. He's likely also the only person on the planet who doesn't have some kind of grime in his keyboard.
Ridiculously Average Guy
I'm you, but stronger
- Location
-
He has the worlds only non-smudged smartphone screen.confusopoly said: