Battleforged
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Chapter 223 - A Gunner's Regret
🕑 Added 2022-12-02 04:00:04 +0000 UTC“What the hell are you fools going? Pilmsburg fortress is back the way you came!” Roared a 9-foot tall halberd wielding orc, glaring at the near three score musketeers gazing down at their massive four-toed feet, half dragging their muskets behind them.
“We came back because it’s a fucking deathtrap in Pilmsburg,” snapped the tired-looking human looking so small before the orcs, wearing little more than boots, blue jeans, and a leather jacket with black iron pins on his right lapel.
The axe wielder snorted. “Death trap? We sent two thousand troops south, including almost two hundred classers and a handful of you gunners! Your only job was to pin down the half-blood brat until we could pincer him and finally take out the Winter Queen bitch’s final wildcard. Easy wash that should have taken less than 48 hours to finish up, before we make the final push to clear Queensland. And each of you natives would have gotten a medal and an extra bitch for your harems, with a bonus if you actually brought him back alive. So what the hell are you doing back here with this pathetic bloated excuse for an honor guard, Gunner? Did that brat actually outflank you? And where the hell is your gun?”
“Where the fuck do you think? My beauty is back there, and I can’t summon another till I level up!” The human shouted, glaring furiously at the orc who, in a remarkable show of restraint, didn’t backhand the human before him, making it clear just how valued gunners were among their alliance.
The massive orc glared for long moments. “We’ve got five hundred more reinforcements coming. Three hundred are already here at base camp, but we have no more cannon.”
The gunner cursed, shaking his head. “Fuck. Then I’m worthless here. Request permission to head back to Queensland.”
The orc shrugged, rolling his massive shoulders. “Yeah, and take this pathetic bunch with you to guard your sorry ass, you puny prick. You’re no good to us without a proper long gun.” His gaze quickly hardened as the man’s relieved sigh froze in place. “But before you leave with your tail between your scrawny legs, you better make use of those gunner eyes of yours and tell me what the fuck happened in Pilmsburg! We have a goddamned Tier 2 Fort there!”
The gunner sighed, shaking his head. “Probably why we ambushed about fifteen miles back, when we’re just as many miles away from the keep as we were from here.” The man shuddered, his cool demeanor cracking. “You want to know what I saw? Sure. I’ll tell you. I saw scores of our own men charging at us with lifeless eyes and a monstrous frenzy no one should be capable of! They kept lunging with their bayonets, without any concern for their own safety, punching right through the greener recruits pathetic attempts to parry, leaving so many gutted orcs kicking and screaming as they tried to keep their own entrails from spurting from between their fingers that the stench alone had me puking my own guts out!”
The massive orc scowled. “Berserker sell-outs? Should have been easy enough to take out with a single volley!”
The gunner quickly shook his head, voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s just it, sir. It didn’t matter.”
This earned a fearsome scowl. “What the hell do you mean, it didn’t matter?”
“No matter how much lead you peppered them with, no matter how many times you stabbed them in the gut the same way they did to you, it didn’t matter!” A desperate whisper became a strangled roar. “They didn’t bleed, they didn’t stumble, they didn’t stop! It’s like…” He swallowed, eyes going wide with whatever he was seeing in his mind’s eye. “It’s like they were, fuck, the living dead!”
This earned a bellyful of laughter. “Undead orcs? That’s rich, human! I think you’re just shit at your job!”
“He’s...he’s right, sarge!” Declared one of the musketeers, lowering his head even further at his superior’s glare. “Those...those weren’t orcs. Those were Nevaria spirits! They’d only stop if a Berserker or Axe Master chopped off their limbs or cut off their head! Or… or if one of our Gunners hit them with one of their magical exploding shells.”
The massive orc scowled, but even he found himself effected by the dread he saw in their eyes. “Alright, so your saying all it took was for a few dozen spirit walkers to stop the advancement of 2000 men?”
The gunner shook his head. “Those things didn’t just stop our advance. They obliterated it,” he whispered, eyes wide with such terror that even the sergeant flinched before shaking his tusked countenance and pushing right up to the gunner who just smiled and stepped back, seemingly too shaken to bother with pissing contests against a nine foot tall orc.
“Obliterated two thousand soldiers? A bunch of drugged sellouts? I find that hard to believe, gunner.”
“Good. Because it wasn’t just a couple score of those… walkers. There were dozens upon dozens of fucking Elephants charging us and tearing us up with their tusks! Like Attila the bloody Hun!” the gunner furrowed his brow. “Though they might have been rhinos or… maybe giant boar. Now that I think about it, I’m not really sure what the hell they were. It was even darker out than it is now, overcast bullshit made it a nightmare to make out, even with my Perception. But I could see enough to spot those things smashing through our troops like fucking bowling pins, and worst of all…” The gunner shuddered, haunted eyes going wide. “Worst of all was when we tried to rally the men to reinforce our flank and counter… that’s when those assholes pulled out the cannons.”
The massive orc blinked. “Wait. You’re saying these fuckers had spirit walkers, cavalry, and cannons?”
The gunner jerked a nod. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
The Orc sergeant barked with mocking laughter, glaring at the dispirited troops as soldiers continued to muster and organize themselves outside the massive canvas tents serving as their barracks, readying to move out.
“Do you fools expect me to believe that bullshit? Tell me you idiots didn’t actually eat the beans those cooks made for the livestock again? I know half of you do that, and are tripping at the moon every fucking month!” He glared at the soldiers all but quaking in their boots before his wrath. “Now unless you can show me these undead walkers, rhinos, and cannon, you’re forming up with the men and marching out. And if you reload your fucking muskets like your supposed to, I won’t even whip you fools to an inch of your lives!”
The human’s eyes widened in sudden alarm amidst the dispirited orcs. “Um… Sarge?”
“I don’t want to here it, human! You can grab a musket like everyone else, and fucking form up in my personal unit! At least I know you’ll hit what you aim at!”
“Sir!” The gunner said, practically screaming. “Permission to give you a firsthand view of what we encountered, sir!”
The orc furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you...” The monstrous specimen then lurched back with a startled curse as first dozens, then hundreds of silhouettes moving in eerily perfect concert emerged from the gloom of night and into the flickering light radiated by the torches around camp.
The orc sergeant swallowed, glaring at the trembling conscripts, then back at the soldiers all about the camp, coming to a rapid decision as the revenants continued to approach, all of them now holding their bayoneted seven foot long muskets at precise 30 degree angles, guarding their lines and in perfect position to knock aside any opposition’s shaft or sidearm before lunging forth for a killing blow. They weren’t moving like shambling zombies as depicted in countless movies and books. They were moving like clockwork soldiers in absolute perfect sync with one another, inhuman gazes all locked upon their targets.
The oversized orc made what was perhaps the smartest decision of his life, even if it would prove to be utterly futile.
“Back! All men prepare for an organized withdrawal!” He pulled out a tinny sounding bugle. “All men retreat to the northern edge of the camp! Northern edge of the camp! Grab your guns, leave your kit and go, go, go!” he roared, the human’s face shuddering with relief as he raced ahead, only to lurch to a stop with a despairing cry, earning anxious scowls from the hundreds of confused orcs behind him, half sans any spear, axe, or musket at all, milling at his rear.
“What’s up, boss?” Said a half-naked orc to his snorting commander.
“What’s up is we’re getting out of here! Back to the supply fort, now, now!”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, sarge,” said the breathless gunner, trembling with poorly concealed fear as he raced back to the commander’s side.
“What the hell are you talking about? Those fuckers are slow! Everyone knows spirit walkers are slow!”
“Maybe. But like you said, my eyes are sharp. Slow or fast, the fuckers still managed to outflank us,” said the adventurer, his voice etched with despair.
The orc’s eyes widened. “Shit, you better not be saying what I think you’re—“
“That’s right, Sarge. We’re surrounded.”
“Form up men, and you fools better have your weapons ready! Get in wedge formation! You got thirty seconds, fools!” He said over the screams of orcs catching sight of the doom fast approaching. “Alright, no more time! Form up for a break-through charge! Form up on my—“
The gunner hissed and lurched back, for a second failing to register the headless stump spurting blood in his face as the body slowly toppled to the ground.
“We’re under attack! We’re under attack!” Screamed multiple orcs nearby before their voices were cut off by the shrieks of the disemboweled as row after row of perfectly disciplined revenants marched in an ever compressing circle, scores of disorganized orcs blinking in wide-eyed confusion, a few unleashing scattered shots into the clockwork revenants that refused to flinch or even bleed under fire.
The increasingly desperate gunman didn’t fail to note that any orc who dared to step up and take the reins of command, who shouted a single order to organize the troops and set up any kind of resistance, were quickly sent crashing to the ground, with geysers of arterial blood spurting from neck stumps where their heads should be, all of them exploding in showers of bone and brain from what he swore were cannon balls, for all that he heard no long guns being fired at all.
That was when he saw it. The strikingly beautiful face of a madman streaked with blood, sapphire blue eyes peering coldly at the battlefield, his features as ivory pale as an elf’s under the stray beam of moonlight breaking through the midnight cloud cover above.
The gunner hissed in awed disbelief, only then registering the massive mount the fully armored rider dared to claim. Not an elephant… though just as massive. It was an inconceivably large boar that was now, out of all the people screaming and dying and fighting for their lives, looking right at him.
The Gunner stumbled back with a cry, falling on his ass, horrified to find himself falling into the those terrible blue eyes drowning him like the riptide he had tripped and fallen into as a boy, saved by a complete stranger. That had been the day he had sobbed his thanks, the first time he had cried in the two years since his father had left him and his mother, promising his savior that he’d be a hero and one day save people in turn. Only now, feeling fresh hot tears of terror running down his cheeks, so like those of the boy who had sobbed before his roaring drunken father, did he wonder how he had managed to stray so far from his childhood dreams.
When the hell had everything gone wrong?
He shook away his daze, only peripherally noting that the rider’s right hand was a blur in the darkness, the low thrum of a whirling sling heard just before eye contact was broken as the rider bent forward with the snap of an unseen string, and death streaked through the air once more.
He gazed down in shocked disbelief to find that he himself had been struck, his dying expression that of a man who felt no pain, just indescribable surprise from the massive hole in his chest, before his eyes rolled up and he saw nothing at all.
***
You have critically struck Level 22 Gunner with cast-iron cannon ball!
Fatality!
You have slain a total of 45 opponents with Soul-bound Sling!
Sling is now at Rank 8!
Eric flashed a hard smile, embracing his connection to the ebb and flow of this battleground to the fullest, finding himself perfectly in tune with, and able to react instantly to, the disorganized orcs he now had completely surrounded. Savoring their confusion, terror and fear.
He smirked, happily goading them with the shambling legion before them, enticing them to waist their sporadic shots upon the revenants now completely surrounding the camp in a triple row formation, tightening the noose ever further as panicked orcs found their moral breaking, frantically throwing themselves against the triple row of bayoneted muskets, so desperate they were to claw their way out. Yet all they did was deliver themselves to their own brutal deaths, Eric quite deliberately telling his soldiers to aim low.
Gut wounds only.
Harder to defend than a thrust to upper chest or face, and the screams served to both further demoralize and disorient his enemies, and, just as importantly, assure him maximum experience as he quite deliberately finished off each and every orc shivering over their own spilled intestines.
The screams of a devastated mother and daughter, still ringing through his skull, demanded nothing less.
Out of all his foes, only a small handful of hard-eyed orcs and a single human made him out in the shadows upon his favorite tusker a good twenty yards back from the fatal trap he had sprung. Eric didn’t hesitate to take out each of those too observant targets before they could give a hue and cry, assuring that absolutely no properly loaded and carefully aimed muskets would be aimed his way.
Not that he thought they had a chance of hitting or hurting him, easily able to dip to the side of his mount as musket balls all but bounced off the nearly impenetrable hide.
But this was as much about the ruthless application of solid tactics as it was about anything else.
And that most definitely included taking out all the Classers before they had a hope in hell of sending return fire his way. Even the one with whom he had felt an odd frisson of connection, sensing his final moments… before making sure the man could sense nothing at all.
You have critically struck Level 25 Javelineer.
Javelineer’s head explodes on impact! 100% Experience earned with Soul-bound weapon!
You have achieved Journeyman Status with all slings! Finesse has increased by 2 points. Strength has increased by 1 point!
You may choose from the perks Hawk Flight (Standard), Precise Shot (Standard), Precise Shot (Advanced), True Shot (Adept), and Critical Strike (Adept).
You have chosen the Weapon Perk: Precise Shot (Advanced)!
This perk taps into the living memory of countless hunters before you who understood that accuracy was everything on the hunt! Expect an even greater improvement over the standard version of this perk, as you have been personally trained by a System recognized Slinger! You now have a significant bonus to all your shots at all ranges! This bonus will increase as you continue to improve your skills!
Eric flashed a fierce smile, now hitting his targets with ever increasing accuracy, having claimed the absolute best weapon perk he could have hoped for. Not an Adept tier perk that would have heightened his accuracy or deadliness for just a single shot or two, but one that would enhance his skill for all time. No matter how many cannon balls he sent hurtling out across the battlefield. Practically speaking, since accuracy was the one aspect of slinging that was inferior to almost every other weapon, it was the weakness he needed to shore it up above all others.
And shore it up he had, he thought with a fierce smile, enjoying the surge of potency flooding his body and soul each time his whirling sling released its deadly payload, hitting its target just as accurately as he had once shot a crossbow not that long ago as one kill bled into another, Eric’s hands moving in an exquisitely coordinated symphony of death, alternating seven pound lead bullets with seventeen pound cast iron cannon balls and massive cloth-wrapped bundles of superheated iron shot that sprayed through the increasingly panicked orcs now shrieking and fleeing for all they were worth.
But there was nowhere for them to go. Only running around in increasingly frantic circles, pinned on all sides, as Eric’s sling rained brutal death down upon them all.
Fifty kills quickly became sixty, then seventy, the number only growing as an increasingly panicked and now utterly disorganized mob of screaming orcs did all they could to burst through the ever tightening kill box, a good fifty actually breaking free after stomping over groaning compatriots and revenants alike. Yet the fiery red Map Interface lights of the fifty who managed to break free quickly began winking out as a full company of tuskers ruthlessly mowed them down.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
The disorganized camp of canvas and sloth and so many dying screams now utterly still and quiet, leaving hundreds of fresh corpses in their place. Their faces were twisted in hideous expressions, those that had intact faces at all, countless skulls shattered in the honing of Eric’s skill, Sling now at a commendable Rank 11. Eric gave a fierce cheer mirrored by his tuskers and countless revenants when his gambit paid off once more, feeling fresh potency flood his body as his interface blared with fresh messages.
Congratulations! You have successfully slayed over 100 enemy combatants with your sling in a single battle!
You have achieved the Advanced Title: Battlefield Slinger!
You have earned a permanent +5 Bonus to Strength, Finesse, and Perception!
All slings now enjoy 15% Increased accuracy in your hands!
Your learn how to master the use of any sling 15% faster than you otherwise would!
All Slinger classes are now open to you!
Eric frowned as he quickly scanned the camp, doing his best to flush out any potentially hiding foes, particularly those who thought themselves clever enough to ambush him with a rogue’s shadow skills, skills that might include the ability to remove their blinking red lights from even a Contender’s Interface map, via the simple expedient of having his forty tuskers absolutely demolish the entire camp.
But not before saying the words that would serve as the foundation of his victory over his sworn foes, savoring once more the surge of gloriously sweet power caressing his soul when he managed to bind yet another 324 former foes into his eternal service.
“Surge, centuria! Imperator imperat tibi!”
He couldn’t help but feel like a general in truth as he dispelled his fresh recruits into his ring, instantly registering the new total as 1973. Nearly 2000 legionnaires.
And he was getting started.
He held off on pulling out his blaster, however, even if there was another title to chase. He had burned about 30 charges that night and lost a carbine, giving him around 90 Tier 1 Blaster Charges left. That, plus the 85 remaining from his soul-bound arcane sniper rifle gave him about 175 shots that might make all the difference between life and death in the battles to come.
Eric took a deep breath, savoring the sweet potency flooding through his veins, never having felt so strong, so potent, or so quick as he did at that moment. And this was just the beginning, he promised himself, now making his way at a racing gallop for the heart of this territory, where the chieftain or shaman holding this these lands on behalf of the Blacktooth alliance could be found.
If he had a singular regret, it was that he hadn’t managed to gain a level as a Masterclass Adventurer or Necromancer, despite killing, and raising, over 300 targets.
But he supposed that wasn’t too surprising, having shot up to level 26 as a Primal Adventurer and 19 as a Master Necromancer in an absurdly short period of time.
Unlike many other battles, in this one he had out-leveled nearly every one of his foes, not even counting the 20 cultivator levels he almost thought of as a cheat, along with the massive stat boosts he enjoyed, thanks to multiple boons and feats earned.
All that aside, it only made sense, and explained why he hadn’t encountered even one adventurer over level 30 in Freetown. From what he recalled, the handful of dungeons available to adventurers in the surrounding 20 mile radius only had beasts in the 5 to 15 level range, maybe higher for monster bosses and the like. Eric could already tell that it required an increasingly sharp increase in the number of kills needed to rank up, for every additional level one had over one’s foes. Just as Eric’s early rapid rise had proved that if one wanted to advance fast, killing higher level foes was definitely the way to go.
But only if one could survive the encounter.
Eric shook his head with a rueful chuckle, painfully aware of all that he was lacking just as much as he reveled in his strengths.
As far as Necromancy, basic combat skills, and stat boosts went, he was absolutely and unequivocally kicking ass.
But as far as advancing his cultivation skills, or even his Primal Adventurer powers, the core of who and what he was as a Classer, the key to advancing and ascending to Bronze and beyond… he was still stuck in the novice ranks.
The novice ranks!
Just as bad, neither of his two Qi Skills had even hit Rank 5, and skilling them up was his only path forward for advancing as a cultivator, at least for the moment, as he had absolutely no access to any further cultivation treaties or tomes of any sort.
He winced, suddenly feeling pretty pathetic.
Why hadn’t he even thought to practice his Fire Suppression Chant in what would have been the absolute perfect environment? Enforcing his will on what was effectively a captive audience!
He sighed and shook his head. It was always easy to criticize everything he could have done differently after shit went down. And that was bullshit, doing himself a disservice. He had survived it, learned from it, increased his sling skills and earned yet another sweet title, before anyone else could claim it. And as far as his Qi Skills went, lighting himself up like a blazing beacon in melee range was a really great way to get shot, when going for guerrilla warfare shenanigans against hundreds of foes in the middle of the night.
He knew he needed to commit serious time and effort to improving his core skills, and he had every intention of doing so.
After he rescued the people who needed him.
His priority right now was to relieve the pressure of the siege pinning his sister by taking out as many orcs as he could, goblin assassins too, if he could manage it. Ideally, he’d wipe the fuckers completely off the map before heading back to Freetown and freeing Caliban, Rica, and her daughter. Then he’d do his absolute damnedest to bring the goblin empire to their knees.
Or at least break their hold on Freetown.
Then and only then would he worry about smoothing out his build and honing his actual core class skills.
He tried not to laugh at the irony that all the multiple high-wealth dungeons one could explore for eternity, bridging its infinite layers between twin worlds that he had basically dreamed into being, an absolute wonder that every single adventurer who took the gentlest of oaths would be able to make us of, were totally closed off to him. Because just as had been the case for the wondrous realm he had been forced to forever leave behind, he was somehow the fulcrum and anchor upon which everything rested. Even should he perish on native soil, he knew in his heart that such would only serve to further solidify those mystical bridges between realms. But to enter them himself was to court disaster, though he doubted he could enter at all.
For him, the wondrous delves of Ashland were no more real than the excitement and growth it would hopefully bring to countless guests and future citizens. All he could do was listen in on tales of glory, adventure, and hopefully not too much peril, at least on the early levels. Breathless recounting he would vicariously appreciate while treating the entire tavern to food, drink, and friendly company. And of course, he’d forever apprecaite his 20% cut of all the sweet, sweet lewt he genuinely hoped everyone would earn.
But that didn’t mean there weren’t countless wild dungeons out there that he had no hand in creating at all. Those he could enter just as freely as anyone else.
As an added perk, if he actually managed to make first clears of any of them, he’d earn a few extra stat points for each one he bested, and would even be allowed to shape it to a limited degree. Whether for added challenge, a safer experience, or perhaps even richer awards. Or just to make damn sure monster surges would never flood territories he might one day shape into civilized regions. Best of all, those System-sanctioned shapings wouldn’t affect his ability to grind those dungeons in perpetuity, since it was the System, not himself, that would serve as the fulcrum for dungeons already within a given territory.
Still, he was almost positive that the greatest experience boons by far were earned for first time dungeon exploration, not grinding delves already mastered. That latter was great for safety and consistency, especially with a competent crew, everyone being able to come home every night to one’s family without any more risk than any other high risk job, while bringing home a fortune in wealth and opportunity for their children’s futures, and hopefully rank up some key class skills while doing so. But those stable, well-known, low-risk bread and butter dungeons weren’t ideal for actually leveling up.
Which meant that first clears of virgin dungeons in wild territories was definitely the way to go for maximum experience points and stat boons.
But all that could wait, Eric thought with a PvPer’s smile as his mount gave a soft snort, Eric quickly spying what would be his final target for the night, just a mile or so further along the remnants of the road he now raced along.
He couldn’t help but feel a fierce surge of exhilaration as he spied a sprawling town defended by earthworks topped by a walkway with a handful of musketeers glaring out into the inky darkness as the first rays of false dawn began to light up the nighttime sky. Best of all, the no doubt hastily constructed walls made primarily of dirt and sun-baked clay was clearly unable to support any mounted artillery at all.
_____________________________________
Eric Silver Level 26 Primal Adventurer
Rank 20 Cultivator
Level 19 Master Necromancer
Physical Characteristics (+18 Unspent Points)
Strength – 156
Vitality – 179
Finesse – 118
Quickness – 163
Appearance – 19
Mental Characteristics
Scholarship – 22
Perception – 112
Willpower – 53
Charisma – 13
Potency Pools
Arcane Potential – 62
(Mana Pool = 744)
Spiritual Energy – 177
(Qi Pool = 2124)
Soul Reserves – 84 (76)
Stamina – 1810 Points
Health – 2406 Points.
Resistances & Recovery
Physical Resistance – 32
Physical Regeneration – 17.9 health per second
Elemental Resistance – 7
Qi Resistance – 30
Mental Resistance – 20
Primal Adventurer Powers
1. Runic Lore - Rank 5
Greater runes known: Wood (herbam), Wind (ventus), Fire (ignis), Wrath (iram), Dominion. (dicio)
Lesser runes known: One (unus), Many (plures), Now (hodie), Sun Duration (dies), Weaken (debilito), Strengthen (roboro), Resilience (mollet)
2. Unified Restoration – Rank 2 (This Power allows you to infuse your body with your own spiritual reserves whenever you take an injury for near immediate healing, over and above your basic regeneration rate!)
Cultivation Affinities
Wind / Wood / Fire
Qi Skills
Fire Fist – Rank 3 (10 Qi)
Windfire Strike – Rank 4 (30 Qi)
Necromancer Perks:
Basic Class Perks
All necromantic (and blood magic) skill use is modified by Master Necromancer Level.
All Summoned & Forged undead have their potency enhanced by Master Necromancer Level.
All spells conjuring forth any number of creatures have summoned total modified by Master Necromancer Level.
One additional enhanced class perk is earned every 2 Master Necromancer levels.
Enhanced Class Perks:
1. Soul Orb: Tier 1
2. Undead Legion: Tier 5
3. Undead Tactical Interface map access.
4. Vampiric Restoration
5. Mixed Unit Tactics
6. Mark of Resilience
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Interface Recognized Skills
Acting – Rank 5
Bardiche (Unified) – Rank 21 (Cleaving Blow, Battleforged,*Piercing Strike)
Blade and Shield – Rank 11
Bow (All Types) – Rank 19 (True Strike)
Crossbows – Rank 16 (True Strike)
Small Blades – Rank 4
Demolitions – Rank 14 (Path of Mastery)
ESS Manipulation – Rank 10 (Arcane Resonance Mastery)
Find Weakness – Rank 22 – (Spell Cleave, Qi Perception, Additional Magus/Cultivator Bonus)
Identify – Rank 1
Gunnery – Rank 10 (Cautious Gunner)
Healer’s Aid – Rank 3
Iado (Fast-Draw) – Rank 13 (Doom Flurry)
Javelin Throwing – Rank 19 (Piercing Strike)
Negotiation – Rank 9
Repair – Rank 1
Sling – Rank 11 (Precise Shot Adv.)
Spear – Rank 23 (Piercing Strike, Battleforged)
Stealth – Rank 13 (Hunter’s Grace)
Swordsmanship – Rank 22 (Doom Slice, Battleforged, *Piercing Strike *Cleaving Blow)
Swimming – Rank 2
Unarmed Combat – Rank 12 (Empty Fist)
Essence Related Skills:
Burst of Strength – Rank 14 (Path of Mastery)
Dominion’s Resilience – Rank 3
Dominion’s Command – Rank 6
Heat Surge – Rank 11 (Path of Mastery)
Unified Perception Rank 21 (Sense Heat, Spiritual Energy, Magic, & Qi Flow.)
Arcane Skills
Wands (Fire) – Rank 6
Advanced Arcane Weapons (Blaster Rifle) – Rank 6
Necromancer Affinities & Skills
Blood Mastery – Rank 27 (Blood Claimance, Lesser Healing, Essence Infusion)
Spirit Mastery – Rank 26 (Path of Dominion, Forced Obeisance)
Rituals of Summoning and Binding – Rank 28 (Tier II Path of Dominion, Ritual of Greater Spirit Summoning, *Instant Transcription)
Flesh Sculptor – Rank 22 (Tier II Path of Dominion, Basic Revenant Preparation)
Blood Ward – Rank 2
Potency Binding – Rank 4
Necromancer Spells
Unorthodox Abjuration – Rank 20
Interface Enhancements
Full Neuro-Linguistic capabilities
Extradimensional Storage Space
Essences Claimed:
Fire – Blazing - (Rank 3, White Tier)
Wrath (Rank 1, White Tier)
Dominion (Rank 1, White Tier)
You dare to walk Oblivion’s Path (Rank 10 – Journeyman Status) You may consume the potency of any tile you claim, while granting 2 Lesser Bounties of your choice!
Path of Endless Bounty now grants 2 lesser land enhancements when you grant your conquests the mercy of the gentlest of feedings. Drink deep… and share with your supplicants!
Crimson Balance: Each territory feeling the bite of your Necromantic Consumption now gives you a 50% bonus to baseline Strength and Vitality earned, while expertly coaxing the territories to spring to new, desperate life, still granting the same boon of Lesser Bounties as you had gifted before!
Note: All territories whose destinies you shape under the mantel of Conqueror and resist feeding upon entirely will enjoy the bounty of 3 Lesser and 1 Greater land enhancements.
