#invoke duplicity

[juney-b-bug]

One of me is cute, but two, though?

[revvethasmythh]

*laughs nervously* totally not worried about dueling orin. totally not

[noahczerxy]

i can’t stop myself from seething whenever i see someone talk about how bad shadowheart is in combat like motherfucker if you can’t make a cleric good in combat in baldur’s gate then maybe you just need to get better at the game

[melorasmushrooms]

Rolling a Nat20 is great, but rolling a Nat20 on something out of combat that absolutely does NOT need a 20 for whatever reason is so bonkers.

Like the DM had the enemy magically transport us all to our pre-campaign homes and we had to roll charisma to get out of it. I rolled a 20 with a +7 to charisma and was the first person to reappear in the room we had been taken from.

It didn’t NEED to be a 20, but it’s wildly fun that it was.

[gracekb-art]

Invoke Duplicity ✨ (screenshot redraw of The Mighty Nein)

[janmenart]

Cabbagetober Day 27 - Fake

“I invoke duplicity!”

[1e1e1e]

CLAUDIA DU LAC, THE BURDEN.

"[...]this character template is heavily inspired by Season 1 Claudia, played by Bailey Bass. It is completely red and minimalistic. I tried to invoke edginess or "gothic" flair with the bold black, big font, and so on. Every page is duplicable, except the cover page, but it is all customizable."

editing and modifications are welcome once you purchase the template.

all elements are created by me. If you take inspiration from this document, please credit me as the source of your inspiration.

don't claim this as your own.

please like, or reblog this post if you use my template! 

how to use

click the link

download the template via my ko-fi

follow the instructions left on the note attached

once you receive access to the template, go to file  →  make a copy

[oathofwhimsy]

dusting off the ol' sideblog for campaign 4 :D

invoked-duplicity -> chaos-burst -> oathofwhimsy

[wittynamehere1443]

Sander Sides DnD Classes/Subclasses

...ok so I saw a post proposing the idea that Virgil would DM one-shots for Logan because he likes puzzles so much and that made me wonder what classes the sides would be. Then I had too much free time and thought waaaay too much about

Roman - I feel like if he was PLAYING DnD he'd play a Fighter, subclass Cavalier. Just all fighting on horseback and being charming royalty. Now as a character, Bard and I'm going College of Valor. He loves stories of heroic deeds and grand adventures.

Patton - Once again if he were playing the game, he'd wanna be a Druid. He'd wanna be able to turn into animals and be their friends. Maybe Circle of the Shepherd? Sooo Patton's a multiclass. I don't make the rules, except I do I guess. He was a Paladin Oath of Devotion, all about justice and truth and protecting c!Thomas's "soul" buuuut as things have transpired lately he's decided to kinda put down the shield and take some levels in Cleric, Peace Domain.

Logan - Argument could totally be made for Artificer, it works. I think you could also make an argument for Clockwork Soul Sorcerer with his obsession with order...he's a wizard though. Like sheer stubbornness, he would be a wizard. Maybe the worst class at low levels? But he is that one dude who would study hard enough to be good, he'd put in the work and constantly point out how he got here through studying and not making a pact or just waking up magical. He'd also be Order of Scribes, just the nerdiest subclass for the nerdiest class.

Remus - He's a warlock...I got nothing else to say...dude just is. I was tempted to put pact with The Fathomless just for aesthetic reasons cause kraken, but gotta go with The Great Old One. Remus is a warlock who sold his soul to Cthulu

Janus - Considered a rogue because he's a sneaky boy, but it's always important to remember that he's also self care and self preservation. He's a healer in his own way, he's a Cleric of the Trickery Domain. I mean one of the class features is literally called "Invoke Duplicity".

Virgil - the forever DM. Constantly terrified of the pressure, but also always ready with binders of notes. Outside of games as a character, Sorcerer struggling to keep himself under control. Specifically an Aberrant Mind Sorcerer. No way I'm not giving Anxiety a subclass that comes with the spell "dissonant whispers"

Aaaaand that's all I got. I thought about this way too much when I couldn't sleep the other night and figured I might as well share it somewhere

[essegigi]

Invoke duplicity! ...well, sorta 🪞

I got almost no photos of Jester at ALA, but it's all good bc I still have a bunch by aleksvuphotography from sdcc! 😘 He worked hard to get a good mirror shot, I forgot I hadn't posted any of them!

[fullscoreshenanigans]

We know Norman would be super flirty with Ray, but what would flirting be like for the rest of the trio?

Love the collective agreement about Norman unashamedly loving to push Ray's buttons on this lkdfjlk

(The Language of Cooking by banana_slug_army)

Really that whole aspect of the Norray dynamic of showing their prideful and competitive sides to only each other for so long, and in Norman's case being openly cold and disdainful. As they get older, the number of people who see this side of them grows, but there is an additional layer to it between them and Emma.

I also enjoy how a lot of people agree that Norman initially cannot handle what he dishes out at all when it comes to Emma. Instantly crumbles when her attention is turned on him, a flustered mess. The same can be said of Ray, though he's more likely to bluster to try and cover it up. Emma would be lying if she said she didn't delight in all this because she finds it adorably endearing.

But another thing all them appreciate and value in each other is their competency, so once the boys become more comfortable and confident in expressing themselves in these matters, there's a mutual rising to meet the challenge, with each of them finding new ways to surprise and have fun with their partners. (E.g., Ray initially not being receptive to their game of pretending to be strangers when they split up and regroup at events/doing errands and using cheesy pick-up lines on each other, but eventually coming around to it).

Little assortment of things that tie into this post and this post of my general headcanons for them:

The first time Emma calls Norman "Boss" he nearly combusts.

NE have a lot of fun escalating the nicknames/terms of endearment for Ray in a war of attrition to have him concede to the ones they actually want to use for him like Sunray (Norman will never tire of saying he loves being greeted by his Sunshine and Sunray first thing in the morning)

Emma is the one who starts saying she needs to "Ray-charge" when cuddling/hugging Ray. In typical fashion, Norman follows suit, and Ray pretends he doesn't enjoy it for some time before surprising them one day when he catches them in a hug and playfully tells them to give him a minute, he's Ray-charging. They knew they'd eventually win him over, as they always do.

Emma loves invoking girlfriend privileges to wear the boys' sweaters and hoodies in winter around their home or when running errands because it's like they're hugging her and keeping her warm as she's out and about. The boys also do this with each other but with less preamble even if it's for same the reasons.

When they share a booth in a restaurant and the two on the edges lock eyes to hatch the time-honored scheme of tag-teaming the one in the middle with surprise kisses. Also comes into play when they're out on a walk in the park and end up sitting on a bench together.

Emma's at the perfect height for surprise kisses at the back of the boys' necks, and she takes full advantage of it.

They love playing with each other's hair, in silly ways like poking at Emma's antenna or stray strand at the back of her neck, poking at Norman's cowlick that's curled so perfectly it must adhere to the golden ratio, or batting at Ray's puffball ponytail like cats (if he's grown his hair out), but also the boys gently running their fingers down Emma's braid or Emma or Norman brushing Ray's fringe from his face when they're talking.

I’m always going to advocate for Norman and Ray going antiquing or to junk shops for items they can fix up and potentially gift to each other, especially if they end up finding a duplicate of the music box Isabella gave Emma on her sixth birthday.

If we're sticking with canon, Norman and Ray sending each other flirty messages during particularly long, dull meetings or playing footsies under the table.

Sometimes Ray likes adding random sticky notes to Emma's and Norman's lunches.

He's also the one to kick off the trend of sneaking candids of his partners, printing them out on one of those little cell phone mini polaroid printers, writing a little love note on them, and adding those to their lunches or hiding them in places they'll find them later, like a coat pocket or purse. (Inspired by this bit of Candid by banana_slug_army)

[soscarlett1twas]

Dulce et Decorum est

↳ Xanthus serves in World War I. ↳ 2.4k words / also available on ao3! ↳ This fic is far from accurate to the actual Ypres Salient. I wanted to explore Xanthus' mentality as he canonically served in WWI. So, while I did some research, most of this fic is inspired by wartime poetry, particularly 'In Flanders Field' by John McCrae and both 'Dulce et Decorum est' and ‘Exposure’ by Wilfred Owen. Also! I discovered this painting while writing that's basically the exact setting of the fic. ↳ Content warning for blood, disease, guns, and (specifically trench) warfare.

It was hard to believe that, even in the midst of war, silence could envelope the world. Thick layers of it painted the Ypres Salient, as disturbing as the starless midnight it shared the hour with. Not the skuttle of a rat, not grass in a breeze. Death, it seemed, had a way of silencing. 

For all intents and purposes, it was all quiet on the Western front. 

Xanthus didn’t trust it one bit. 

How could he trust the very thing he cheated? His eyes drifted across no-man’s land, the scorched earth left by the Germans, with a tremble he hadn’t felt since his first time serving in the British army. Fog obscured the skyline. Corpses of trees barely stood, crooked and black. For as far as he could see, there was no green. Just the torn-up dirt and puddles of not-quite water. 

Xanthus’ grip tightened on the rifle. His nails were bitten to the quick. 

His gaze never left the scene. Even from the shallow view allotted to him by the firestep, shadows and whispers danced, him a beat behind their rhythm. They would disappear as soon as he glanced at them, then reappear in the peripheral gloom. Still, he chased them, eyes darting from ghost to ghost.  

War, it seemed, had a way of invoking paranoia. 

Xanthus’ trench was along the front lines, and he, given the honor of being on nightwatch during the tense time. Just two years ago, Ypres had been fought for again, and the Entente had lost. Badly. The Germans overran the old British and French trenches which had cleaved into their conquered territory, the Allies calling upon their own for assistance. Canadians, Indians, Algerians, and Moroccans now fought for a war forced upon them, the same way Belgians had to step up and defend Ypres as the Germans marched ever-forward. 

New allies were not the only introductions during the second fight for Ypres. Chlorine gas had swept through the battle and choked out countless men. 

Apparently, that wasn’t enough. 

Xanthus’ gaze flitted back down to the ground. Glass pools replicated the hell above. Swirled in them, the only color was a murky red from the slaughter of soldiers. It was an easy trick. But below, sunk to the bottom of the mixture, was a colorless poison. They had all thought it to be the same as the chlorine; when the smell was faint of mustard and men didn’t immediately drop, they even spat about how the Germans were growing weak.

It took a few hours for the effects to set in. 

Xanthus darted his sights back up to the wasteland. He had known better than to trust hope – the Americans had joined the war not long ago, and the news managed to enhearten some, but not Xanthus. This was penance for that longing for a better future. 

Even still. Xanthus Claiborne: A murderer, an unnatural; and Lawrence Claiborne, the soldier. All his duplicities should have shielded him from this horror. All it managed was to kill his dreams – war was still carnage, and for as much as he could pretend he was distanced from it, bloodbaths would still reflect his face when he bore down on murdered men.  

When the men in his regiment blistered and screamed and died, Xanthus knew that this was a new evil. 

The rifle shook in his hands. Pointed out into the graveyard of a clearing, Xanthus’ memories reminded him of just how futile the gun was. Not when the gas wiped them out. Not when it still lingered.

Xanthus’ teeth bit into his bottom lip, for a moment forgetting his fangs. 

Xanthus had survived the chlorine’s initial deployment, back in 1915. His healing worked wonders in keeping him alive, if incapacitated. The same happened with the new mustard gas. He hid the blistering well enough so as to not alert suspicions, and they dissipated within the day. Most everyone else had dropped like bullet shells. 

But this gas remained. Not just in the soldier’s bodies – it polluted all water and sunk into the dirt. The other faded, but this time, standing in the dug-out trench, the smell and chemicals never wafted away.

Even with each hollow breath he took, Xanthus could smell, could taste, the abomination. And even with his miraculous healing, it was a cancer. His eyes burned. Blisters he thought were gone popped up across his body in changing places. A cough clawed up his throat (he feared his lungs were regularly filling with fluid, then draining, then refilling – a vicious cycle which murdered the rest). 

He was nothing more than an animated corpse, and for the first time in these long centuries, he felt like it.

Xanthus’ rifle loosened in his hands. He scrunched his eyes and drew one hand up to massage his temples. Memories of medical bays fueled his mind. “The lucky one,” they all said. They weren’t all from the Great War. 

For a few more minutes, he stood, gun propped on the parapet. But marionettes could only dance around him for so long. A trickle of sweat ran from his forehead to jowl. 

He knew they were not coming. The silence echoed back. He did not trust it. 

When he jerked to the side, dangerously slinging the gun as well, he collapsed back into the trench.

A sight of mud turned to gray. The small enclave he used for nightwatch was nothing more than piled stones, but a respite nonetheless. 

Xanthus sat for a few moments, heaving. When his gun dropped and rattled to the floor, he grunted, and slammed his knuckles into the bricks. Hot pain instantly rushed from his shaking hands and he watched, in more agony than the impact, as the wounds healed over. Surfaced blood streaked, but dried in mere seconds. 

His breath was ragged. He shoved his fist into the stone, over and over again. 

This war was an assault on all senses, Xanthus thought as he brutalized himself. Sure, the smell and the taste and the sight, but by God, it was the hearing that came first. How ironic that now it was peaceful, now there was quietude, after the dread took its strongest. 

Where was it when Xanthus stood, more attuned than anyone, to the rattle of gunfire and men screaming? Rushing across no-man’s land left him able to hear out to the German trenches and everything between. He simply had to suffer it. And where was it when he laid at night, a being without need of sleep, but desperate for it so he could drown out the tanks and the roaring aviation? When he heard the few friends he made hearts stop pumping? 

Where was it when Xanthus turned his rifle on an ear, and shot the organ clean off? 

And where was it when it, after he blamed it on battle, regrew in four months?

Xanthus’ thrusts into the wall slowed, his hand going limp and running down the bricks, until it rested beside him. 

It didn’t matter. He could not get hurt, not in a meaningful way. He could already feel the wounds closing, the battery insignificant. 

He threw his head against the stone wall carelessly. 

The flesh stitched itself back together in the passing minutes. Meanwhile, Xanthus fueled his disquiet with memory. 

Lawrence had known war. But it was never this, never all-encompassing; there was, after all, a world beyond England and Scotland during the Second Bishop’s War. Xanthus, it seemed, did not – or at least, not the stratagem of modern warfare. He had followed the stepping stones, ignorant until they dropped, himself caught in the freefall. 

A cough ground up his throat, and bile rose with it. 

He had witnessed humanity’s descent – ascent? – into this madness. Hell, he was older than the country his fellow soldiers lauded as their savior. And yet he was here, with them. Suffering, dying in the great quiet, knived by the mental games their very species played. 

Because the gas was a game. Its purpose was the tricks, deployed with shells that broke into a giggling hiss. 

War could not kill Xanthus. But it could do everything else.

When his fist curled, the nails bent into his palm. Briefly, he panicked without the familiar weight of a gun. He snatched it off the ground and brought it to his chest.

He had never expected to truly be hurt, to be affected. But in their efforts to decimate each other, they managed to even wound immortality. A vampire reduced to human fears, because of humans, without the possible human release. 

In some small way, Xanthus felt human. Artificially – their misery, their desires, fitting for a finite life. He knew it was a false mirage. But still, he reached for his gun in comfort, as if his teeth weren’t markers of a much more vicious retribution. 

He hated it. 

He fucking hated it. 

Finally, he and his kind were welcomed back into ‘personhood’ – not because they were deemed more acceptable or humanity grew collective empathy, but because even humans stooped to their level: fodder. 

The vast silence was cut with bitter laughter. 

Subconsciously, Xanthus curled into himself as the laughter turned to coughing. He forced himself to swallow down the mucus. The rifle sat between his legs, pointed upwards, with his hands clenched to it. 

As his fit died down, he rested his forehead on the warm metal. 

And the silence was back, as deafening as ever. 

Except for the heartbeat. 

Xanthus didn’t move his head, but slit an eye open to watch the opposing side of the trench. The beat was coming from inside it – not an enemy – but there was no due for a guard switch. 

A man stumbled around the corner. His pulse was faint, barely a whisper – more powerful was the sound of liquid sloshing in his lungs. Sucker-like sores grew along his arms and chest. His wool coat was unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbows, and he wore no hat. 

He paid Xanthus no mind as he crept forward, walking like it was his first day out of the womb. With too hard of a sway, he collapsed against the wall opposite of Xanthus and sunk to the floor. His eyes remained, though bleary, attached to the sky. 

Closer, the rush of blood echoed. Xanthus’ tongue flicked across a fang. 

It had been so long. He’d staved off desiccating with enemy soldiers or, when in a ward, blood saved for transfusions. He hadn’t properly feeded since his conscription. As if answering his thoughts, the hunger struck, a well in his stomach. 

The man’s chest heaved, face still upwards. 

He would die anyway. 

Xanthus shifted off the firestep slowly so as to not start him. His movements drawled with a predator’s muscle-memory, though more ridge with the discipline of a soldier. 

He drew to the man. It was only when he towered over him, rubies starch in the darkness, that the man looked at him. 

“Hello,” he muttered. It would’ve been unintelligible to anyone else. 

What happened next was methodical. The vampire slid down to his level and applied weight to the others hands, constricting him. His knee buckled on the other’s leg. He leaned forward, and with a swift motion, released his arms (only now did he drop the gun), hands jerking to maneuver his neck as he bared fangs. They sank into the skin with ease. 

It was bitter, he instantly noticed. The blood pumped lazily, carrying with it the poison which seeped into his skin. Despite his own cyclical conditions, Xanthus pressed on, refusing to let his only meal waste away. 

Naturally, the man resisted. He was weak. His burned arms tried to push the vampire’s away, off his neck, though managed nary a scratch. His legs bobbed. His neck strained. Still, it was futile to Xanthus. 

The man continued to mutter to himself. Xanthus pressed on. 

Even as the blood replenished him, it was sickening – he was starved and drank like it, but it was a drunken haze brought on by spoiled wine. Xanthus doubted he’d ever willingly eat mustard again. 

Just as he was about to break for air, the man’s fingers threaded into Xanthus’ hair. For some odd reason, it eased him out of the spur, as his fangs gently retracted. Both of their breaths heaved off-sync. Xanthus was still so close, the heat he expelled onto the man ricocheted back to him. 

The vampire tilted his head slightly, glancing up through mangey threads of hair. Playing on the man’s face, in the depths of night, was the hint of a smile.

His lips still moved, though silently now; Xanthus still recognized their shape. A common soldier’s prayer, said by those dying or over the beds of those who were. 

He didn’t understand it, not until the man looked down at him. With a bleeding neck and a shattered voice, he made a sound below silence, the illusion of words more than anything – “Thank you, sweet angel.”

His fingers stayed soft in his hair. 

“You have come to save me. I am welcomed into His kingdom.” A wiry grin now broke across his face, peeling the skin taut. He was missing a front tooth.

He thought Xanthus was saving him. That he was an angel, ready to take him to Heaven. To his God. Away from hell on earth. 

For a heartbeat, Xanthus could not move. He suddenly felt carved out, nothing but bones and skin. 

There were memories of another dying soldier-boy, the wound-up toy which had marched itself right into the tinderbox. For glory. For God. 

And he remembered his death. Another soul believing they were being saved, only to be taken advantage of by a vampire. 

And it was that thought which frightened him the most. 

If you could believe it, the soldier’s heartbeat slowed even more. Yet in his eyes, the dullness now shone without dust – not reflecting the monotonous shattering of a psyche, but heavy with the need of sleep. He was so close to it. 

Xanthus could become Audric. To ‘save’ as many as he could from this war, only to force them into a future more brutal than anyone could dream. 

So instead, Xanthus gave him what he wanted – what they both wanted. He could not tell which side of him it belonged to, if there was anything truly mortal or supernatural about mercy. 

A soft lullaby drifted from his lips, a soothing command. And the man closed his eyes and mouth, relaxing into Xanthus, like a child in his mothers arms.

The blood stayed warm, even as a body turned to a corpse. And Xanthus, who could do nothing but remain, drank. 

[cassdrawsokay]

Mirror Cats (Legendary Creature)

Sharing the same mind in different bodies, Mirror Cats seemlessly support one another's actions and movements in battle and play. If provoked, they will eviscerate you.

Proficiency in Stealth, Perception, Charisma Saving Throws, Wisdom Saving Throws, and Dexterity Saving Throws.

Actions:

If provoked, Mirror Cats can, as an action Invoke Duplicity - creating two copies of each Mirror Cat, for a total of six Mirror Cats that are visible.

When successfully attacked, Mirror Cats enter their awakened state. In their awakened state they effectively are under the effects of the Haste spell.

On their turn Mirror Cats make two attacks each, one Claw attack and one Bite attack.

Claws: +6 to hit, 1d8+6 damage. DC 15 Charisma save or the Mirror Cat will cling to you, gaining advantage on all attacks against you. At the top of your turn you can use a bonus action to attempt the save again.

Bite: +6 to hit, 2d6+6 damage

[socksandpuppets]

Invoke Duplicity!

[askthelightsides]

Logan mentioned DnD would be a good bonding thing for you all, what class do you think each of you would play?

Heya friends! Admin here. So I actually made a post about what classes I saw them as on my regular blog, so I'm just gonna copy and paste that here. Sorry it's long Also sorry it's so painfully nerdy...but blame the question for that I got nothin

Roman - I feel like if he was PLAYING DnD he'd play a Fighter, subclass Cavalier. Just all fighting on horseback and being charming royalty. Now as a character, Bard and I'm going College of Valor. He loves stories of heroic deeds and grand adventures.

Patton - Once again if he were playing the game, he'd wanna be a Druid. He'd wanna be able to turn into animals and be their friends. Maybe Circle of the Shepherd? But he can't always be fluffy, he has an important job to do. He was a Paladin Oath of Devotion, all about justice and truth and protecting c!Thomas's "soul".

Logan - Argument could totally be made for Artificer, it works. I think you could also make an argument for Clockwork Soul Sorcerer with his obsession with order...he's a wizard though. Like sheer stubbornness, he would be a wizard. Maybe the worst class at low levels? But he is that one dude who would study hard enough to be good, he'd put in the work and constantly point out how he got here through studying and not making a pact or just waking up magical. He'd also be Order of Scribes, just the nerdiest subclass for the nerdiest class.

Remus - He's a warlock...I got nothing else to say...dude just is. I was tempted to put pact with The Fathomless just for aesthetic reasons cause kraken, but gotta go with The Great Old One. Remus is a warlock who sold his soul to Cthulu

Janus - Considered a rogue because he's a sneaky boy, but it's always important to remember that he's also self care and self preservation. He's a healer in his own way, he's a Cleric of the Trickery Domain. I mean one of the class features is literally called "Invoke Duplicity".

Virgil - the forever DM. Constantly terrified of the pressure, but also always ready with binders of notes. Outside of games as a character, Sorcerer struggling to keep himself under control. Specifically an Aberrant Mind Sorcerer. No way I'm not giving Anxiety a subclass that comes with the spell "dissonant whispers"

[web-witch]

Gamer Grimoire

From my google keep grimoire

Verbal Commands

AchievementTracker

GameSummoner

SpellMatrix.wiz

DivinationLink.charm

UnlimitedFunds.charm

Torpedo.charm

AchievementTracker.spell

If MagicalAchievement=True, then Cast AchievementTracker.spell

Incantation1: "words of power hear my plea, Track my progress now for me. achievements made will give me strength, now track achievements made at length."

Incantation2: RunSpell.background/RuneCaster_KenazConnect

VerbalCmd: Show AchievementTracker.DisplaySpell

BindSpell.hex

GameSummoner.spell

If characterSpirit_activeGame is needed, then cast GameSummoner.spell

Incantation1: "Search and find, seek and aid, Character come to me as this game is played."

incantation2: CastRune.Kenaz_Lagaz_Isa.RunSpell

VerbalCmd: I cast GameSummoner. Come forth and aid me (name of creature).

BindSpell.hex

SpellMatrix.wiz

castCircle.mag

invokeAir.element

invokeWater.element

invokeFire.element

invokeEarth.element

invokeElectricity.element

InsCmd:ImportAllSpells.exe

InsCmd_2:DigitizeGrimoire2Game.platformVr

Incantation1: “All the spells that i have created, let them now be duplicated. In cyberspace they do exist, I wear them now upon my wrist. Access to these spells of mine, when in VR, they’ll work just fine. By the powers of Wizardry, bound is this spell by me.”

ImportSpellMatrix.wiz_Cyberspace.Avatar/allAvatars

BindSpell.hex

DivinationLink.charm

InvokeSpirit.element

InvokeAir.element

InvokeWater.element

InvokeFire.element

InvokeEarth.element

ImportSpell:OracleSpace.charm

LinkSpell: OracleSpace.charm

LinkTo: DivinationMethods.spirit

ImportCatalog: (tarot, bibliomancy, cybermancy, automatic writing, runes, audio-bibliomancy, imagomancy, Ludomancy, Audiomancy, photomancy, technomancy)

CatalogModify when perceived DivinationMagic.spirit/newType

Incantation1: “Link OracleSpace to all divination methods I use, enhanced by this spell, the knowledge I peruse. This spell will allow me to know and to see, no matter the medium of divination used by me. The powers will speak and I will hear, all knowledge refined and all is clear. The catalog of my oracular practice will be renewed, when this spell is invoked and the divination is viewed.”

PassiveTrigger: AlwaysActive.def

BindSpell.charm

UnlimitedFunds.charm

ImportElements.magik

CheatCode.PowerUp/invoke

Incantation: “one plus one equals two, increase my income and auto-renew.”

TriggerPhrase: “Cheat Code: UNLIMITEDFUNDS”

BindSpell.charm

Torpedo.Charm

CastCircle.mag

invokeAir.element

invokeWater.element

invokeFire.element

invokeEarth.element

invokeSpirit.element

If protectionSpell.charm=True, then cast spell Torpedo.charm.

When Torpedo.charm hits Target.spirit, execute SpellCmd: Explode

Incantation1: “With these words and lines of code, i create this torpedo charm to explode. On impact of the spirit i desire, engulf it with a searing fire. Confine this Charm within a cylindrical shell, sealed is this torpedo spell.”

TriggerPhrase: “I invoke the spell Torpedo.charm”

BindSpell.hex