There are many different tiers when it comes to Traits. Some The difference in tier changes whenever you hit a specific level. Non-combat, non-craftsmen, or non-labor Traits, such as [Enhanced Memory], have their next tier available at level 20. Labor-based or combat based Traits, such as any physical Trait beginning with the word [Enhanced] have their next tier available at level 35. For craftsmen or other skilled trades —such as [Mechanical Affinity]— they unlock their next tier at level 30. Finally, miscellaneous Traits, like added body parts, drastically different body parts, or even changes to your mind, such as [Chaotic Adept], have their next tiers unlocked at level 15.
All that means is that you will be forced to choose other Traits before you can upgrade and specialize your favorite one. Let’s look at an example. If you want to get something like [Iron Skin], you will have to invest 14 total Trait slots in total to get to [Armored Skin III]. That leaves you at level 14, 21 levels off from when [Iron Skin] unlocks. Therefore, you need to fill out the rest of your Traits with something else in the meantime. Quality of life choices, like [Sickness Resistance], [Responsive Metabolism], or even [Blood Clotting] are important, but you can only go so far into a specific Trait Tree before you get cut off.
If you are a warrior, choosing something to specialize in is just as important as making yourself balanced. While there will be plenty of fighters, warriors, or mages who cannot stand up to the simple power of a bullet, the threat of someone being able to is what gives hemomancers, malemancers, or even pyromancers jobs.
-Excerpt from ‘How to balance Trait Tradeoffs’, by Aviblick Gearnus
*=====*
Fara left the cabin-dining hall and checked her belongings. Her pistol was at her side, her rifle was slung over her shoulder, her mother’s gift was attached to her waist, and a small bag of money hung next to it. She took a final glance at the cabin and shrugged, stepping off the gangplank and into the crowds of the port. ‘The Creators can wait, huh?’ she thought to herself, ‘If they get angry, let it be known that I wanted to look for them as soon as possible…’
She made her way through the crowded path, falling into rhythm with the other pedestrians. The sheer variety of people there stole her attention; people with multiple limbs, eyes, or even heads were not uncommon. The number of people with scales, despite not being lizardmen, also caught her attention. A particularly interesting fellow had blazing red scales with a mane of white fur growing around his neck.
After a few minutes of walking, Fara realized something, ‘Um… I don’t know where the quartermaster is…’ she thought. She looked around for a moment, reaching down instinctively to her belt only to find her bag of money missing. Panicking, she whipped her head around and locked eyes with a young man, in his late teens, carrying her pouch in his hand. The young man bolted, shoving people aside as he ran.
Fara sprinted after him, following through the trail of chaos he left in her wake. She followed the young man doggedly, deftly dodging the shelves of merchants thrown in her path, and followed him into the city proper. The young man ducked into an alley, Fara following, but reached a dead end. Huffing and puffing, Fara stood tall in front of the young man, “Nowhere to run. Give me my money and we can just forget this ever happened, alright?” she offered.
The young man, instead of showing fear, showed remorse. As Fara was trying to figure out why he was showing such a face, another voice came from behind her, “Well, well, well. Looks like little Mokan did something right, for a change.” Turning, Fara saw three orcs walk into the alley, armed with clubs and clothed normally, with the odd inclusion of leather jackets. Like always, she was able to intuitively translate their gibberish into normal speech, a talent she had developed on her trips to other orc-owned villages with her mother and one she was surprised the system had not considered worthy of being called a Trait all its own.
The orcs were well muscled, green skin bulging with it. The orcs laughed as she turned, “Yeah yeah! The little runt finally did something right! How's about you give us that money, kid? You know what happens when you don’t, right?” he asked with a predatory grin.
The young man, Mokan, hesitated for a moment but began walking over to the orcs. Unfortunately for him, Fara was not cowed by the orcs’ bravado and lightly smacked the butt of her gun into the young man’s chest. He was sent backwards, tumbling onto the ground, coughing, while dropping the bag of coins. Fara plucked the bag from the ground and stared into the eyes of the leading orc, “What was your plan here? I have a gun, you three have clubs. Do you really think you can win?” she asked, more curious than angry or boastful.
The orc scoffed, “Heh, you aren’t from around here are you, little girl? It’s illegal to kill someone in the walls of the city, so your gun’s pretty useless,” he retorted with a grin.
“Is it illegal to hurt someone?” she asked, glaring at him.
“Of course not. This is Green Oasis, the shining beacon of might makes right! That means that I can beat you half to death and I would be in the right, so you better hand over that money or I’ll beat you so hard you’ll-” A gunshot rang out and smoke trailed from the barrel of her rifle as a bullet poked into his skin, failing to even scratch him, “You little bitch…” he said, drawing closer.
Fara, not surprised by the toughness of the man’s skin, pulled out her revolver and spun a quick rune, pushing it into her bullet and firing. The orc laughed as the bullet only poked his skin, but stopped when the cold ice began growing on his leg. Looking down, he noticed a coating of thick ice had covered his leg. He growled, glaring at Fara, but could do nothing as she fired two more ice bullets into the legs of the other thugs. “Well then. That went about as well as it could have,” she said. The orcs began shouting, stressing their muscles and making the ice crack. Fara shot another few bullets into the ice, turning the ground around them into a solid block of ice.
Mokan eyed her warily as she sighed, “Come on. You’re going to give me directions. I think it’s more than fair to ask of you, don’t you think?” she asked. Mokan shook himself from his stupor and nodded, reluctantly following her. Fara led the young man back to the docks, where the crowd had become even thicker. She then led him to the end of a dock, where a wooden galleon sat, and looked at him closer. He wore a ratty cloak, holes punched into it, and a frayed shirt, scarf, and pair of pants. His shoes were little more than scraps of the cheap moccasins he once wore.
His face was young, but gaunt, pale and sickly. His eyes were a deep, piercing pink, with black replacing the white of his eyes and his hair shaded in an identical black. Fara examined him, up and down, “Out of curiosity, why are you working with those thugs? They push you around or something?” The man did not respond, “Are you just going to keep quiet?” she asked, glaring at him.
Mokan looked at her fearfully, then opened his mouth ever so slightly, “Speaking curse…” he said, his voice nearly silent, as a wave of mana washed over them.The mana was unlike anything Fara had felt before. It dug into the ground, growing thin, almost invisible roots through the stone. Just as soon as it began, however, it stopped, the roots crumbling to dust and leaving no trace.
Fara eyed the young man more carefully, keeping her distance, “Speaking curse… In that case, just bring me to the quartermaster of this place and I’ll leave you alone,” she offered. Mokan nodded and walked off to the side and into the crowd with Fara following him.
After navigating the crowds and descending the wall-like docks, he brought her to a large steel door in the wall. Gesturing to it, he stood aside and waited for her. There was a sign above the door, reading ‘Logistics.’
She pushed the door open, entering the loud room. Workbenches and opened crates littered the massive hall, technicians working on some task or other. At the front, an older orcish woman stood over a workbench, four arms working tirelessly on a small clockwork device. She turned from her work and stared at Fara, scrutinizing her. With a sigh, she slid the small device to the side and folded her hands on the table, “Alright then. What do you two want? I don’t have all day, so make it quick.”
Fara took a moment to realize that the woman said ‘two.’ Turning, she noticed Mokan standing behind her, smiling sheepishly. She shrugged and turned back to the quartermaster, “I need to rent a mod dock. Do you have any open?”
The woman grunted, “Of course we do. If you need a mod dock, then you’re doing something big to your skiff. Something big costs money, and that kind of money would warrant the expense of building your own mod dock and sourcing cheaper materials,” she explained, “Ah, forget about that. I have a habit of talking more than I should —even if I just want to get back to work.”
Fara nodded in understanding, placing five chips on the table, “Five hundred for a week in the dock.”
The woman raised an eyebrow, “A thousand.”
“Five fifty.”
“Nine.”
Six”
“Eight fifty.”
“Six. Take it or leave it.”
The woman stood there for a moment, “Six fifty. Final offer.”
Fara grinned, “Deal,” she said, shaking the woman’s hand, “Speaking of buying, how much for some clocksteel and rune paint?” she asked.
“How much clocksteel are you talking here?” she asked, “I can give you enough to make a chair out of.”
Fara glared, “Give?”
The quartermaster grinned, “You overpaid for the mod dock. By about four hundred,” she laughed as Fara looked down in embarrassment, “Don’t worry about it, kid. Getting six fifty for a week in a mod dock anywhere else would be a good deal. Green Oasis is just different; plenty of docks, not as many customers in need of it; most build their own or get bigger docks from private merchants. I’m blabbing on again. So, how much clocksteel?” she asked.
Fara thought for a moment, “Hmm… a half-ton to start.”
The orc woman nodded, pulling out a book from a drawer in her desk and flipping through it, “That’ll be five thousand chips after tax. As for the paint, five hundred for ten gallons.”
Fara raised an eyebrow, “Quite expensive for so little clocksteel.”
“There’s something going on out east. Ductur Eaner’s fleet was the last from there. We haven’t had any for the last few days. It’s odd…” she mused.
Fara tilted her head, “How so?”
“Well,” the woman began, “The trip from here to there takes a week, so either something big happened a week ago, or something is picking off the caravans taking that route. It wouldn’t be that surprising, though; it is one of the most dangerous routes in the Vast. There’s some gossip coming through the thornvine, something about a massive mobilization in the coming weeks. Dunno. Anyway, I’ll set up a mod dock for you in the city. You should be able to start your modification by tomorrow.”
Fara smiled, “Thanks…”
“Olga,” she laughed, “Olga Smith”
Fara smiled, “Fara Notchings.”
“Been a pleasure, Fara.” Olga nodded to her and began to write in the book, prompting Fara to take her leave. Walking out of the workshop, she looked up to the sky, finding it to be late afternoon, almost early evening.
She turned and looked at Mokan, who had followed her, “You’re free, you know. You can go,” she said. Mokan shook his head and pulled open his cloak, revealing his white shirt. He pulled his sleeve up and showed her a nasty bruise. He pointed to the bruise, then to her, then shook his head. Fara raised an eyebrow, “Alright, I have no idea what you’re trying to say. You have to- Wait a minute… Mori can help with this. I think. Come with me, we’re meeting a friend of mine.” Mokan nodded, following her as she made her way back into the crowds of the docks. The foot traffic had only thickened, but they managed to move forward without being pulled by the crowd. After a few minutes, they reached the Kharon, only to find Mori arguing with a man in a military uniform.
“Mori…” Fara muttered, “What did you do…?”
