Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"Given the opportunity I'm sure you could do wonders," stated Andruil firmly. "Aviva's too protective to allow it, but I stand by my belief in you. It is a thing you can do."

[Hopeflower]

Arsenic went on giving Andruil a look that very much questioned the knight's sanity for a moment, then laid his cheek back on his arm. 'There's ******* with someone,' he said slowly, 'and then there's you.' Maybe he needed to rethink inviting Andruil to ask him things.

[The Kingpin]

"You misunderstand, I truly do believe you have it in you. But then, you have a lot of things in you, but that's not the point! The point is, you are capable of the patience and kindness needed to raise a child," stated Andruil, looking to Rowan and Vix to help him out here. "Surely both Rowan and Vix have seen examples of both."

[Hopeflower]

The women in question exchanged a look. Rowan still seemed a little blindsided by the turn the conversation had taken, so Vix - after a little uncertain fiddling with her necklace chain - offered, "You did kinda help get me back on my feet."

Arsenic turned his head slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. 'Isa needed another pair of hands and I happened to be there. Your wounds were deep.' He shrugged again. 'Anyone else would have done the same.'

"Well yes, but I mean - " Vix glanced at Andruil, chewed her lip for a second, and pushed on. "You could have given up on me after I broke your nose. No one would have blamed you."

'And when has pain ever stopped me from doing anything?'

"When it's someone else's," Rowan pointed out, seeming to finally shake off the surprise and come back to herself. "Remember when you let our guy get away because I took an arrow?"

Arsenic's expression hardened a little. 'It was too close to one of your lungs for you to keep going and you know it.'

[The Kingpin]

With a decidedly satisfied smirk, Andruil stepped in. "And there you go," said the Knight, waggling his bun at the Mute to emphasise what had just been said. "A sweetheart clad in scars is no less sweet, I find. You are no exception."

[Hopeflower]

Arsenic twitched slightly at being called sweetheart of all things. That was a new one. 'If you say so.' Genuine bemusement bled into his tone - a sign of how thoroughly the comment had taken him by surprise. Vix had once mentioned he had a gentle heart for an assassin, but he'd never expected to hear it from anyone else...or that such a thing made him parent material.

He still kind of doubted that.

[The Kingpin]

The Knight smiled at that. Setting his bag down on the table with a couple of buns left, her stretched, dropping lazily in the chair. "I haven't lost my touch," he stated smugly. It was gonna be a long and entertaining evening...

[C S]

Several days and a fraction of a continent apart though they were, some scenes were not so different after all.

Hours spent at a market in search of treats for a friend. Not a barrel of honey, nor a mirror, but spices instead. A lot of spices. Spices that were ground into red powder, pale powder, green powder. Each in large hemp sacks. Yes, at each stall, Syria was compelled to lean forward and take a whiff. Yes, each time her nose burned in the most delightful way. She would say something to the ends of, "Oh, how enthralling", with a nasally edge, the merchant beside the stall using a long brass scoop to fill jars which were passed off to Septimus' collection of supplies, as picked out by Beshayir herself. A spiritual graduation from her pyromancy course, though there wasn't anything particularly magical about the mouth-burning this dish would bring about.

Now with the onset of night, the unlikely quartet took up lodging at a Thimeyran inn. Syria and Beshayir had their room to justify Ceridwen and Septimus commandeering the stables, where they all were currently, the Scholarly elf working on dinner while Syria tended to a still very flowery Ceridwen. The inn was part of a veritable wall, where the buildings made out of hardened wood and stone were conjoined with their adjacent neighbors. They were not tall, but they did have added height from tall, boxy structures with openings that were not quite windows. The holes were grated by painted clay fixtures, and they allowed air to enter and circulate within homes and businesses, keeping things cool. Syria noted that Oak would have been impressed with these "reverse chimneys".

The inn's stable was a simple extension on the other side of this wall of buildings, the narrow alley providing shade for the elves walking the streets during the sunlight hours. A simple tarp stretched out over the stable area, casting shade over straw and troughs. Ceridwen was given her covers, as per Syria's diplomacy, and the mage was occupied with fluffing her feathers, as per the dragoness' instruction.

[The Kingpin]

Ceridwen's feathers were spread out to the point her entire body seemed twice its usual size, a sound not unlike a cat's purr escaping the dragoness. She pressed herself into the hands fluffing her feathers, the gesture having done much to soothe her frayed nerves.

"It wasn't as though I had intended for such a catastrophe... How was I to know that their coloured sands would itch my nose?" she had claimed defensively, proving that Ceridwen was undoubtedly still underneath that mask of flowery speech.

Septimus had paid off the merchant, of course. They wouldn't have been able to leave had he not. Well, not without involving Antar, but the Scholar had no intention of pulling the Qaid of Thimeyra into this mess. That said, it had still been a problematic issue for him. Short on funds as it was, he now had to look into some means of earning some gold soon. Thankfully the merchant's rants had given him an idea on just how he could do so.

But that could wait.

He hadn't acquired all the spices for the meal he intended to make for Beshayir, Ceridwen's sneeze having blown the last of it to the wind as it had. But a certain set of spices he had found had allowed him to do the next best thing.

Yarabi chops were a bit out there on the range of exotic desert foods, but thankfully they weren't especially expensive. Akin to small, slenderly built bipedal antelope, these were however unrelated, having more in common with rodents than anything else. The Scholar was able to grill them much as he had fish in the past. The only downside was that the chops were rather small for a pair of dragons, and he had to buy several butchers' supplies of them to make sure it would be sufficient.

Four large, square wooden plates, trays more than anything else, were laid out between the group, the sizzle of spiced chops giving off a sound and aroma that had Beshayir and Ceridwen both staring eagerly at the grill. Between the ribs and the baked potatoes he was also preparing, they had a decent meal waiting for them.

[C S]

Guilt and hunger had an odd habit of coinciding with one another. Syria hummed to Ceridwen as she parted the black feathers that her fingers fluttered over. "Don't you worry about it, Ceridwen. Dragon noses are sensitive things, after all. It's not something you could have helped. You've only been in so many cities before, anyway," she consoled the dragoness before adjusting her seating on the staff. It lifted her up a little to get at the feathers on Ceridwen's back that were just out of her reach. "We'll smooth it over once we sort out that issue with the trade routes, and the merchant will get his spices back; right, Seppy?"

[The Kingpin]

"Right. In the morning I'll inquire about efforts made to hunt down the raiders, and then take it from there. Before you know it, the merchants will be happy, I'll have some wealth to spend on the remaining spices and other things in the future, and Thimeyra will no longer have to look for ways to fight off raiders."

Almost as he spoke, he lifted the first batch of chops off the grill, distributing them across three of the plates, the next batch going on immediately. Ceridwen chirped as she tilted her neck into an angle that seemed almost impossible, looping on itself to stretch out the part Ceridwen was tending to, the entire sight giving Beshayir a giggle.

"I hope so...Septimus, you have my sincerest apologies for putting you in this mess. You must understand I did not intend-"

"Stop worrying about it, Ceridwen. I was starting to run low on gold anyway. That it happens now is more a blessing than a curse. It just so happens we have a chance to do some good and get some gold in the process." The Scholar's voice was firm this time, cutting off the dragoness's line of thought. "And besides, at the very least, you've given Beshayir the laugh of a lifetime. I don't think I've ever seen her drop to the floor for weakness from laughter," he added with a chuckle, Beshayir ducking behind her sleeves in an effort to hide the blush she imagined everyone could see.

[C S]

"Incapacitate their ships," Syria reminded Septimus, hoping that he actually didn't need reminding of that part. "Let the sand... navies... do as they will, but you're just going to make sure they can't run away. Right?" Her mild sternness came at some contrast while she doled her attention over Ceridwen as she did.

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar sighed at that. "Syria, I'm disappointed by how little faith you have in me," he stated as he looked over to the mage. "These raiders steal goods and wealth from Thimeyra, and presumably Valenhad, Daaven and the Abirus-Sahari. Their courts and prisons will uphold judgement as necessary." Flicking a wrist, the chops flipped onto their opposite sides with a fresh wave of sizzling. "Remember, I am a Justicar, not an Executioner."

[C S]

"You will have to forgive me for the slight," Syria replied, admittedly deflated. "The word 'hunt' generally means..." she trailed off before concluding, "Nevermind."

[The Kingpin]

"Well, some call the act of looking for a job 'job-hunting'. I do not think they really intend to kill their intended employer," responded the Scholar half-jokingly as he tilted his head in the Mage's direction, looking at her through one eye.

[C S]

"Those who say that usually aren't enormous, inn-sized dragons, but I will let the point stand because I love you," Syria responded. She afforded a small smile at the Scholar and then patted Ceridwen on the back of her neck. "Alright, young lady. I think you're good to go until your next fluffy-session... thing."

[The Kingpin]

By the time Syria had stopped, Ceridwen's neck was nearly three times its original width, her eyes hidden behind nictitating membranes as she quite literally twittered. The sound made Beshayir, who was digging into her chops to avoid getting swept up in the suddenly touchy conversation topic, to stop, looking up at the dragoness before losing her composure all over again, laughing her heart out at the sound. That, of course, caused Ceridwen to stop, looking at the girl and tilting her head curiously. "What happened?" she asked, surprisingly directly.

"It's...It's like...the sneeze!" gasped Beshayir in the throes of a laughing fit she could not control, drawing a chuckle even from the Scholar. It was just Ceridwen's luck that the twitter she had made there sounded identical, at least to Beshayir's ears, to the one that had immediately followed the sneeze that happened earlier that day.

The girl would likely not calm down for a while yet.

[C S]

The eve of the night crowd trickled into the tavern frequented by the notable adventurers in Brodudika. As in the way events outlived their moment of time, talks of previous patrons lingered by the bar counter. More recent news was on its way, unbeknownst to a pair of mages, the ambiguous rivals that they were. They sat at their stools, no drinks to be had yet. Orthelia wore her instructor wear with the addition of a black tailcoat that draped over the lip of her seat, while Moira wore one set out of many that continued her motif of smokey, murky colors.

"I really don't know why I'm here, or how you pulled it off," Orthelia said, circling a fingertip on the countertop.

Moira leaned over and said with just a touch of wryness, "Am I really that unlikable?"

Orthelia gave the hydromancer a sidelong look, which hung for a few moments. She then gave a one-shoulder shrug as her response. "I mean, you do wear a hat indoors. All the time. I have to wonder if you really do fancy yourself a storybook witch or something."

"I find the style positively bewitching."

Orthelia pulled in a sharp breath. There was something about an operator that had a knack for wordplay that poked at a raw nerve for her. "So how long have you been bullied before you learned how to let words run off of you like water?"

"Too long," Moira retorted with such a casual tone, Orthelia didn't know what to make of it. She just held that sidelong glance again.

Was Moira really so at ease with past abuse or was she just taking the piss, the pyromancy teacher wasn't going to butt her head against that one. She was here, after all, to unwind. Another day, another overzealous student, another incandescent escalation that she barely wrangled in time to prevent serious injury.

"You really should just get a water," Moira suggested as the bartender made the rounds. "Water can be very relaxing, trust me."

"You will not bewitch my water, woman. Or any drink of mine, for that matter," Orthelia growled. Moira only smiled.

"I could leave, if you want."

Orthelia then reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "No. No, need for that. I'm just..."

"I understand. Seriously. The water? Might help with any lasting effects of the Solstice--"

"I didn't drink for the Solstice. I started the bonfire and kept to the sidelines. Helped some of my students get home in one piece. Responsible adult things."

Moira mouthed a silent "Ah". Immediately after, she stated, "I got really drunk. But water--!"

"You two look like a fun couple of ladies." Kenneth had made a beeline from his arrival through the tavern doors to the counter. He broke stride only to spin around and rest against the edge of the table. Fresh frost on his head and shoulders spoke to a new bout of snowfall, and the rapid rising and falling of his chest conveyed that he had been on his feet for a while. Stopping at all the pubs.

"I bet we looked like one having a conversation," Orthelia deadpanned as she looked up at the stranger. Moira appeared to wave. Kenneth waved back.

"No sir. The snow. I was just getting rid of the snow."

Kenneth looked down at his cleared shoulders, eyes widening with the pleasant surprise. "Ah. So you were. Thanks for that, and sorry. Got a short time schedule and you look like you're still sober enough to listen to me."

"Aren't you one of those... what do they call 'em... Green-Coats?" Moira asked. Kenneth smiled widely.

"Oh good. And you must be Moira Everby. I can tell from the hat." Kenneth clicked his tongue and winked.

"What did I tell you about the damned hat?"

"Everyone says something about the damned hat," Moira replied sweetly. "Mister Green-Coat? Here to talk about the dragon that paid us a visit today?"

"Yes! Um. No. Related, though. Guess which of our esteemed city heads tried to beseech the dragon for wisdom and was turned away like... let's say.... an elf under the old regime?"

Moira gave the Green-Coat a knowing look. "Slander campaign, is it?"

"Would be, if I wanted him to know I was the one calling him out. Instead it is just shameless, cowardly gossip meant to undermine his image and raise some morale for the ones whose suffering he's been ignoring." Kenneth put his hand on his lips and looked around with mock wariness. "Perhaps I've said too much?"

"Said just enough, mister," Orthelia replied. "Pass it on, then?"

"Oh, don't be so quick to send him back out into the snow," Moira chastised her companion. "I don't suppose you know anything of worth about the dragon?"

"I gather he made something useful out of all the snow our Lady of Light's been dumping outside of the walls. A whole chokepoint, made out of snow. He could have made a whole snow fortress for the kiddies to play in but... dragon, I suppose. No time for that." Kenneth snapped his fingers, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "Apparently, he wanted to speak to the benefactor and his... secretary, I believe."

"Know anything about that?"

"The dragon specifically didn't want anything known about that meeting. Magical barrier, no sound, barely anything to see."

Moira nodded. "Fascinating. You know, I saw the Lady of Light and the benefactor earlier. Heard something about her jumping out of a window for some reason. I think it was after that when I saw her talking to Desrium outside of the weaver's. Brodudika's banner is finished! It looks like this... fin. It's round at the end but has these fringes, and an emblem. Any of you familiar with the Changeling?"

Orthelia hung her head, hands gripping her forehead. "I thought we came here for drinks."

"We have time, we have time!" Moira assured her.

"One of the war heroes of the Battle for Aster." Kenneth nodded. One of the many fallen honored over the years. Honored in Brodudika as well, he took it.

"'Let the face of the Changeling put a face to us all' is what I heard Desrium say. I don't know how accurate it is, but the insignia is this side-view of a maw that belongs to a serpent unlike any I'm familiar with."

"Probably the Changeling," Orthelia pointed out shortly.

"Probably. You say that Desrium has a secretary?"

Kenneth shrugged. "I found it weird too. Heard he got the job trying to break into city hall."

"He was in here a while ago!" someone in the crowd called over the rest of the chatter.



Desrium looked up at the banner flapping away in the flurry-streaked night, lit on the left and right by bright lamps burning away their oil. Purple, fringed, with the golden face of Tzeentch emblazoned in the center. The banner sat over the gates of Brodudika, and the way it was presented, it would be the first thing visitors saw from afar.

"The night is darkest before the dawn. One of your gifts to this land," Desrium said from his place on the road, standing in between unassuming houses. "May your likeness steer us all through the darkest of nights, so that we may see a new dawn."

With that, the armored being turned away from the gate to head back into the heart of the city. Another night of patrolling.





Brodudika was not caked in snow by the next morning; not as much as Solstice day. The snow on the ground, a couple of feet deep at most, did not leave the city lethargic. Bundled up to deal with the biting wind that howled through the streets, people with busy days left their homes and leaned into the assault, scarves whipping about behind them, while carts rolled by with work animals kicking up snow that the large wheels charged on through indifferently. Things had to be done, and no manifestation of wind with an aptitude for the polar would stop these stubborn individuals, or the needs that came with keeping the city running on a basic level.

A couple of feet of snow was more to a dwarf. Solaurn extrapolated that much snow must have been that much more of an inconvenience to a vaun. "She doesn't wear any shoes..." Then again, her little friend carried a feather that belonged to a very large bird evidently. A mysterious bird that was in the thick of fog, snow, cold air. "Gwen could probably clear any path too difficult to traverse with that feather," Solaurn mused out loud, rubbing her chin that was tightly bound by her scarf. She had a hat pulled snug over her head and ears. The collar of her thick coat went up to her cheeks. Her boots went up to her thighs. Her trusty slab was strapped to her back. She was ready to hit any snowbank, no matter how intimidating.

Solaurn wondered how Gwenviere fared so well -- excluding the feather -- as to not only wake before her, but to beat her across the city. The vaun was making her runs at the Gateside Clinic as she did before class. "She must have sound sleeping habits. Maybe the snow was more manageable a little while ago?" The dwarf huffed as she made her way through a small park.

"No it wasn't," Solaurn heard Dahnae reply. It made her stop and look for the jungle girl.

"Dahnae? What are you doing up there?" Solaurn did not know this particular detail, but the branch that Dahnae sat huddled on was the same as the one she lied on when she came across Firel. Or was it vice-versa? Her legs were pulled into herself and she hugged her shins.

"What are you doing down there?" Dahnae retorted without missing a beat.

Solaurn found it oddly philosophical in a way. "Uh... in the most plainly stated terms, I'm off to meet Gwen before class. What are you doing up there, though?"

Dahnae shuffled about uncomfortably. Solaurn cleared her throat. "If it is something you wish to do by a peculiarly feline compulsion, know that I won't judge you. Sometimes, I dream about cheese. Wine too, of course, because where I come from--"

"I had a bad dream."

Solaurn paused. "Oh?"

"About Weirdo Spook."

Solaurn cocked her head. "Weirdo--"

"The one who stabbed me."

Solaurn hummed her understanding. "Is it anything you want to talk a--"

"No."

Solaurn crossed her arms, tapping a finger against her cheek thoughtfully. "I don't feel right just leaving you here."

"Everyone else does," Dahnae countered swiftly.

Solaurn, shaking her head, she replied, "Well I'm not everyone else. Do you want to accompany me for a walk? I'm not going to ask you about your dream. I'd rather not have you be blown off of that branch by a rogue wind."

"I'd land on my feet," said Dahnae. After a few more moments in which the dwarf patiently waited, she leaned backwards while simultaneously latching onto the branch with her hands. Dahnae hung from the branch upside down before she let herself fall completely, in which she flipped in midair and landed in a feral manner, arms and legs spread apart. Solaurn could imagine Dahnae's fingers splayed apart like claws underneath her benign mittens.

As she pulled herself to her feet, Dahnae mumbled, "Let's go."

"Right. Let's." The jungle girl and the mountain dwarf then walked side by side, one having an easier time moving through the snow than the other.




Evisa poked her head around a corner and looked up and down the street. "They tell me he's not at city hall..." She jogged over to a streetlamp, jumped, and clung to the very top before fitting her boots through the ornate loops of metal so that she could stand over the fire roiling about behind the glass. "And he hasn't been where I've looked so far..." Carefully, Evisa pulled her feet from the metalwork and then gently nudged herself off of the streetlamp. The gentle nudge was still enough to fling her several feet into the air, and she hit the street with the same oddly heavy thud that betrayed her relatively light build.

"Some days, you just can't find a red-eyed walking suit of armor, can you?" She heard the approach of a wagon, squeaky hinges and crunching snow, and called out her inquiry. "Hey! You've seen Desrium anywhere?" The wagon driver issued his reply, and Evisa nodded. "Thanks a bunch, buddy!" The benefit of having multiple pairs of eyes in multiple places and constantly moving: directions on the fly. On the road, rather. Evisa tore down the road and weaved through the alleys. If she felt that the buildings in front of her were short enough and it would be easier circumventing them entirely, Evisa leaped from the end of a passageway and landed in the next street over.

Doing this, it was not long at all before Desrium saw the dark blur arc over chimneys and shingles before thudding into the snow in the middle of the roadway. The impact threw much against the walking paths and the windows of nearby houses. Evisa stood up and shook off the snow that lined the overlapping scales of her armor. "And a very good morrow to you, benefactor," she greeted the armored being while walking out of her small crater.

"A good morning to you as well," he replied.

"I hope I am not interrupting a matter of some importance or anything," Evisa broached, and Desrium insisted that she wasn't. "Great. So, one tiny thing I forgot to mention the other day when we were talking about flags and stuff; it's a bit of a major thing to spring on you suddenly, but seeing as you take surprise visits from a dragon thousands of years old in stride, it shouldn't be too much of a shock to you."

"I will consider anything that anyone has to say if they took the time out of their day to find me," Desrium assured her. "I do not mean to make myself scarce."

"Not implying you were. You're just difficult to pin down at any given moment. Unrelated to why I'm really here, but maybe you should consider a secretary. Or a dozen."

Desrium's eyes were fixed on the viking in a quite literal blank stare.

"Anyway. The baby-bunch are a joy to work with, but when winter funsies are over, they're going to need something to do that doesn't involve whacking each other over the head for the jollies of it."

"They are not quite ready for academic pursuits, are they?" Desrium asked.

Evisa chuckled ruefully. "Not for a while, yet. But, they can still add to the city in a pretty major way. How would you feel about giving Brodudika the sea?"

"I would not lay claim to any sea or ocean," Desrium responded.

"Not in that way," Evisa clarified. "I mean, having a harbor, with ships, and a channel wide enough for cargo galleons to roll in. Not to mention, a quicker way to get here from up north and down south that doesn't involve trekking across Aster."

"That would be very useful," Desrium stated. Evisa couldn't know of the thoughts that circulated in his mind. Images of old Zuppo harbors, the place of his "youth".

"Useful enough that you would let me and a bunch of active nature-babs start carving out the ground come spring time?"

"Yes. I trust you to oversee this project. If, as I suspect, it proves successful, I will have the city planners begin work on designing the docks and Brodudika's own fleet of ships."

Evisa stood tall and proud. "Makes me impatient for the spring."

"As it should. Is there anything else you would like to discuss?"

"No sir," Evisa replied, then excused herself.


Sir. Man. Friend. Desrium did not believe he would ever get used to being called such things, as much as he was deeply grateful for it.




Far away, Morrelie woke. Out in the open, her many wards were broken by the opening of her eyes. One by one, puffs of various colors rose lazily into the air, disturbing the surrounding grasses in the meadow devoid of flowers. Her protective dome dissolved from the top down, the barrier warbling and distorting light all the way until it ceased to be completely. The old mage pulled herself from the ground, heeded the position of the sun, and then looked off into the horizon.

Another regular day.

Time to get moving.

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar walked the piers of Dhul'Valen as he inspected the various ships there. Many of them bore marks of damage from raiders. Some were undergoing repairs. The way they described it, pirates were getting better and better at hunting them down. There had been a time about a year ago when their primitive slingshots did little but dent plates or splinter the more delicate corners of the ship's hull. Now, they had taken on the use of fire arrows to strand vessels, and complex rams made of the wreckage of previous conquests were nailed to the bow of their sledders, in order to compromise their integrity, the sands typically tearing the entire side of the ship behind the hole clear off.

It was a harrowing tale.

From there, he had moved towards the ports where the Valenhadian and Daavenian ships were. Or at least, should have been. Valenhad's Interceptors were out on escort missions, spread out across the route leading to Syranika port. The only one left was a vessel in a bad state of disrepair, having been ambushed by a particularly formidable group, one of a number of recent raider 'fleets'. The Dunefox's sails were half burned, and a hole not unlike those described had been punched in her hull, the damage taking up a good quarter of the vessel's starboard side, wood splintered horrendously and steel plating sheared violently by the desert sands. It was ironically her speed that had inflicted so much damage on her, and for the time being, her crew were on 'shore leave' in Thimeyra while Valenhad's engineers worked on repairing the vessel.

That left the Daavenians.

[C S]

The dreams that the Dreamchaser raced after were more in line with nightmares, and she went after them with a vindictive vengeance.

At port, her green sails hung from their ropes and masts, rolling with the desert breeze, ready to be unfurled at a moment's notice. She was tethered by the dock's moors and her own anchors buried in the sand, bow facing out into the frontier past Thimeyra. Her wood and brass armor was tested extensively. Notches were left in her sides and cabin, flaming arrows deflected off of the hull before they could set the ship alight. They were not turned away without leaving their mark, but those were repairs that would have consigned the Dreamchaser to drydock. She had to bear her scars.

A few desert rangers walked the deck, doing the last checks before they set off to hunt down raider ships. Her crew hadn't been swapped out in quite some time due to their outstanding performance in not only outmaneuvering dahasani raiders, but emerging victorious in their select engagements with the pirates. It was for this reason, the Dreamchaser left the designation of a cargo runner and took up the mantle of a destroyer class ship, maximizing speed and hard-hitting tactics over prolonged battles. These were the tactics that would counter an adapting and fearsome enemy.