The Streetwalker's Guide to the Hierarchy
- Thread starter Birdsie
- Start date
Providence - Man and Beast
Birdsie
Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy
- Location
- Poland
[X] Plan Therapy
---
Man and Beast
Creating a safe and shaded resting spot was a swift affair, not as daunting as it might've seemed without camping supplies. Their resources, after all, they carried everywhere with them. Following a terse discussion of their capabilities, the Unnamed Mask transformed its countenance to that of a skilled smith and reached bodily into the earth with clawed hands, digging through sand and sandstone, and plucking out tiny pebbles of ore. It was moving blindingly fast like this, arms like the beaks of woodpeckers, faster than Dorian was at the moment, starting another protracted discussion as they worked on the camp itself:
"What are your combat capabilities, if I may ask?"
"Aha, relevant to our ambush?" asked the Mask, amusement flickering through its - literally countless - features.
"Yes."
"I think I can offer aid on a multitude of fronts," the Mask said, "Firstly, concealment during the ambush. Among my wearers, as you no doubt know, was an infamous thief with a penchant for delivering calling cards... An obvious distraction, to conceal the stealing hand."
"We'll need a distraction, then? Is that what you're saying?"
"Yes," the Mask confirmed with satisfaction. "And since that woman expects you and your companion, it must be you two."
A small frown marred Dorian's face. He supposed it was only fair of the Mask to request a little trust, when already agreeing to lend its aid. It didn't mean he especially liked it as a former guerilla fighter. There were lots of stories about plans that failed because of a failure in communication or circumstances.
"I see," Dorian said blandly. "And what about direct combat?"
"I could face a hydra and win," it boasted, arms suddenly like rolling trunks of muscle, barrel-chested. Its countenance was that of a smiling demonic warrior, a full face of white porcelain with one horn with a scarlet circle at its base. "Casually."
In other words, it was approximately even stronger than Dorian might be donning the Crimson Lost.
"Interesting."
"It is, isn't it!"
Dorian moved back a step, surprised, as the Mask was now a petite redheaded young woman, freckled, the Mask itself almost scandalously and harmfully bare, covering only the eyes, the bridge of the nose, and almost none of the surrounding skin. On Drethir, this would've been the very edge of what's safe to wear around other people, and somewhat insensitive in certain social circles. The woman only smiled, enigmatically, leaning back and preferring the collected iron nuggets on a palm.
Them, she smelted with nothing but a gaze as fiery as a klin, eyes as blue as a lake suddenly surrounded by fierce rings of fire. Glowing red-hot, the woman shook a dark dust off the pebbles. Then she placed them, one by one, on a sturdy rock and - once more shifting, this time into an androgynous figure with a steel form - pressed on them with a boot. Each pebble was flattened into a red disk over which Dorian cast a hand, causing pops of black pixelization to swarm the surface and sink in, almost like water into a sponge, only to flicker out and reveal cloth in a multitude of thick layers, all of them differently colored. They repeated this over and over.
From there, the conversation moved naturally to Fixation, as Dorian sewed the cloth together to make a semblance of a tent, Artificer's Face on.
"...so in summary, you don't know well you'll be able to aid her?"
"Nope! I'd have to talk to her." The Mask chuckled calmly, made of mahogany wood, its body without gender, a construct almost like a gnarled tree clad in 'clothing' made of vines and viridescent mosses. "I don't think you'll need to worry about Fixation on my part. I have an identity of my own, haven't you already noticed? I think you could even hammer that Arcanist mask into me, and your friend would be mostly alright! Naturally, you must understand that I value my independence greatly. I'd allow your friend to wear me as a mask, especially as it aids her recovery from that difficult ordeal... but such an arrangement would have to be temporary. This is fine, yes?"
"It is," Dorian answered glumly, discontent more that it felt the need to ask that as clarification, than about its fickle nature. "I am not a slavedriver."
"Oh shush now, I know!"
"I can't help but notice, your body's made of wood," Dorian noted with some curiosity suddenly, a fact coming upon him.
"Oh? Yes."
"Was that wearer some manner of a wood elemental, or is this merely a stylistic flourish?"
"Why I'm glad you asked! They were a swamp-dwelling creature tamer," the Mask answered with yet another chuckle, Dorian's eyes already rolling in prediction from its tone alone, "Hence why I wear it now as I talk to you!"
"Yes, yes, I am a raunchy beast - speaking of beasts, I should hunt."
"Hunt?" From where the already woven cloth was being set up on poles into a sort of umbrella, Linneas looked over. Even the Mask was surprised, shifting to display that emotion on a manlike form of burnished umber, covered in small tassels and smelling faintly of soil and caves.
"Hunt," Dorian said simply, picking up the Crimson Lost.
Let's see what you can do.
For a moment, this one simple action caused Dorian to wonder at his development as a warrior for freedom. How far he'd come in only a couple of months since departing Drethir? Long ago, the ability to hold such supreme confidence in every step would've been absurd. Even unmasked, he could confidently stroll through the world unharmed, even if it'd taken some time to accustom himself to the idea that most people didn't wear facial coverings out in public. He didn't need masks, now, though. They were simply a versatile and welcome tool - and beyond that, something like a collection of friends - he could call upon, among his other implements.
Viscerality, Contamination, Kingship, Pills... What'd come next? It seemed most worlds had some kind of power, so would that be true here as well?
Inside, of course, his confidence wasn't as stalwart. Veronica's words stayed with him. Was he truly as pragmatic and selfish as she said, motivations oriented on revenge, with justice being simply a pretty sugarcoating? It wasn't as if Dorian weren't aware of his flaws. Cross, Shade, Bind, Luck... All of them died because of him and for him, as much as for each other, in that entirely hopeless crusade to purge Drethir's influence from the world. Shaking his head, Dorian purged the thoughts. It was time to focus.
---
Who or what manner of 'beast' did Dorian encounter?
[ ] The Ravenous Wolf
*A wolf on its own, stalking the desert in search of food.
*This exhausted and starved beast still has a surprising amount of strength. With Viscerality you can tell its body has seen some augmentation.
*However, it does not compare to a werewolf, and nowadays you could kill a werewolf even without a mask. This should be an easy fight.
*Low Potential gain as a result of picking easy prey.
*But at least there's no substantial risk, making this a nice and safe choice?
[ ] A Ghul-Pack
*Congratulations! You're already well-acquainted with this particular monster, and have absorbed some of its strengths! This should make it easy.
*You see - what the locals of Providence call a 'ghul' is simply nothing more than your standard garden variety vampire!
*As Dorian remembers, vampires have abusable weaknesses. What better way to prove one's mettle as a Hunter than by solving the puzzle of such a pack of creatures?
*This is like the third time you're on a world with vampires. Holy fuck, these things spread like the plague. Actually worse than the zombies they created, somehow?
*According to Andrei, completely moral to kill them. They're natural, often pragmatic psychopaths. There couldn't have been a more acceptable and deserving target.
[ ] The Lion
*A singular lion separated from its pride.
*A curious strength suffuses its ostensibly simple form; what a Visceral skimming fails to warn you about, your human danger sense doesn't: this is a powerful opponent.
*And therefore, all the worthier an opponent to mark your ascension into the Crimson Hunter! Grants a substantially greater Potential harvest; at least as much as +5.
*Not only is this desert beast unnaturally strong, it is also cleverer than some men are. Minor chances of being ambushed, which drastically reduces the odds of victory.
*Even if you don't win the conflict, Crimson Lost will evolve... assuming you survive, at least.
[ ] A Wandering Merchant
*Technically not a beast. His attitude might convince you otherwise.
*A merchant on a bold and intrepid solo trek across the most dangerous desert in the world.
*Can - and absolutely will - tell you about the beautiful, wonderful, and strong nation of Tanumis!
*Begrudgingly will tell you about the other nations as well. An obvious source of useful world-lore. Can maybe tell you how to acquire this world's power, if it has one.
*Also sells some 'mundane goods' (note quotations) that aren't entirely irrelevant in your current situation?
Note: Technically counts as a failure to hunt anything down, therefore making this entire 'hunt' a terrible waste. But at least you get info?
(Crimson Hunter can still be evolved later.)
[ ] A Little Sparrow
Another question - do you want to take either one of Linneas or Mask with you? Sharing in the bountiful glory of the hunter's ascension means any harvest of Potential would be substantially lessened. Furthermore, if no one's left at the camp, there'll be no one to tend to Japhris when and if she wakes up.
[ ] Go Alone - Likely the smoothest path to advancement. +2 Potential to Crimson Lost/Hunter, regardless of the path chosen (even Merchant.)
[ ] Take One Companion
-[ ] Mask
-[ ] Linneas
[ ] Take Both Companions
---
Man and Beast
Creating a safe and shaded resting spot was a swift affair, not as daunting as it might've seemed without camping supplies. Their resources, after all, they carried everywhere with them. Following a terse discussion of their capabilities, the Unnamed Mask transformed its countenance to that of a skilled smith and reached bodily into the earth with clawed hands, digging through sand and sandstone, and plucking out tiny pebbles of ore. It was moving blindingly fast like this, arms like the beaks of woodpeckers, faster than Dorian was at the moment, starting another protracted discussion as they worked on the camp itself:
"What are your combat capabilities, if I may ask?"
"Aha, relevant to our ambush?" asked the Mask, amusement flickering through its - literally countless - features.
"Yes."
"I think I can offer aid on a multitude of fronts," the Mask said, "Firstly, concealment during the ambush. Among my wearers, as you no doubt know, was an infamous thief with a penchant for delivering calling cards... An obvious distraction, to conceal the stealing hand."
"We'll need a distraction, then? Is that what you're saying?"
"Yes," the Mask confirmed with satisfaction. "And since that woman expects you and your companion, it must be you two."
A small frown marred Dorian's face. He supposed it was only fair of the Mask to request a little trust, when already agreeing to lend its aid. It didn't mean he especially liked it as a former guerilla fighter. There were lots of stories about plans that failed because of a failure in communication or circumstances.
"I see," Dorian said blandly. "And what about direct combat?"
"I could face a hydra and win," it boasted, arms suddenly like rolling trunks of muscle, barrel-chested. Its countenance was that of a smiling demonic warrior, a full face of white porcelain with one horn with a scarlet circle at its base. "Casually."
In other words, it was approximately even stronger than Dorian might be donning the Crimson Lost.
"Interesting."
"It is, isn't it!"
Dorian moved back a step, surprised, as the Mask was now a petite redheaded young woman, freckled, the Mask itself almost scandalously and harmfully bare, covering only the eyes, the bridge of the nose, and almost none of the surrounding skin. On Drethir, this would've been the very edge of what's safe to wear around other people, and somewhat insensitive in certain social circles. The woman only smiled, enigmatically, leaning back and preferring the collected iron nuggets on a palm.
Them, she smelted with nothing but a gaze as fiery as a klin, eyes as blue as a lake suddenly surrounded by fierce rings of fire. Glowing red-hot, the woman shook a dark dust off the pebbles. Then she placed them, one by one, on a sturdy rock and - once more shifting, this time into an androgynous figure with a steel form - pressed on them with a boot. Each pebble was flattened into a red disk over which Dorian cast a hand, causing pops of black pixelization to swarm the surface and sink in, almost like water into a sponge, only to flicker out and reveal cloth in a multitude of thick layers, all of them differently colored. They repeated this over and over.
From there, the conversation moved naturally to Fixation, as Dorian sewed the cloth together to make a semblance of a tent, Artificer's Face on.
"...so in summary, you don't know well you'll be able to aid her?"
"Nope! I'd have to talk to her." The Mask chuckled calmly, made of mahogany wood, its body without gender, a construct almost like a gnarled tree clad in 'clothing' made of vines and viridescent mosses. "I don't think you'll need to worry about Fixation on my part. I have an identity of my own, haven't you already noticed? I think you could even hammer that Arcanist mask into me, and your friend would be mostly alright! Naturally, you must understand that I value my independence greatly. I'd allow your friend to wear me as a mask, especially as it aids her recovery from that difficult ordeal... but such an arrangement would have to be temporary. This is fine, yes?"
"It is," Dorian answered glumly, discontent more that it felt the need to ask that as clarification, than about its fickle nature. "I am not a slavedriver."
"Oh shush now, I know!"
"I can't help but notice, your body's made of wood," Dorian noted with some curiosity suddenly, a fact coming upon him.
"Oh? Yes."
"Was that wearer some manner of a wood elemental, or is this merely a stylistic flourish?"
"Why I'm glad you asked! They were a swamp-dwelling creature tamer," the Mask answered with yet another chuckle, Dorian's eyes already rolling in prediction from its tone alone, "Hence why I wear it now as I talk to you!"
"Yes, yes, I am a raunchy beast - speaking of beasts, I should hunt."
"Hunt?" From where the already woven cloth was being set up on poles into a sort of umbrella, Linneas looked over. Even the Mask was surprised, shifting to display that emotion on a manlike form of burnished umber, covered in small tassels and smelling faintly of soil and caves.
"Hunt," Dorian said simply, picking up the Crimson Lost.
Let's see what you can do.
For a moment, this one simple action caused Dorian to wonder at his development as a warrior for freedom. How far he'd come in only a couple of months since departing Drethir? Long ago, the ability to hold such supreme confidence in every step would've been absurd. Even unmasked, he could confidently stroll through the world unharmed, even if it'd taken some time to accustom himself to the idea that most people didn't wear facial coverings out in public. He didn't need masks, now, though. They were simply a versatile and welcome tool - and beyond that, something like a collection of friends - he could call upon, among his other implements.
Viscerality, Contamination, Kingship, Pills... What'd come next? It seemed most worlds had some kind of power, so would that be true here as well?
Inside, of course, his confidence wasn't as stalwart. Veronica's words stayed with him. Was he truly as pragmatic and selfish as she said, motivations oriented on revenge, with justice being simply a pretty sugarcoating? It wasn't as if Dorian weren't aware of his flaws. Cross, Shade, Bind, Luck... All of them died because of him and for him, as much as for each other, in that entirely hopeless crusade to purge Drethir's influence from the world. Shaking his head, Dorian purged the thoughts. It was time to focus.
---
Who or what manner of 'beast' did Dorian encounter?
[ ] The Ravenous Wolf
*A wolf on its own, stalking the desert in search of food.
*This exhausted and starved beast still has a surprising amount of strength. With Viscerality you can tell its body has seen some augmentation.
*However, it does not compare to a werewolf, and nowadays you could kill a werewolf even without a mask. This should be an easy fight.
*Low Potential gain as a result of picking easy prey.
*But at least there's no substantial risk, making this a nice and safe choice?
[ ] A Ghul-Pack
*Congratulations! You're already well-acquainted with this particular monster, and have absorbed some of its strengths! This should make it easy.
*You see - what the locals of Providence call a 'ghul' is simply nothing more than your standard garden variety vampire!
*As Dorian remembers, vampires have abusable weaknesses. What better way to prove one's mettle as a Hunter than by solving the puzzle of such a pack of creatures?
*This is like the third time you're on a world with vampires. Holy fuck, these things spread like the plague. Actually worse than the zombies they created, somehow?
*According to Andrei, completely moral to kill them. They're natural, often pragmatic psychopaths. There couldn't have been a more acceptable and deserving target.
[ ] The Lion
*A singular lion separated from its pride.
*A curious strength suffuses its ostensibly simple form; what a Visceral skimming fails to warn you about, your human danger sense doesn't: this is a powerful opponent.
*And therefore, all the worthier an opponent to mark your ascension into the Crimson Hunter! Grants a substantially greater Potential harvest; at least as much as +5.
*Not only is this desert beast unnaturally strong, it is also cleverer than some men are. Minor chances of being ambushed, which drastically reduces the odds of victory.
*Even if you don't win the conflict, Crimson Lost will evolve... assuming you survive, at least.
[ ] A Wandering Merchant
*Technically not a beast. His attitude might convince you otherwise.
*A merchant on a bold and intrepid solo trek across the most dangerous desert in the world.
*Can - and absolutely will - tell you about the beautiful, wonderful, and strong nation of Tanumis!
*Begrudgingly will tell you about the other nations as well. An obvious source of useful world-lore. Can maybe tell you how to acquire this world's power, if it has one.
*Also sells some 'mundane goods' (note quotations) that aren't entirely irrelevant in your current situation?
Note: Technically counts as a failure to hunt anything down, therefore making this entire 'hunt' a terrible waste. But at least you get info?
(Crimson Hunter can still be evolved later.)
[ ] A Little Sparrow
Another question - do you want to take either one of Linneas or Mask with you? Sharing in the bountiful glory of the hunter's ascension means any harvest of Potential would be substantially lessened. Furthermore, if no one's left at the camp, there'll be no one to tend to Japhris when and if she wakes up.
[ ] Go Alone - Likely the smoothest path to advancement. +2 Potential to Crimson Lost/Hunter, regardless of the path chosen (even Merchant.)
[ ] Take One Companion
-[ ] Mask
-[ ] Linneas
[ ] Take Both Companions
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[X] Go Alone - Likely the smoothest path to advancement. +2 Potential to Crimson Lost/Hunter, regardless of the path chosen (even Merchant.
[X] The Ravenous Wolf
I was so tempted to vote for the invisible hunting option... but I'm not taking that bait under the Merchant myself tbh
Fuck That Fucking Bird
[X] The Ravenous Wolf
I was so tempted to vote for the invisible hunting option... but I'm not taking that bait under the Merchant myself tbh
Fuck That Fucking Bird
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Maximum Power
The Unchosen One
- Location
- The Ormulum
[X] Go Alone - Likely the smoothest path to advancement. +2 Potential to Crimson Lost/Hunter, regardless of the path chosen (even Merchant.)
[X] The Ravenous Wolf
Teehee, funny birb~!
Crazy that there are two nigh-suicidal options here, wowowow!
[X] The Ravenous Wolf
Teehee, funny birb~!
Crazy that there are two nigh-suicidal options here, wowowow!
you forgot need
I'm still not super sold on Nameless Mask so
[X] The Lion
[X] Take Mask
Lion gives us back Potential spent by bringing Mask along, and this is prime opportunity to actually see how Mask preforms in action so it is two for one basically.
It would seem that we have neither awakened Japhris nor crafted our improved Mask. So we've spent no Import to get cheap improvements for our situation which is kinda bad. On the plus side we do have bunch of Import lying around so hopefully Lion or Sparrow loot might offer us a way to turn 10+ Import into real value before we have to fight.
Actually wait, shouldn't we have three actions? This update only had two.
Id still recommend bringing along Mask. 2 Potential is not that big of a deal, and security and getting some combat reps together matter.
it's probably just split because the hunting action needs extra choices and is happening first
[X] The Lion
[X] Take Mask
[X] Take Mask
Yeah I am not trilled thus far. I'm reserving my judgement until we fight a bit and see him offer solutions to relevant problems, but it is looking pretty mid.
[X] Go Alone
[X] The Lion
[X] The Lion
There is always a worry that high reward choice(?) might go against whole Hierarchy thing. Lion shouldn't do that per se since it seems that it is more hyperscaling that triggers it, but it is a potential worry. Ultimately, however, I don't think this worry is actionable right now, so lets just play as we'd do and try to figure where the line is.
Regarding Mask, one thing to note is that it largely fulfills the same role Musurov did, that of utility piece/insight giver/carrying us while we get to use our various stuff. As such in purely practical sense a potential lose of Musurov is not the worst thing since it doesn't really impact current capabilities as much. While we still want to get him back, it does reduce the damage certain worst case scenarios might end up causing.
Also, I am still high on alternative resolutions for door thing. The sheer amount of stuff we can potentially get - high level tech, relics, access to some mana and information about Hierarchy, is all very valuable. We'd have to take care not to trigger Hierarchy proc in the process though. Also the potential to save some people from Taure is also nice; I think it would be great for Dorian if he just had a clean W under his belt(or as clean as it can be given interdimensional refugees from high tech world vs less advanced world with underground horrors). Our boy needs some actual wins to feel good about, something to point to and go "yup, I've made things better".
Regarding Mask, one thing to note is that it largely fulfills the same role Musurov did, that of utility piece/insight giver/carrying us while we get to use our various stuff. As such in purely practical sense a potential lose of Musurov is not the worst thing since it doesn't really impact current capabilities as much. While we still want to get him back, it does reduce the damage certain worst case scenarios might end up causing.
Also, I am still high on alternative resolutions for door thing. The sheer amount of stuff we can potentially get - high level tech, relics, access to some mana and information about Hierarchy, is all very valuable. We'd have to take care not to trigger Hierarchy proc in the process though. Also the potential to save some people from Taure is also nice; I think it would be great for Dorian if he just had a clean W under his belt(or as clean as it can be given interdimensional refugees from high tech world vs less advanced world with underground horrors). Our boy needs some actual wins to feel good about, something to point to and go "yup, I've made things better".
- Location
- 1
The Hierarchy was mentioned as related to 'those with clever solutions', if memory serves, so as long as
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That sounds like a Sisyphean task, if not downright impossible.
- Location
- 1
Eh, it can't be that hard. We have precedent through Artificer's for Masks that do things while not worn, so you just need the Mask's effect to immediately trigger all built-up impact when you put it on and remove the Mask in the process.
Like Mask of Instant Good Night's Sleep or something.
The Mask has no eyeholes and falls off to reveal the day once it has given you a good night's sleep, so nobody will wear it long enough to fixate. It's also moderately uncomfortable to wear, just in case. The facetime it gets will be a few seconds per day of the same one scene of using it for its singular power, so it'll have a very hard time developing in new directions. As long as nobody knows that can happen, I wouldn't expect anyone to develop it in a new direction- they'd need to wear an uncomfortable mask with no eyeholes while doing things that give it facetime, or mayyybe use it repeatedly in unusual, high-stakes situations.
We could also mass-produce an Artificer-Like Mask which cannot physically be worn due to various spikes or being shaped like a sphere or something, where the only effect we want is the step where it "explodes" if not used for long enough, except unlike Artificer it "explodes" into something vaguely valuable like ambient vitality, safety, good fortune, etcetera.
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Providence - Lionine Warrior
Birdsie
Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy
- Location
- Poland
[X] The Lion
[X] Take Mask
---
Lionine Warrior
As swift as the wind, Dorian and the Mask raced through the dunes, kicking up crests and plumes of orange dust - so fast the wind howled and sometimes quieted down to nothing on their mightier footsteps, as if some interstitial zone of sound were breached. Although Dorian never believed himself a man to relish temporal power, this was something beyond that, a satisfaction ingrained in every mammal. Visceral contentment filled him, a might so abundant and smoothly attained, so casual, it simply felt nice, instinctively thrilling, to have. Strength to crush stone suffused every limb and blood that could shoot like arrows flowed in every vein.
He wielded now a mask of incredible combat power - perhaps not so absurd on an objective scale, not even an elder of its kind - but with augmentations of his own form as well, crossing over such that he could as well have been one of Drethir's strongest warriors. He recalled the night of his journey's beginning, that ill-tempered attack on Duke Bauta, one of the Emperor's foremost supporters in Dorian's home province, and the death of his comrades, Shade and Cross. What if he'd been there now? The Emperor's command would've likely still caused a mutual betrayal but Dorian could've conceivably won that encounter.
Who needs allies to conduct an attack, when you have such hideous brute strength and such a perception-outstripping agility as to eliminate a an Inquisitor before a single shout can reach the sky? What resistance would Bauta's Mask even create, what shades of the fallen, that Dorian's distortion wouldn't transform into nightmares that'd tear the entire party apart? Even the Emperor's command, that imperial and undeniable edict would soon be something Dorian could start to chart viable counters for. Each month on the Street, the dream of a free Drethir became closer and more meaningfully attainable: not so much a hopeless pipe dream of a raving lunatic, but a truth within reach.
He'd see if he could destroy the Emperor someday, as Dorian Croft was not a coward.
But for now? Dorian hunted.
After traversing the desert, finally he and the Mask found a set of tracks.
"Lion," the Mask assessed.
"You think?"
The Mask's present female form, a woman with mangy white hair, tapped her nose. "Senses. This one's male, adolescent. And based on the the faeces," she said, looking towards several dusty clumps a couple of feet away, "hungry as well. I believe, it seems to have separated from its pride."
"We'll see if that can even satisfy the Hunter's Mask," Dorian stated, and they were off once again - racing against the desert.
Above, the sun was a merciless sky-medal, hung on a firmament as lazily rich blue as globe thistle, with ivory clouds puffy and pulled, strewn like blankets to cast frail smears of shadow over the sands. The merciless flaring rays would've burned into Dorian and utterly exhausted him within minutes of walking, once. Now he sped recklessly across the desert as if he were himself a steed, untiring and unbothered. Excess heat was vented out with minor optimizations to skin and capillaries, the loss of fluid ameliorated with recycling and a dozen other homeostatic interactions, resulting in this feat of extreme athleticism merely feeling like a pleasant hike.
Finally after several minutes their quarry came within sight, zoomed in on with cruel velocity.
And Dorian wasted no words, simply accelerating even more, sword leaving its sheath with a sharp hiss. The Mask already knew the idea of this hunt: stand back and allow him to conduct the brunt of it, and only step in to fight should a complication occur.
However, Dorian noticed an oddity instantly. The lion - or rather, the Lion, as his mind wished him to capitalize its importance - was no dull beast. It seemed to have overheard their swift approach and with a leonine grace that almost resembled the dexterity of a martial artist, avoided him with a leap and sweeped in counter with its claws.
As Dorian landed on the other side of the desert, five straight pencil-thin red lines already bled across his torso, unnaturally deep and hurtful, the organic tissues already burning scarlet with sudden, wracking fever. He didn't feel more than a fraction of the pain it should've rightfully inflicted, and even that sensation was more of a blade-sharp clarion sensation, a keen infliction of woe, clamoring for constant attention from the cortex and thalamus.
The Lion roared in challenge as a susurration of abrupt strength and speed overcame it, as if some invisible mist of power descended from the heavens, supernaturally beyond what its body suggested or should've been able to contain. This creature's might was beyond the grossly mundane, much as half of his own.
It seemed that Dorian had encountered worthy prey.
A knotwork of Visceral tendrils speared out of his skin and stitched together the wounds, forcefully shutting them, where the directly affected cells refused to cooperate. This was effortful and required focus, giving the Lion a moment of initiative to consider its next move. Dorian, meanwhile, kept a cautious eye on its motions and expressions and assembled a profile of its strength, speed, and cunning. It had aimed for vitals with that initial stroke, so it understood the concept of weaknesses. That meant-
Before analysis could fully complete, the Lion dashed with ferocious velocity, crossing a furlong within a second.
His distortion streamed out in an overwhelming tide. Like black oil upwelling from the desert, visual glitches of existential contamination flickered on the Lion's unstoppable, unabortable path. The sands became crystal, and that crystal ascended into mirror spire-trees, and those spire trees created sharp branches of silicate fragments. Their pellucid interiors channeled and refracted the sun's own rays, Dorian's dislike of its ruthlessness metamorphosed into reflectors that blinded and scorched the beast; painfully rather than lethally, but sufficiently to distract its tread from navigating the created snare. Dorian counted himself lucky the Contamination worked to his advantage.
Then a surprise came from the horizon, where another Lion roared its own challenge, infusing itself with might.
The Mask turned and said, "Focus on your quarry. I'll deal with that one." Transforming into a muscular hunk of a man, it leapt with the force of a sonic boom, disappearing over the sandy hills as it struck the other Lion with an upwards axe kick.
Dorian returned his full attention to finishing off the Lion. Before it could recover from its blindness and extricate itself from the forest of sharp deadly crystal-trees, Dorian's palm split open as a line of claret blood shot out with a bullet's speed, infected with viruses and bacterial agents. The Lion, as if protected by a mixture of miraculous instinct and an unlucky confluence of wind, stepped to the side while the projectile veered due to a sudden gale. Annoyed with this outcome, Dorian fired out another dozen similar projectiles, each loaded with its own deadly microbial agent, and coaxed some of his blood and makeshift tendons into an arm-crossbow.
It dodged each of the those minor attacks, shielded still by those unnatural turns of fortune, as if it were the world's favored beast. It gave Dorian enough time to load.
Like a sword concealed under plate armor, Dorian's ulna bone popped out of the arm. Clean of blood, ivory-white, and sharpened into a quill-bolt, it mounted itself with an incarnadine tendril on the tendon emplaced between the osseous spikes emerging from Dorian's elbow, as Dorian overcharged the adrenal glands and neural centers of his brain to make time appear slower. He aimed, one eye reflecting the sillhouette the target, and wouldn't miss.
As the Lion, now squinting through the bright light of the crystalline branches, reassessed its position on the desert and faced him, readying itself to dodge along one of several vectors, Dorian attacked instead with a Visceral impression of fear. Harm, danger, evil. It shied away from one of those potential evasion vectors, instinctively choosing the other even as he shot. Dorian smiled to himself, as the projectile penetrated the wind and struck the Lion's hind, snapping off but still embedding its head.
Inside was a toxic disease, no deadlier within an instant than the common cold. But if a human were infected with it? They'd become so abysmally frail they wouldn't be able to move within moments, let alone resist an attacker. This creature was much better than a mundane man, far more resilient, yet its immune system not so apotheotically transcendent that it was beyond this malady. Now it became a race against time: attrition was now Dorian's ally.
As the Lion fell onto the sands, paws slightly feebler, it seemed to realize this as well.
With wrath, the Lion roared - not to enhance its might as before, but rather, creating a cone of vibrational concatenation. The sonic blast sufficed to shatter the crystal trees and send a number of their torsos flying in Dorian's direction. Annoyed, he sensed their mass was substantial enough he wouldn't be able to casually smash them apart. He dodged, side to side, back to front, and more as needed; the Lion seized the advantage once more, rushing forward with the same ferocity as before, and finally closing the distance, where Dorian was at the most severe disadvantage. Its claws gripped onto his midriff as teeth sank into an arm.
He didn't offer the beast the satisfaction of an easy victory - or indeed, a victory at all. What Visceral tendrils couldn't resist, instead they opened to further consumption, allowing the carnivore to eat off a chunk of fouled, infested, toxic flesh with blood as hot as steaming water. The Visceral art pounded and trammeled its mind with the fear a predator felt for its superior, a hunter. Then, at the same time, Dorian's saber skewered its abdomen from the other side than the earlier crossbow bolt. His distortion washed off the Lion's pelt, annoyedly and curiously, as if it were resistant to such a direct imposition. So Dorian instead affected the heat around and made the Lion cook itself.
From there, it wasn't too long before the struggle transitioned into something even more brutal and comprehensive - a literal wrestling match on the floor of the desert, as a cat and man sought to scrounge up one final step of superiority over the other. All pretenses of civilization or savagery were cast aside, as it now became the primordial struggle of organism against organism, writ in the tongue of pure blind and mindless violence, its sheer barbarity and inhumanity causing Dorian's Visceral strength to swell to impossibly titanic levels for brief instants, punctuating each punch with a crack of a leonine rib or a growling roar of agony.
He answered with moans of his own pain, bloodied all over, clothing frayed and torn as the Lion's claws and teeth shredded them and tore off chunks of flesh. At one point, out of some commingling of vengeful anger and raw, almost amused curiosity, Dorian sharpened his own teeth into monstrous piranha fangs and returned the Lion's bites with one of his own, prying out thews and flexors from one of its legs. Their strife was a song to a god of violence, a scene that could've been commemorated eternally on a mural in an ancient city's temple: as beautiful and symbolic as it was simply frenzied and unthinkingly primal.
A lesser, almost reclusive part of his brain wondered what Dorian's father would think of him at this moment - getting into fights as a young nobleman, not with fellow gentlemen in a speakeasy, but with actual lions in the middle of a desert.
Finally - a tiredness came.
His Visceral stamina was exhausted. He stood from the Lion, its form massacred, on the verge of death.
On the side of a nearby hill, he noticed the Mask had defeated its own Lion a time ago - somewhere during his and this Lion's tackling and hitting match - although it hadn't delivered a kill yet, one boot instead resting on the defeated beast's snarling head as it looked over to Dorian, as if requesting confirmation.
Truth be told, Dorian, too, was almost dead; capable of easily acting within the standard level of human effort, but with so many of his various body parts chewed off, masticated, or else slashed through supernatural claws, that he'd not be able to fight at anything resembling even half-strength if they were attacked.
He'd won, however. After all, unlike the Lion, weakly resting and gasping desperately for breath on the ground, he could deliver the final kill - and even if he didn't, the toxins within its form would take care of the rest.
The Lion clearly knew this as well, one dark yellow eye moving to track Dorian's hand as it picked up the discarded saber.
As he stood over it, blade poised to deliver a final thrust, it closed its eyes -
- and suddenly Dorian felt an aerial fluxation of that same power as before, when it roared and suddenly enhanced its strength and speed. Its nature was different now, carrying stark associations in Dorian's thoughts: renewing, submissive, favorable. Within that current of magical force was a deeper meaning without words, pregnant with sheer import. Less like a spoken sentence, and more like a universal principle, encoded within every spiritual strand of this being under his boot:
The defeated must serve.
He deciphered what it meant instantly.
An offer from the Lion, one final do-or-die invocation. Its suggestion was simple: spare the life of the Lion and his companion, and they'd serve with the loyalty of sworn brothers; conduct Dorian's battles as one of his warriors and carry out whatever tasks he saw fit to impose. Humiliatingly, even allow themselves to be reduced to mere pets. This was true submission, but requested - or pleaded for - at least a mote of basic kindness from him, the ability for the Lion to retain some minor freedoms and pleasures, their remit unspecified but unexcessive. The agreement was one of spirit, the core truth within all things, rather than the smacking of the human tongue and lips.
He considered.
---
As a result of this battle:
[Exhausted], with a duration of five days. Effects diminish linearly over that duration.
*An effective Attribute penalty of -20% Physical, -25% Mental, -30% Social.
*Additionally reduces the efficacy, execution speed, and success rate of all actions moderately.
Now, what did Dorian decide upon?
[ ] Cut - You didn't come here to make friends with beasts. You came to hunt.
*A successful hunt. Dorian's confidence rises, his Visceral skills elevate slightly.
*Gain [???]: Hunter-aspected, with a value of 60 men's [???]. This [???] also coincidentally raises the Potential accrued for Crimson Hunter.
*You can exsanguinate the bodies to heal your wounds. 40% or better recovery from Exhausted.
*You can also skin them and sell the furs and other assorted parts. No doubt this'll gain you some currency.
New Parameters of your Mask:
Crimson Hunter [100 Potential]
Battle Hunter [100]
*Immense elevation of all corporeal Attributes, as well as skills which are at least somewhat relevant to strife and combat. +70 Strength, Constitution, and Agility when donned, as well as +40% to their worth. +40 Wits and +25% to their worth as well. This all suffices to allow Dorian to demolish a three-story house by hand in one attack, endure similar attacks, and move at over three times his current speed (can already breach the sound barrier with extreme effort.)
*Extreme fine-tuned and powerful hemokinesis. Can shoot blood-blasts that match the strength of weak artillery and achieve other feats with training. Hemovoyance out to a mile. Great control over spilled blood within a hundred yards, capable of drawing it in and using it to heal. This is all syncretic and interconnected with your Viscerality.
*Grants, while worn, supernal skill: Hunting [7.75] with the following supernal techniques:
- One's Forest, One's Home: Incredibly enhanced ability to confuse, distract, sabotage, sneak, and launch stunning attacks while inside of any kind of wooded area. Cannot be confused or affected with hostile spatial effects while inside a wooded area. While inside a forest, can perform minor 'spatial tricks' to move between obscured trees.
- Unerring Eye: Can, with an expenditure of supernal stamina, fire a projectile of truly incredible and unerring accuracy, which necessitates a counter-supernal or another form of supernatural intervention to not strike. Even further doubled accuracy and striking strength against anything classifiable as a 'beast.' Snipe vultures with thrown knives from miles away.
Supernal techniques are essentially skills that have transcended the barrier of mortal attainability. They draw on supernal stamina of which you have a pool commensurate to your sum of overall Attributes, various spiritual factors, as well as your skill within a given domain.
You can think of this as something similar, if slightly inferior, to Charms from Exalted.
Overall, a mask of incredible strength even while under the effects of Exhausted. Back on Drethir, it'd make you a competitor to even the mightiest of the Empire's trained warriors and combat-oriented Inquisitors, although its hysterical Attributes continue to fall short of the Imperial Visage.
[ ] Mercy - Two super-Lion minions? And right before you need a lot of combat muscle? You must've won the lottery.
*Spare the Lions. The clarity of this action enhances Dorian's strategizing against Veronica.
*Gain [???]: Master-aspected, with a value of 80 men's [???]. This [???] also coincidentally raises the Potential accrued for Crimson Lord.
*Acceptance of the Lion's fealty allows you to induct them both as your Pawns. This finally pushes you along your own evolution as a King, granting you a further choice of various Kingly attainments; metamagical powers that enhance your Kingship or Pieces in a variety of ways. An example of something you could obtain is the ability to channel Visceral alterations remotely through your Pieces, either to heal them or layer over Visceral mental attacks on foes for vastly increased power within that milieu.
*No additional recovery or loot, but you gain two loyal beast minions.
New Parameters of your mask:
Crimson Lord [75 Potential]
Tame Hunter [75]
*Elevation of all corporeal Attributes as well as Charisma. +45 Strength, Constitution, and Agility when donned, as well as +25% to their worth. +15 Wits and Charisma and +15% to their worth as well.
*Instead of a dull brute hemokinesis, the dominion of the Mask is more conceptual and indirect, wielding power over genomes and life-force, but it synergizes well with the fleshcrafting aspect of Viscerality. It can even raise the parameters of others to a moderate degree in a limited but permanent fashion.
*Grants enhanced healing when in proximity of those who've sworn loyalty or friendship to you. Number of companions, as well as salience of the bond, accelerates recovery. This effect is stronger and more conceptual than casual Visceral healing or hemokinetic absorption, and can even aid you from recovering from various Conditions.
*Grants, while worn, supernal skill: Taming [7.1]. No supernal techniques developed yet, but you can develop them yourself.
The profile of the Lions, if fully recovered and before applying any other supernatural arts to them - for your consideration in their usefulness of defeating Veronica:
*Physical Attributes are well in the high 30 +s range, with slightly higher durability and robustness. They can withstand even concentrated amounts of mundane small-arms fire without consequence, and even absorb a hit from something on par with an anti-material rifle a couple of times.
*[???] commensurate with their [???] and consumption of [???] and human [???] users, worth about 150 men's [???], aspected towards heroism, endurance, and pride.
*Can release three sorts of roars because of their [???]:
- One that buffs them a minor amount once at the start of a battle at the cost of committing them to not running away from the fight
- A mighty but onerous sonic roar that unleashes a vibrational wave that could've heavily damaged or even killed Dorian if unleashed at point-blank range
- A roar that allows them to briefly soar over the sands at extreme velocities
*The Lions can apparently grow stronger by eating defeated prey. Neat.
[X] Take Mask
---
Lionine Warrior
As swift as the wind, Dorian and the Mask raced through the dunes, kicking up crests and plumes of orange dust - so fast the wind howled and sometimes quieted down to nothing on their mightier footsteps, as if some interstitial zone of sound were breached. Although Dorian never believed himself a man to relish temporal power, this was something beyond that, a satisfaction ingrained in every mammal. Visceral contentment filled him, a might so abundant and smoothly attained, so casual, it simply felt nice, instinctively thrilling, to have. Strength to crush stone suffused every limb and blood that could shoot like arrows flowed in every vein.
He wielded now a mask of incredible combat power - perhaps not so absurd on an objective scale, not even an elder of its kind - but with augmentations of his own form as well, crossing over such that he could as well have been one of Drethir's strongest warriors. He recalled the night of his journey's beginning, that ill-tempered attack on Duke Bauta, one of the Emperor's foremost supporters in Dorian's home province, and the death of his comrades, Shade and Cross. What if he'd been there now? The Emperor's command would've likely still caused a mutual betrayal but Dorian could've conceivably won that encounter.
Who needs allies to conduct an attack, when you have such hideous brute strength and such a perception-outstripping agility as to eliminate a an Inquisitor before a single shout can reach the sky? What resistance would Bauta's Mask even create, what shades of the fallen, that Dorian's distortion wouldn't transform into nightmares that'd tear the entire party apart? Even the Emperor's command, that imperial and undeniable edict would soon be something Dorian could start to chart viable counters for. Each month on the Street, the dream of a free Drethir became closer and more meaningfully attainable: not so much a hopeless pipe dream of a raving lunatic, but a truth within reach.
He'd see if he could destroy the Emperor someday, as Dorian Croft was not a coward.
But for now? Dorian hunted.
After traversing the desert, finally he and the Mask found a set of tracks.
"Lion," the Mask assessed.
"You think?"
The Mask's present female form, a woman with mangy white hair, tapped her nose. "Senses. This one's male, adolescent. And based on the the faeces," she said, looking towards several dusty clumps a couple of feet away, "hungry as well. I believe, it seems to have separated from its pride."
"We'll see if that can even satisfy the Hunter's Mask," Dorian stated, and they were off once again - racing against the desert.
Above, the sun was a merciless sky-medal, hung on a firmament as lazily rich blue as globe thistle, with ivory clouds puffy and pulled, strewn like blankets to cast frail smears of shadow over the sands. The merciless flaring rays would've burned into Dorian and utterly exhausted him within minutes of walking, once. Now he sped recklessly across the desert as if he were himself a steed, untiring and unbothered. Excess heat was vented out with minor optimizations to skin and capillaries, the loss of fluid ameliorated with recycling and a dozen other homeostatic interactions, resulting in this feat of extreme athleticism merely feeling like a pleasant hike.
Finally after several minutes their quarry came within sight, zoomed in on with cruel velocity.
And Dorian wasted no words, simply accelerating even more, sword leaving its sheath with a sharp hiss. The Mask already knew the idea of this hunt: stand back and allow him to conduct the brunt of it, and only step in to fight should a complication occur.
However, Dorian noticed an oddity instantly. The lion - or rather, the Lion, as his mind wished him to capitalize its importance - was no dull beast. It seemed to have overheard their swift approach and with a leonine grace that almost resembled the dexterity of a martial artist, avoided him with a leap and sweeped in counter with its claws.
As Dorian landed on the other side of the desert, five straight pencil-thin red lines already bled across his torso, unnaturally deep and hurtful, the organic tissues already burning scarlet with sudden, wracking fever. He didn't feel more than a fraction of the pain it should've rightfully inflicted, and even that sensation was more of a blade-sharp clarion sensation, a keen infliction of woe, clamoring for constant attention from the cortex and thalamus.
The Lion roared in challenge as a susurration of abrupt strength and speed overcame it, as if some invisible mist of power descended from the heavens, supernaturally beyond what its body suggested or should've been able to contain. This creature's might was beyond the grossly mundane, much as half of his own.
It seemed that Dorian had encountered worthy prey.
A knotwork of Visceral tendrils speared out of his skin and stitched together the wounds, forcefully shutting them, where the directly affected cells refused to cooperate. This was effortful and required focus, giving the Lion a moment of initiative to consider its next move. Dorian, meanwhile, kept a cautious eye on its motions and expressions and assembled a profile of its strength, speed, and cunning. It had aimed for vitals with that initial stroke, so it understood the concept of weaknesses. That meant-
Before analysis could fully complete, the Lion dashed with ferocious velocity, crossing a furlong within a second.
His distortion streamed out in an overwhelming tide. Like black oil upwelling from the desert, visual glitches of existential contamination flickered on the Lion's unstoppable, unabortable path. The sands became crystal, and that crystal ascended into mirror spire-trees, and those spire trees created sharp branches of silicate fragments. Their pellucid interiors channeled and refracted the sun's own rays, Dorian's dislike of its ruthlessness metamorphosed into reflectors that blinded and scorched the beast; painfully rather than lethally, but sufficiently to distract its tread from navigating the created snare. Dorian counted himself lucky the Contamination worked to his advantage.
Then a surprise came from the horizon, where another Lion roared its own challenge, infusing itself with might.
The Mask turned and said, "Focus on your quarry. I'll deal with that one." Transforming into a muscular hunk of a man, it leapt with the force of a sonic boom, disappearing over the sandy hills as it struck the other Lion with an upwards axe kick.
Dorian returned his full attention to finishing off the Lion. Before it could recover from its blindness and extricate itself from the forest of sharp deadly crystal-trees, Dorian's palm split open as a line of claret blood shot out with a bullet's speed, infected with viruses and bacterial agents. The Lion, as if protected by a mixture of miraculous instinct and an unlucky confluence of wind, stepped to the side while the projectile veered due to a sudden gale. Annoyed with this outcome, Dorian fired out another dozen similar projectiles, each loaded with its own deadly microbial agent, and coaxed some of his blood and makeshift tendons into an arm-crossbow.
It dodged each of the those minor attacks, shielded still by those unnatural turns of fortune, as if it were the world's favored beast. It gave Dorian enough time to load.
Like a sword concealed under plate armor, Dorian's ulna bone popped out of the arm. Clean of blood, ivory-white, and sharpened into a quill-bolt, it mounted itself with an incarnadine tendril on the tendon emplaced between the osseous spikes emerging from Dorian's elbow, as Dorian overcharged the adrenal glands and neural centers of his brain to make time appear slower. He aimed, one eye reflecting the sillhouette the target, and wouldn't miss.
As the Lion, now squinting through the bright light of the crystalline branches, reassessed its position on the desert and faced him, readying itself to dodge along one of several vectors, Dorian attacked instead with a Visceral impression of fear. Harm, danger, evil. It shied away from one of those potential evasion vectors, instinctively choosing the other even as he shot. Dorian smiled to himself, as the projectile penetrated the wind and struck the Lion's hind, snapping off but still embedding its head.
Inside was a toxic disease, no deadlier within an instant than the common cold. But if a human were infected with it? They'd become so abysmally frail they wouldn't be able to move within moments, let alone resist an attacker. This creature was much better than a mundane man, far more resilient, yet its immune system not so apotheotically transcendent that it was beyond this malady. Now it became a race against time: attrition was now Dorian's ally.
As the Lion fell onto the sands, paws slightly feebler, it seemed to realize this as well.
With wrath, the Lion roared - not to enhance its might as before, but rather, creating a cone of vibrational concatenation. The sonic blast sufficed to shatter the crystal trees and send a number of their torsos flying in Dorian's direction. Annoyed, he sensed their mass was substantial enough he wouldn't be able to casually smash them apart. He dodged, side to side, back to front, and more as needed; the Lion seized the advantage once more, rushing forward with the same ferocity as before, and finally closing the distance, where Dorian was at the most severe disadvantage. Its claws gripped onto his midriff as teeth sank into an arm.
He didn't offer the beast the satisfaction of an easy victory - or indeed, a victory at all. What Visceral tendrils couldn't resist, instead they opened to further consumption, allowing the carnivore to eat off a chunk of fouled, infested, toxic flesh with blood as hot as steaming water. The Visceral art pounded and trammeled its mind with the fear a predator felt for its superior, a hunter. Then, at the same time, Dorian's saber skewered its abdomen from the other side than the earlier crossbow bolt. His distortion washed off the Lion's pelt, annoyedly and curiously, as if it were resistant to such a direct imposition. So Dorian instead affected the heat around and made the Lion cook itself.
From there, it wasn't too long before the struggle transitioned into something even more brutal and comprehensive - a literal wrestling match on the floor of the desert, as a cat and man sought to scrounge up one final step of superiority over the other. All pretenses of civilization or savagery were cast aside, as it now became the primordial struggle of organism against organism, writ in the tongue of pure blind and mindless violence, its sheer barbarity and inhumanity causing Dorian's Visceral strength to swell to impossibly titanic levels for brief instants, punctuating each punch with a crack of a leonine rib or a growling roar of agony.
He answered with moans of his own pain, bloodied all over, clothing frayed and torn as the Lion's claws and teeth shredded them and tore off chunks of flesh. At one point, out of some commingling of vengeful anger and raw, almost amused curiosity, Dorian sharpened his own teeth into monstrous piranha fangs and returned the Lion's bites with one of his own, prying out thews and flexors from one of its legs. Their strife was a song to a god of violence, a scene that could've been commemorated eternally on a mural in an ancient city's temple: as beautiful and symbolic as it was simply frenzied and unthinkingly primal.
A lesser, almost reclusive part of his brain wondered what Dorian's father would think of him at this moment - getting into fights as a young nobleman, not with fellow gentlemen in a speakeasy, but with actual lions in the middle of a desert.
Finally - a tiredness came.
His Visceral stamina was exhausted. He stood from the Lion, its form massacred, on the verge of death.
On the side of a nearby hill, he noticed the Mask had defeated its own Lion a time ago - somewhere during his and this Lion's tackling and hitting match - although it hadn't delivered a kill yet, one boot instead resting on the defeated beast's snarling head as it looked over to Dorian, as if requesting confirmation.
Truth be told, Dorian, too, was almost dead; capable of easily acting within the standard level of human effort, but with so many of his various body parts chewed off, masticated, or else slashed through supernatural claws, that he'd not be able to fight at anything resembling even half-strength if they were attacked.
He'd won, however. After all, unlike the Lion, weakly resting and gasping desperately for breath on the ground, he could deliver the final kill - and even if he didn't, the toxins within its form would take care of the rest.
The Lion clearly knew this as well, one dark yellow eye moving to track Dorian's hand as it picked up the discarded saber.
As he stood over it, blade poised to deliver a final thrust, it closed its eyes -
- and suddenly Dorian felt an aerial fluxation of that same power as before, when it roared and suddenly enhanced its strength and speed. Its nature was different now, carrying stark associations in Dorian's thoughts: renewing, submissive, favorable. Within that current of magical force was a deeper meaning without words, pregnant with sheer import. Less like a spoken sentence, and more like a universal principle, encoded within every spiritual strand of this being under his boot:
The defeated must serve.
He deciphered what it meant instantly.
An offer from the Lion, one final do-or-die invocation. Its suggestion was simple: spare the life of the Lion and his companion, and they'd serve with the loyalty of sworn brothers; conduct Dorian's battles as one of his warriors and carry out whatever tasks he saw fit to impose. Humiliatingly, even allow themselves to be reduced to mere pets. This was true submission, but requested - or pleaded for - at least a mote of basic kindness from him, the ability for the Lion to retain some minor freedoms and pleasures, their remit unspecified but unexcessive. The agreement was one of spirit, the core truth within all things, rather than the smacking of the human tongue and lips.
He considered.
---
As a result of this battle:
[Exhausted], with a duration of five days. Effects diminish linearly over that duration.
*An effective Attribute penalty of -20% Physical, -25% Mental, -30% Social.
*Additionally reduces the efficacy, execution speed, and success rate of all actions moderately.
Now, what did Dorian decide upon?
[ ] Cut - You didn't come here to make friends with beasts. You came to hunt.
*A successful hunt. Dorian's confidence rises, his Visceral skills elevate slightly.
*Gain [???]: Hunter-aspected, with a value of 60 men's [???]. This [???] also coincidentally raises the Potential accrued for Crimson Hunter.
*You can exsanguinate the bodies to heal your wounds. 40% or better recovery from Exhausted.
*You can also skin them and sell the furs and other assorted parts. No doubt this'll gain you some currency.
New Parameters of your Mask:
Crimson Hunter [100 Potential]
Battle Hunter [100]
*Immense elevation of all corporeal Attributes, as well as skills which are at least somewhat relevant to strife and combat. +70 Strength, Constitution, and Agility when donned, as well as +40% to their worth. +40 Wits and +25% to their worth as well. This all suffices to allow Dorian to demolish a three-story house by hand in one attack, endure similar attacks, and move at over three times his current speed (can already breach the sound barrier with extreme effort.)
*Extreme fine-tuned and powerful hemokinesis. Can shoot blood-blasts that match the strength of weak artillery and achieve other feats with training. Hemovoyance out to a mile. Great control over spilled blood within a hundred yards, capable of drawing it in and using it to heal. This is all syncretic and interconnected with your Viscerality.
*Grants, while worn, supernal skill: Hunting [7.75] with the following supernal techniques:
- One's Forest, One's Home: Incredibly enhanced ability to confuse, distract, sabotage, sneak, and launch stunning attacks while inside of any kind of wooded area. Cannot be confused or affected with hostile spatial effects while inside a wooded area. While inside a forest, can perform minor 'spatial tricks' to move between obscured trees.
- Unerring Eye: Can, with an expenditure of supernal stamina, fire a projectile of truly incredible and unerring accuracy, which necessitates a counter-supernal or another form of supernatural intervention to not strike. Even further doubled accuracy and striking strength against anything classifiable as a 'beast.' Snipe vultures with thrown knives from miles away.
Supernal techniques are essentially skills that have transcended the barrier of mortal attainability. They draw on supernal stamina of which you have a pool commensurate to your sum of overall Attributes, various spiritual factors, as well as your skill within a given domain.
You can think of this as something similar, if slightly inferior, to Charms from Exalted.
Overall, a mask of incredible strength even while under the effects of Exhausted. Back on Drethir, it'd make you a competitor to even the mightiest of the Empire's trained warriors and combat-oriented Inquisitors, although its hysterical Attributes continue to fall short of the Imperial Visage.
[ ] Mercy - Two super-Lion minions? And right before you need a lot of combat muscle? You must've won the lottery.
*Spare the Lions. The clarity of this action enhances Dorian's strategizing against Veronica.
*Gain [???]: Master-aspected, with a value of 80 men's [???]. This [???] also coincidentally raises the Potential accrued for Crimson Lord.
*Acceptance of the Lion's fealty allows you to induct them both as your Pawns. This finally pushes you along your own evolution as a King, granting you a further choice of various Kingly attainments; metamagical powers that enhance your Kingship or Pieces in a variety of ways. An example of something you could obtain is the ability to channel Visceral alterations remotely through your Pieces, either to heal them or layer over Visceral mental attacks on foes for vastly increased power within that milieu.
*No additional recovery or loot, but you gain two loyal beast minions.
New Parameters of your mask:
Crimson Lord [75 Potential]
Tame Hunter [75]
*Elevation of all corporeal Attributes as well as Charisma. +45 Strength, Constitution, and Agility when donned, as well as +25% to their worth. +15 Wits and Charisma and +15% to their worth as well.
*Instead of a dull brute hemokinesis, the dominion of the Mask is more conceptual and indirect, wielding power over genomes and life-force, but it synergizes well with the fleshcrafting aspect of Viscerality. It can even raise the parameters of others to a moderate degree in a limited but permanent fashion.
*Grants enhanced healing when in proximity of those who've sworn loyalty or friendship to you. Number of companions, as well as salience of the bond, accelerates recovery. This effect is stronger and more conceptual than casual Visceral healing or hemokinetic absorption, and can even aid you from recovering from various Conditions.
*Grants, while worn, supernal skill: Taming [7.1]. No supernal techniques developed yet, but you can develop them yourself.
The profile of the Lions, if fully recovered and before applying any other supernatural arts to them - for your consideration in their usefulness of defeating Veronica:
*Physical Attributes are well in the high 30 +s range, with slightly higher durability and robustness. They can withstand even concentrated amounts of mundane small-arms fire without consequence, and even absorb a hit from something on par with an anti-material rifle a couple of times.
*[???] commensurate with their [???] and consumption of [???] and human [???] users, worth about 150 men's [???], aspected towards heroism, endurance, and pride.
*Can release three sorts of roars because of their [???]:
- One that buffs them a minor amount once at the start of a battle at the cost of committing them to not running away from the fight
- A mighty but onerous sonic roar that unleashes a vibrational wave that could've heavily damaged or even killed Dorian if unleashed at point-blank range
- A roar that allows them to briefly soar over the sands at extreme velocities
*The Lions can apparently grow stronger by eating defeated prey. Neat.
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