Chapter 249 - The Napping Hill and the Waxing Moon
A small handful of key government figures sat in a dim, dreary room. The goddess of nudity and nuclear annihilation was still high up in the sky, but there was within the chamber not the slightest sliver of sunlight, for it was deep underground, cut off from any would-be eavesdroppers capable of guiding the voices carried by the wind. Their profiles were illuminated instead by the waxy, half-dead candles spread throughout the hall. The flickering flames reflected shadows upon their faces, obscuring their worried frowns. Of course, not all the meeting’s participants wore solemn looks. It was not as if a stressed grimace was a part of the meeting’s dress code, merely a result of how its participants tried and failed to cope with their troubles.
“Its trajectory has changed again.”
Queen Priscilla was the first to speak, her eyes resting on the map spread across the table. She had given no other context, but the subject matter was clear, self-evident even. Center focus for all was the silver piece to the city’s east, marked with a series of scribbled circles and stacked one on top of the other.
“How goes the progress, Lord Pollux?” She spoke to the winged horse seated just a few meters away, her tone harsh, and her eyes relaying nothing but incriminating hatred.
“I am terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but it appears that we have reached an impasse. Each time we venture upon the ninth floor, we find ourselves immediately transported back to our home base. I have gone personally to investigate the cause, but to little avail.”
It was the exact same report that the local forces had provided. They had not the slightest clue as to the mechanism by which it worked, but the dungeon was actively rejecting them. It was like the god was filtering its candidates, denying them from clearing his trial.
“Are you fucking with me!?” One of the more frustrated ministers, an old, winged triton, banged a fist against the table as he glared daggers at the foreigner. “You’ve been working at it for months! Months! How the hell haven’t you figured it out!?”
“With all due respect, Lord Cristletham,” the Cadrian returned the man’s outburst with an infuriating sneer, “the most difficult of dungeons are often never conquered at all. My men and I are trying our best, but there is only so much that we can do given the limited scope of our time. We bled much for this endeavour, and I must demand an apology for the wives who have lost their husbands who, out of nothing but goodwill, volunteered to aid in your plight.”
“I refuse,” spat Lord Cristletham. “Take those accursed soldiers of yours and get the hell out of our country!”
“Why, what an awful demand.” Pollux pursed his lips into a frown, but his eyes betrayed his joy, his primeval, malicious joy. “Unfortunately, it is not my place to rescind foreign aid once it has been offered, just as it is not yours to offend.” He raised both his hands in front of him, the white of his gloves like a beacon in the dark. Removing one mitt with the other, he lightly tossed it across the room, landing it squarely on the male siren’s face. “As much as it pains me to depose a close ally, I must request a duel. I care little for my own reputation, but I cannot allow anyone to slander the honour of my men.” He breathed an exaggerated sigh and slowly shook his head. “The time and place are yours to decide. I shall visit your manor at a later date if I hear nothing.”
It was a death sentence. Talented a commander though he may have been, Lord Cristletham had no hopes of matching the monstrous thunderhoof in combat.
“Now if you will excuse me, ladies, gentlemen, Your Majesty.” He didn’t even hide his snicker. “I must take my leave so that I may prepare.”
He didn’t even bother to bow as he stood up from the table and walked out the room. Following his departure, there was a moment of silence. No one said anything until his footsteps stopped ringing in the halls. Even after he left, the condemned lord was offered no words of comfort. It was he that had maneuvered himself into the death trap, even after having seen it happen three times before.
“We never should have trusted the Cadrians.” The prime minister eventually broke the silence by speaking from the lower of his two mouths. His body was somewhat humanoid; he had the arms, the legs, and the head, but everything in the middle was replaced by an entire miniaturised whale. “Welcoming them with open arms was our first mistake.”
“Need I remind you that the alternative was to spend half the national budget on a handful of mercenaries?” The minister of finance, Lord Walker of house Gra’ache, breathed a sigh that soon worked its way around the table.
“And oh how I wish I took it,” said the whaleman, with a self-depreciating chuckle. “But now, we’ve not only lost our funds, but also found ourselves wrapped up in their machinations. Worst of both worlds, all thanks to some pointless penny pinching.” His laughter grew louder, breaking only when he buried his faces in his flippers and hands. “If I could go back in time, I would surely crucify myself for making the decision.”
“The fault is not yours alone, Heinrick.” The queen shook her head. “I could have vetoed it, but allowed my curiosity to stay my fin.” She rolled her tail into a knot and squeezed it tight. “And if we dare look even further in the past, then it echoes again as a mistake of mine. It all could have been prevented, had I not written Arciel off as dead.”
“That was not something any of us could have foreseen, Your Majesty,” said Lord Gra’che. “We still haven’t the faintest clue where she was hidden.”
He looked across the table, at Lord Ray’esce, who only responded with a chortle of his own. “I can hardly believe that there would be a man so foolish as to see her hidden in the first place,” he said. “It is quite apparent that she will never seize the throne, at least not without a backer as influential as one of the men in this room.”
It was such a shameless claim that the queen nearly spat out her drink. Everyone knew it was him. The man himself, however, was still playing dumb, despite knowing that the lie was long seen through. It was only because of the maid standing behind him that parliament did not immediately call for his arrest. Only Priscilla herself could best her, but her abilities caused too much widespread damage to be used in a room full of allies.
To add insult to injury, the man even flashed a cheeky grin and leaned forward in his seat, his chin resting atop his hands. “Perhaps we ought to look for traitors in our midst?”
Priscilla managed to keep her frustration from showing, but the already death-sentenced minister of fine art once again bashed his hand into the table. “You dare!”
The seahorse-shaped count cackled as he leaned back into his seat. “No, no, I jest. Calm down, Lord Cristletham. There could be no such thing as a traitor in parliament.”
“Ladies, I understand that we each have our own thoughts, but it’s time we showed the queen some respect and discussed the matter at hand.” An old, hoarse voice interjected before Lord Cristleham could expel the venom gurgling in his throat. It was not one of the Vel’khanese participants, but rather another foreign guest. She was an elephant-faced lady whose skin had just started to wrinkle. Despite the occasion, she was dressed in full plate, standing in the place of the queen’s usual crocodilian protector.
The locals did not look too favourably on the foreigner. Their experience with Pollux had burned them, and worse yet, she was just a mercenary without even the slightest hint of noble blood. Still, the point she made stood. The queen had gathered them for a purpose, and they had yet to fulfill it.
“Thank you, Emelia,” said the leech. She took a moment to twist her bloodsucking fangs into a smile before continuing in a low, solemn voice. “The dungeon is on track to collide with the city in no more than a few weeks. We must find a way to clear it before it does, else we risk incurring countless casualties. It will not just be those that are resolved for death that are slain, but our families and friends as well.” She paused briefly to look around the room. “Does anyone have any ideas?”
“I say we destroy it,” said the prime minister. “Our best bet is to have you bombard it, Your Majesty, and perhaps eliminate it prior to its arrival. Naturally, if such a plan comes to pass, we will be assigning guards to ensure that you remain safe throughout.”
“We’ve no way of safely escorting her past the storm,” said the minister of finance. “And it’s too risky. I’d rather we avoid earning the ire of its creator.”
“That is unlikely,” said the minister of religious affairs. “Destroying a dungeon is an acceptable means of clearing its trial. It is certainly difficult and unlikely, given the nature of their construction, but there are many tales of mortals accomplishing the feat and earning the gods’ affections.” He cast the monarch a meaningful gaze. “Surely, divine favour would silence the concerns of those that still state their woes.”
“I will consider it as a last resort,” said the queen. “Does anyone else have any ideas?”
There was a moment of silence.
“In that case, let us move onto another problem for now and return to this one with our minds refreshed. The next issue to consider is our address to the populace. We will be needing to inform them of the situation and offer peace of mind. Surely, it is not only us that has recognised the dungeon’s approach.”
___
Claire didn’t bother returning to base or reporting in. The first place she went, after totally flubbing her mission, was back home to the hotel where she dove straight into her bed. She winced when her body made contact. Her external wounds had closed, but everything was sore; her health was still in the process of ticking its way back up to full.
Sylvia appeared on the nightstand when she raised her head, looking equal parts entertained and concerned. “Uhmmm… want some healing?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? ‘Cause he totally kicked your butt. Err, actually I guess it’s more like you kicked your own butt.” It was a grating insult that Claire couldn’t deny. Almost three quarters of the damage she had incurred had come from her inability to handle her divinity.
“I’m sure.” She flipped onto her back and took a deep breath. Her eyes closed, she silently basked in the sensation of the air filling her lungs, even in spite of the sharp, jabbing pain.
“Mmmk…” The fox’s ears sat half drooped, but they perked up again as she suddenly leapt to her feet. “Oh yeah! What do I do with this?”
When the lyrkress lazily turned her eyes, she found a tiny bubble containing a tiny carriage and an even tinier set of soldiers and customers, all of whom appeared to have fallen unconscious. “I don’t know. Go ask the cat,” she groaned. “It was her idea to begin with.”
“Mmmmnnn… I’ll ask her once you’re all healed up.”
The vixen jumped onto the bed and rubbed her face against the moose’s.
“I told you. I’m fine.” The other halfbreed leaned into the furball with a small smile. Her tail was used to scratch the spot behind the orange critter’s ears. It was one of the few things that didn’t hurt to move.
“Mhm, I know,” said the fox, with another snuggle. “Anyway! Just remind me ‘cause I’ll probably forget if you don’t.”
“Okay.”
Though her mood had certainly taken a turn, the scalewarden’s thoughts remained anchored. Her eyes were seated on her status, cycling between the skills and stats that governed her offensive prowess. Or as the previous battle had clearly demonstrated, her complete and utter lack thereof. While the realm was certainly effective when it came to culling the weak, she had no single spell whose raw power stood head and shoulders above any of the others. Her vector-based abilities worked wonders against those with little magic resistance, but when applied on the durable, they fell only half an inch short of useless.
Her physical attacks were just as problematic, for they too lacked the investment to topple those that specialised in the mitigation and absorption of damage. The ideal scenario was to imitate her father, who had chosen severance as one of his concepts. but she hadn’t the means. Even if she was to put in the practice, none of her classes could arrive at such a logical extreme.
Though she could seize the intangible, as a cloudburst sorceress, she found herself struggling to imagine the ability’s final destination. She was almost tempted to think that it would allow her to pull souls apart, but that was unlikely. There was no such thing as an ars magna so absurd, nor an ultimate unaffiliated with one’s racial features.
Her rogue class was far more confusing. Its base functionality provided not even the slightest clue as to the concepts to be derived. In the first place, the class was something of an enigma. Its essence-stealing effect had activated only once in the months that she had it. Even with everything she had stabbed and slain. The whole thing was a mess not meant to be understood—not that understanding was ever a requirement. Her racial class was the perfect example. She only knew the realm’s concept because it had been injected right into her mind. And even then, her knowledge was rudimentary at best. She was aware of what it could do, but not how or why it worked, nor even what she had done to deserve it.
Ars magnae were meant to be tokens of recognition granted by the gods themselves. They could be applied to any class with a minimum level of 250 or higher, and served as undeniable proof that one had demonstrated mastery far beyond their class’ supposed limits. But Claire had done no such thing. She had become proficient in none of the powers afforded to her by her race—nor did there exist any established limits in the first place. She was the first of her kind.
Of course, she wasn’t complaining. The added power was welcome, even if she struggled to use it.
“I should fix my stats.”
“Hm?”
The fox perked up, but Claire lightly pinched her nose and shook her head as she stared at the mountain of unallocated points at the top of her sheet. It eclipsed every one of her six stats; if she picked a single one, it could easily be doubled, or in some cases, quintupled.
“Nothing.”
She paused for a brief moment to consider the spread before locking her decisions in stone. First, she brought her agility to an even ten thousand, just enough to hit the next threshold. She doubted that the investment would allow her to keep up with the erdbrecher’s trunk, but at the very least, it would better her ability to avoid it. The rest was split loosely between her strength and wisdom, with a slight skew towards the latter.
It was hardly a choice without compromise. Her durability, which had just proven itself lackluster, was outright dismissed in favour of brute force. But while it may have seemed like an oversight, it was much closer in form to a calculated risk. Her defense had never been the point of her frustration. Unless she invested in it heavily, she was much better off making use of her agility.
Bolstering her offenses would be the key to her success. There was no point in lasting longer if none of the attacks she landed were powerful enough to dig deeper than her enemies’ skin.
Opting for such a spread naturally meant leaving her dexterity behind, but that too, she wrote off. It wasn’t her lack of finesse that had got her stuck, and she had never been a technical fighter in the first place. While Natalya had demonstrated in full the ability to take down a foe with higher stats with raw skill, Claire lacked the foundation and training required for such a performance.
Her approach was something much more instinctual—bestial even—but as far as she was concerned, that was all it needed to be. Her momentum could be thrown away at a moment’s notice, and she could move in ways that were impossible for any with her shape and stature. The combination of her quirks and Boris’ infinite forms even allowed her to occasionally best even the enraged cat in a dance of blades. But just as how she lacked the weaknesses, so too had she been missing the strengths. With no raw speed or power, throwing herself at her enemies was pointless.
Whatever the case, it was no longer a concern. She had no more points on hand. All twenty-some thousand had been spent to bolster her speed and power.
Her agility was still a tad short of where she wanted it to be, and she would surely need to dump a few spare points into her other stats as she continued getting on in levels, but for the time being, everything was how she wanted it. A battlemage’s strongest suit was her ability to poke holes in her enemies’ defenses, and the change in her values had set her on track to do just that.
Satisfied, she pulled the fox into her chest and pressed her chin into her fur.
The shame of defeat still stung, but it faded with her consciousness, as she slowly sank into the warmth of her bed.
___
Claire Augustus
Health: 109437/123390
Mana: 1130170/1130170
Divinity: 637/637
Health Regen: 28.0/second
Mana Regen: 302.4/second
Divinity Regen: 63.7/hour
Ability Scores - 0 Points Available
- Agility: 10000
- Dexterity: 6329
- Spirit: 5016
- Strength: 18591
- Vitality: 5205
- Wisdom: 27272
Racial Class: Frosty Longmoose - Level 430.11
- Corpus Imperium - Level 91.64
- Eyes of the Deep - Level 74.37
- Realm of Eternal Frost
- True Ice Manipulation - Level 92.96
Primary Class: Llystletein Essencethief - Level 501.15
- Catgirl Detector V. 1.00 - Level 25
- Charm Catgirl - Level 25
- Death’s Dance - Level 53.84
- Essencethief - level 61.27
- Envenom - Level 74.80
- Phantom Blade - Level 74.35
Secondary Class: Cloudburst Sorceress - Level 498.98
- Force Resistance - Level 11.14
- Detect Force Magic - Level 27.61
- Spirit Sorcery - Level 79.52
- Vector Manipulation II - Level 64.06
Unclassed Skills
- Artifact Manipulation - Level 15
- Cadrian Court Etiquette - Level 25
- Digging - Level 3.14
- English - Level 25
- Fishing- Level 7.06
- Llystletein Authority++ - Level 27.31
- Marish - Level 19.25
- Napping - Level 3.59
- Singing - Level 12.66
- Sneaking - Level 15.72
- Weapon Mastery - Level 94.01
Chapter 249 - The Napping Hill and the Waxing Moon
A small handful of key government figures sat in a dim, dreary room. The goddess of nudity and nuclear annihilation was still high up in the sky, but there was within the chamber not the slightest sliver of sunlight, for it was deep underground, cut off from any would-be eavesdroppers capable of guiding the voices carried by the wind. Their profiles were illuminated instead by the waxy, half-dead candles spread throughout the hall. The flickering flames reflected shadows upon their faces, obscuring their worried frowns. Of course, not all the meeting’s participants wore solemn looks. It was not as if a stressed grimace was a part of the meeting’s dress code, merely a result of how its participants tried and failed to cope with their troubles.
“Its trajectory has changed again.”
Queen Priscilla was the first to speak, her eyes resting on the map spread across the table. She had given no other context, but the subject matter was clear, self-evident even. Center focus for all was the silver piece to the city’s east, marked with a series of scribbled circles and stacked one on top of the other.
“How goes the progress, Lord Pollux?” She spoke to the winged horse seated just a few meters away, her tone harsh, and her eyes relaying nothing but incriminating hatred.
“I am terribly sorry, Your Majesty, but it appears that we have reached an impasse. Each time we venture upon the ninth floor, we find ourselves immediately transported back to our home base. I have gone personally to investigate the cause, but to little avail.”
It was the exact same report that the local forces had provided. They had not the slightest clue as to the mechanism by which it worked, but the dungeon was actively rejecting them. It was like the god was filtering its candidates, denying them from clearing his trial.
“Are you fucking with me!?” One of the more frustrated ministers, an old, winged triton, banged a fist against the table as he glared daggers at the foreigner. “You’ve been working at it for months! Months! How the hell haven’t you figured it out!?”
“With all due respect, Lord Cristletham,” the Cadrian returned the man’s outburst with an infuriating sneer, “the most difficult of dungeons are often never conquered at all. My men and I are trying our best, but there is only so much that we can do given the limited scope of our time. We bled much for this endeavour, and I must demand an apology for the wives who have lost their husbands who, out of nothing but goodwill, volunteered to aid in your plight.”
“I refuse,” spat Lord Cristletham. “Take those accursed soldiers of yours and get the hell out of our country!”
“Why, what an awful demand.” Pollux pursed his lips into a frown, but his eyes betrayed his joy, his primeval, malicious joy. “Unfortunately, it is not my place to rescind foreign aid once it has been offered, just as it is not yours to offend.” He raised both his hands in front of him, the white of his gloves like a beacon in the dark. Removing one mitt with the other, he lightly tossed it across the room, landing it squarely on the male siren’s face. “As much as it pains me to depose a close ally, I must request a duel. I care little for my own reputation, but I cannot allow anyone to slander the honour of my men.” He breathed an exaggerated sigh and slowly shook his head. “The time and place are yours to decide. I shall visit your manor at a later date if I hear nothing.”
It was a death sentence. Talented a commander though he may have been, Lord Cristletham had no hopes of matching the monstrous thunderhoof in combat.
“Now if you will excuse me, ladies, gentlemen, Your Majesty.” He didn’t even hide his snicker. “I must take my leave so that I may prepare.”
He didn’t even bother to bow as he stood up from the table and walked out the room. Following his departure, there was a moment of silence. No one said anything until his footsteps stopped ringing in the halls. Even after he left, the condemned lord was offered no words of comfort. It was he that had maneuvered himself into the death trap, even after having seen it happen three times before.
“We never should have trusted the Cadrians.” The prime minister eventually broke the silence by speaking from the lower of his two mouths. His body was somewhat humanoid; he had the arms, the legs, and the head, but everything in the middle was replaced by an entire miniaturised whale. “Welcoming them with open arms was our first mistake.”
“Need I remind you that the alternative was to spend half the national budget on a handful of mercenaries?” The minister of finance, Lord Walker of house Gra’ache, breathed a sigh that soon worked its way around the table.
“And oh how I wish I took it,” said the whaleman, with a self-depreciating chuckle. “But now, we’ve not only lost our funds, but also found ourselves wrapped up in their machinations. Worst of both worlds, all thanks to some pointless penny pinching.” His laughter grew louder, breaking only when he buried his faces in his flippers and hands. “If I could go back in time, I would surely crucify myself for making the decision.”
“The fault is not yours alone, Heinrick.” The queen shook her head. “I could have vetoed it, but allowed my curiosity to stay my fin.” She rolled her tail into a knot and squeezed it tight. “And if we dare look even further in the past, then it echoes again as a mistake of mine. It all could have been prevented, had I not written Arciel off as dead.”
“That was not something any of us could have foreseen, Your Majesty,” said Lord Gra’che. “We still haven’t the faintest clue where she was hidden.”
He looked across the table, at Lord Ray’esce, who only responded with a chortle of his own. “I can hardly believe that there would be a man so foolish as to see her hidden in the first place,” he said. “It is quite apparent that she will never seize the throne, at least not without a backer as influential as one of the men in this room.”
It was such a shameless claim that the queen nearly spat out her drink. Everyone knew it was him. The man himself, however, was still playing dumb, despite knowing that the lie was long seen through. It was only because of the maid standing behind him that parliament did not immediately call for his arrest. Only Priscilla herself could best her, but her abilities caused too much widespread damage to be used in a room full of allies.
To add insult to injury, the man even flashed a cheeky grin and leaned forward in his seat, his chin resting atop his hands. “Perhaps we ought to look for traitors in our midst?”
Priscilla managed to keep her frustration from showing, but the already death-sentenced minister of fine art once again bashed his hand into the table. “You dare!”
The seahorse-shaped count cackled as he leaned back into his seat. “No, no, I jest. Calm down, Lord Cristletham. There could be no such thing as a traitor in parliament.”
“Ladies, I understand that we each have our own thoughts, but it’s time we showed the queen some respect and discussed the matter at hand.” An old, hoarse voice interjected before Lord Cristleham could expel the venom gurgling in his throat. It was not one of the Vel’khanese participants, but rather another foreign guest. She was an elephant-faced lady whose skin had just started to wrinkle. Despite the occasion, she was dressed in full plate, standing in the place of the queen’s usual crocodilian protector.
The locals did not look too favourably on the foreigner. Their experience with Pollux had burned them, and worse yet, she was just a mercenary without even the slightest hint of noble blood. Still, the point she made stood. The queen had gathered them for a purpose, and they had yet to fulfill it.
“Thank you, Emelia,” said the leech. She took a moment to twist her bloodsucking fangs into a smile before continuing in a low, solemn voice. “The dungeon is on track to collide with the city in no more than a few weeks. We must find a way to clear it before it does, else we risk incurring countless casualties. It will not just be those that are resolved for death that are slain, but our families and friends as well.” She paused briefly to look around the room. “Does anyone have any ideas?”
“I say we destroy it,” said the prime minister. “Our best bet is to have you bombard it, Your Majesty, and perhaps eliminate it prior to its arrival. Naturally, if such a plan comes to pass, we will be assigning guards to ensure that you remain safe throughout.”
“We’ve no way of safely escorting her past the storm,” said the minister of finance. “And it’s too risky. I’d rather we avoid earning the ire of its creator.”
“That is unlikely,” said the minister of religious affairs. “Destroying a dungeon is an acceptable means of clearing its trial. It is certainly difficult and unlikely, given the nature of their construction, but there are many tales of mortals accomplishing the feat and earning the gods’ affections.” He cast the monarch a meaningful gaze. “Surely, divine favour would silence the concerns of those that still state their woes.”
“I will consider it as a last resort,” said the queen. “Does anyone else have any ideas?”
There was a moment of silence.
“In that case, let us move onto another problem for now and return to this one with our minds refreshed. The next issue to consider is our address to the populace. We will be needing to inform them of the situation and offer peace of mind. Surely, it is not only us that has recognised the dungeon’s approach.”
___
Claire didn’t bother returning to base or reporting in. The first place she went, after totally flubbing her mission, was back home to the hotel where she dove straight into her bed. She winced when her body made contact. Her external wounds had closed, but everything was sore; her health was still in the process of ticking its way back up to full.
Sylvia appeared on the nightstand when she raised her head, looking equal parts entertained and concerned. “Uhmmm… want some healing?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? ‘Cause he totally kicked your butt. Err, actually I guess it’s more like you kicked your own butt.” It was a grating insult that Claire couldn’t deny. Almost three quarters of the damage she had incurred had come from her inability to handle her divinity.
“I’m sure.” She flipped onto her back and took a deep breath. Her eyes closed, she silently basked in the sensation of the air filling her lungs, even in spite of the sharp, jabbing pain.
“Mmmk…” The fox’s ears sat half drooped, but they perked up again as she suddenly leapt to her feet. “Oh yeah! What do I do with this?”
When the lyrkress lazily turned her eyes, she found a tiny bubble containing a tiny carriage and an even tinier set of soldiers and customers, all of whom appeared to have fallen unconscious. “I don’t know. Go ask the cat,” she groaned. “It was her idea to begin with.”
“Mmmmnnn… I’ll ask her once you’re all healed up.”
The vixen jumped onto the bed and rubbed her face against the moose’s.
“I told you. I’m fine.” The other halfbreed leaned into the furball with a small smile. Her tail was used to scratch the spot behind the orange critter’s ears. It was one of the few things that didn’t hurt to move.
“Mhm, I know,” said the fox, with another snuggle. “Anyway! Just remind me ‘cause I’ll probably forget if you don’t.”
“Okay.”
Though her mood had certainly taken a turn, the scalewarden’s thoughts remained anchored. Her eyes were seated on her status, cycling between the skills and stats that governed her offensive prowess. Or as the previous battle had clearly demonstrated, her complete and utter lack thereof. While the realm was certainly effective when it came to culling the weak, she had no single spell whose raw power stood head and shoulders above any of the others. Her vector-based abilities worked wonders against those with little magic resistance, but when applied on the durable, they fell only half an inch short of useless.
Her physical attacks were just as problematic, for they too lacked the investment to topple those that specialised in the mitigation and absorption of damage. The ideal scenario was to imitate her father, who had chosen severance as one of his concepts. but she hadn’t the means. Even if she was to put in the practice, none of her classes could arrive at such a logical extreme.
Though she could seize the intangible, as a cloudburst sorceress, she found herself struggling to imagine the ability’s final destination. She was almost tempted to think that it would allow her to pull souls apart, but that was unlikely. There was no such thing as an ars magna so absurd, nor an ultimate unaffiliated with one’s racial features.
Her rogue class was far more confusing. Its base functionality provided not even the slightest clue as to the concepts to be derived. In the first place, the class was something of an enigma. Its essence-stealing effect had activated only once in the months that she had it. Even with everything she had stabbed and slain. The whole thing was a mess not meant to be understood—not that understanding was ever a requirement. Her racial class was the perfect example. She only knew the realm’s concept because it had been injected right into her mind. And even then, her knowledge was rudimentary at best. She was aware of what it could do, but not how or why it worked, nor even what she had done to deserve it.
Ars magnae were meant to be tokens of recognition granted by the gods themselves. They could be applied to any class with a minimum level of 250 or higher, and served as undeniable proof that one had demonstrated mastery far beyond their class’ supposed limits. But Claire had done no such thing. She had become proficient in none of the powers afforded to her by her race—nor did there exist any established limits in the first place. She was the first of her kind.
Of course, she wasn’t complaining. The added power was welcome, even if she struggled to use it.
“I should fix my stats.”
“Hm?”
The fox perked up, but Claire lightly pinched her nose and shook her head as she stared at the mountain of unallocated points at the top of her sheet. It eclipsed every one of her six stats; if she picked a single one, it could easily be doubled, or in some cases, quintupled.
“Nothing.”
She paused for a brief moment to consider the spread before locking her decisions in stone. First, she brought her agility to an even ten thousand, just enough to hit the next threshold. She doubted that the investment would allow her to keep up with the erdbrecher’s trunk, but at the very least, it would better her ability to avoid it. The rest was split loosely between her strength and wisdom, with a slight skew towards the latter.
It was hardly a choice without compromise. Her durability, which had just proven itself lackluster, was outright dismissed in favour of brute force. But while it may have seemed like an oversight, it was much closer in form to a calculated risk. Her defense had never been the point of her frustration. Unless she invested in it heavily, she was much better off making use of her agility.
Bolstering her offenses would be the key to her success. There was no point in lasting longer if none of the attacks she landed were powerful enough to dig deeper than her enemies’ skin.
Opting for such a spread naturally meant leaving her dexterity behind, but that too, she wrote off. It wasn’t her lack of finesse that had got her stuck, and she had never been a technical fighter in the first place. While Natalya had demonstrated in full the ability to take down a foe with higher stats with raw skill, Claire lacked the foundation and training required for such a performance.
Her approach was something much more instinctual—bestial even—but as far as she was concerned, that was all it needed to be. Her momentum could be thrown away at a moment’s notice, and she could move in ways that were impossible for any with her shape and stature. The combination of her quirks and Boris’ infinite forms even allowed her to occasionally best even the enraged cat in a dance of blades. But just as how she lacked the weaknesses, so too had she been missing the strengths. With no raw speed or power, throwing herself at her enemies was pointless.
Whatever the case, it was no longer a concern. She had no more points on hand. All twenty-some thousand had been spent to bolster her speed and power.
Her agility was still a tad short of where she wanted it to be, and she would surely need to dump a few spare points into her other stats as she continued getting on in levels, but for the time being, everything was how she wanted it. A battlemage’s strongest suit was her ability to poke holes in her enemies’ defenses, and the change in her values had set her on track to do just that.
Satisfied, she pulled the fox into her chest and pressed her chin into her fur.
The shame of defeat still stung, but it faded with her consciousness, as she slowly sank into the warmth of her bed.
___
Claire Augustus
Health: 109437/123390
Mana: 1130170/1130170
Divinity: 637/637
Health Regen: 28.0/second
Mana Regen: 302.4/second
Divinity Regen: 63.7/hour
Ability Scores - 0 Points Available
- Agility: 10000
- Dexterity: 6329
- Spirit: 5016
- Strength: 18591
- Vitality: 5205
- Wisdom: 27272
Racial Class: Frosty Longmoose - Level 430.11
- Corpus Imperium - Level 91.64
- Eyes of the Deep - Level 74.37
- Realm of Eternal Frost
- True Ice Manipulation - Level 92.96
Primary Class: Llystletein Essencethief - Level 501.15
- Catgirl Detector V. 1.00 - Level 25
- Charm Catgirl - Level 25
- Death’s Dance - Level 53.84
- Essencethief - level 61.27
- Envenom - Level 74.80
- Phantom Blade - Level 74.35
Secondary Class: Cloudburst Sorceress - Level 498.98
- Force Resistance - Level 11.14
- Detect Force Magic - Level 27.61
- Spirit Sorcery - Level 79.52
- Vector Manipulation II - Level 64.06
Unclassed Skills
- Artifact Manipulation - Level 15
- Cadrian Court Etiquette - Level 25
- Digging - Level 3.14
- English - Level 25
- Fishing- Level 7.06
- Llystletein Authority++ - Level 27.31
- Marish - Level 19.25
- Napping - Level 3.59
- Singing - Level 12.66
- Sneaking - Level 15.72
- Weapon Mastery - Level 94.01
