Abby Normal
High Clerk of the Ymaryn
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Ahh, kk, good to know. Would we still be likely to unlock a shrine extension if we had a shrine capping our holy site and our moon sphere?No, not particularly. Spirit of Motherhood or Fatherhood reduce the expense in sustenance for individual traits down to a certain limit, and allow 'storing' children to add more sustenance later. There are more special actions unlocked by taking them not directly attached to the traits themselves that enhance spawns' ability to generate legend for you, or disseminate more easily into the ecosystem.
Peculiar interaction. Confluences only normally require shrines because, unlike holy places, their worth is artificial, arcane. The shrine cap is only necessary because you need some means of controlling and harnessing the confluence, and simply anointing it in your own name or claiming it from an opponent aren't enough. The Holy Place's 'shrine-like' effect harnesses the confluence effect of Moonbeam for you naturally.
Also, random thought about fear buys: if you want to have skill-buys be more reasonable on even high Vehemence turns, maybe you could have a "## - ##: Skill table" slot in the table, that rolls for several skill ups? (so atm it might give 2 or 3, maybe 4 skill points on an good turn, to contrast with the more expense traits?)
Also, in case you missed this omake:
LONG AGO
The sea howled, and Saiga howled back. Waves ripped at him as he danced his kayak through crests of blazing white, moonlight curdled and whipped into a mockery of flame.
Gaerig, my love. Kiss me or kill me, it's all the same.
The waves slid together like a woman's legs, wrenching the kayak from Saiga's control and sending him hurtling up, up and up. Gaerig billowed underneath him, a great slithering sheet of coy fury as he balanced on the tip of her toe - and there.
The pod of whales breached, spray drifting into the sky, the slaps of fin and torso lost in Gaerig's laughter. Orcas. Saiga's prey. He had cut his way out here in the midst of the Long Night, defying the elders, defying his father. The dream of an orca, brilliant and bloody, proud in death - it still burned on the inner curve of his eye.
He would hunt.
Saiga squeezed his paddle with fingers he couldn't feel. They were black with blood in the moonlight.
Gaerig moaned, and he whispered back. Wordless babble. Soon the madness would set in, if he did not return to a fire.
The hunt would be quick.
Saiga danced.
***
He died, of course. They found him broken against the shore, kayak torn, harpoon and paddle missing. His family gathered him into a bier of bone and built him a cairn to remember by.
Three days later, the orca washed to the shore. They never found Saiga's paddle, but his harpoon filled the whale's eye, shorn into the bone behind.
And so a story was born. And as is the custom, it grew in the telling.
***
This seemed like one way for Saiga to have come to be naturally. A bit of embellishing later, and he stabbed in the harpoon, hands still clutched around it when they found his corpse - no, he RODE it in, only dying as his foot touched the earth - no, he SWAM the orca back, and died - died? No, Saiga the Hunter killed an orca with his bare hands, swam it back to shore, took eight wives, and had twenty-eight children before dying peacefully! A few generations of storytellers can do interesting things to a story.