[i]Skills and Conversion - Fully converted Devastation is potent. With the added flat mod from the shield and perma Overguard it crits at 75K in campaign and up to 170K in crucible. In there you have the 18% weapon dmg which translates to lifesteal. This is awesome because you can run around, lifestealing everything in Devastation radius. When you add in Flame torrent devo proc with Chillspikes your lifesteal goes hyper
The Jackals torrent
Download: https://tweeat.com/2vzt5T
not entirely. It has physical stormfire Spam to proc phys flame torrent all the time + partial phys argivix from relic. This makes him very well rounded in combat. Also lifestealing with devastation is quite amazing
The Balkhan is a land of extremes, held together by strength and pride and under constant threat of being torn apart by primordial forces. Storms ravage the plains, making the treetops of the evergreen forests quiver. Winter hits the people with an arctic cold and mountains of snow, while summer burns the grassy plains and their fields of stubble. When it rains, torrents gouge the valleysand coalesce into raging rivers.The humans mirror their home, savage and untamed, unbeholden, passionate and volatile. Power struggles rage across the region as bloody disputes turn farmers into warriors one night, and their wives into widows the next. However, in these troubled times the warlords lay down their malice at their doorsteps and shake hands with men they would have slain yesterday. They attack theenemy together, fueled by a passion with no compromise and loyal like a father unto his son, but once the threat has been conquered the winds will shift and old alliances will fade like dreams in the morning sun.Above all this the deep, resonating song of the Dushani rises. Nature is their instrument, and they can tune and shape their song to create the perfect harmony, extinguishing any dissonance with brutal effectiveness. Their melody infiltrates the heart and captures the mind, twisting and changing. Pain or comfort. Give or take.
Then the weather broke. First came the windwhipping the sea to frothy peaks and troughs,bullying the trees to bow before it.Then the rain: a few large drops at firstfollowed by blue forked lightning, which lit upthe lashing sea; and then the deafening crash,the cannonades of thunder so explosiveit was as if immortal gods were battlingfor supremacy. The black clouds burst,the long-awaited rain swept down in sheetspounding, sluicing over the thirsty land.Everything that lived opened itselfto the reviving torrent.
It was dusk.The last fiery filaments of the sunstreaked the sky over the western hill.The warriors surveyed the devastation,the battlefield resembling a sacked city.Scavengers were gathering alreadyto feast on the abundant human flesh:crows and ravens, jackals, kanka birdsripping at the frail skin of the fallen . . .
We did not, however, long enjoy this repose; a loud barking from our dogs, who were on guard outside the tent, awakened us, and the fluttering and cackling of our poultry warned us that a foe was approaching. Fritz and I sprang up, and seizing our guns rushed out. There we found a desperate combat going on, our gallant dogs, surrounded by a dozen or more large jackals, were fighting bravely, four of their opponents lay dead, but the others were in no way deterred by the fate of their comrades.
Fritz and I, however, sent bullets through the heads of a couple more, and the rest galloped off. Turk and Juno did not intend that they should escape so cheaply, and pursuing them, they caught, killed, and devoured another of the animals, regardless of their near relationship. Fritz wished to save one of the jackals that he might be able to show it to his brothers in the morning; dragging therefore the one that he had shot near the tent, he concealed it, and we once more returned to our beds. I told him that in justice, if Turk and Flora were still hungry, we should give this last jackal to them. But they, surfeited, curled up to sleep.
He has passed over the mountain, and has descended its side. Bristling shrubs, swamps, precipitous banks, rushing torrents, are no obstacle to his course. He has reached the brow of a hill, with a deep placid river at the foot of it, just as the dawn begins to break. It is a lovely prospect, which every step he takes is becoming more definite and more various in the daylight. Masses of oleander, of great beauty, with their red blossoms, fringed the river, and tracked out its course into the distance. The bank of the hill below him, and on the right and left, was a maze of fruit-trees, about which nature, if it were not the hand of man, had had no thought except that they should be 269 all together there. The wild olive, the pomegranate, the citron, the date, the mulberry, the peach, the apple, and the walnut, formed a sort of spontaneous orchard. Across the water, groves of palm-trees waved their long and graceful branches in the morning breeze. The stately and solemn ilex, marshalled into long avenues, showed the way to substantial granges or luxurious villas. The green turf or grass was spread out beneath, and here and there flocks and herds were emerging out of the twilight, and growing distinct upon the eye. Elsewhere the ground rose up into sudden eminences crowned with chesnut woods, or with plantations of cedar and acacia, or wildernesses of the cork-tree, the turpentine, the carooba, the white poplar, and the Phenician juniper, while overhead ascended the clinging tendrils of the hop, and an underwood of myrtle clothed their stems and roots. A profusion of wild flowers carpeted the ground far and near.
So feasted they through Troy, and in their midstLoud pealed the flutes and pipes: on every handWere song and dance, laughter and cries confusedOf banqueters beside the meats and wine.They, lifting in their hands the beakers brimmed,Recklessly drank, till heavy of brain they grew,Till rolled their fluctuant eyes. Now and againSome mouth would babble the drunkard's broken words.The household gear, the very roof and wallsSeemed as they rocked: all things they looked on seemedWhirled in wild dance. About their eyes a veilOf mist dropped, for the drunkard's sight is dimmed,And the wit dulled, when rise the fumes to the brain:And thus a heavy-headed feaster cried:"For naught the Danaans mustered that great hostHither! Fools, they have wrought not their intent,But with hopes unaccomplished from our townLike silly boys or women have they fled."So cried a Trojan wit-befogged with wine,Fool, nor discerned destruction at the doors.When sleep had locked his fetters everywhereThrough Troy on folk fulfilled of wine and meat,Then Sinon lifted high a blazing torchTo show the Argive men the splendour of fire.But fearfully the while his heart beat, lestThe men of Troy might see it, and the plotBe suddenly revealed. But on their bedsSleeping their last sleep lay they, heavy with wine.The host saw, and from Tenedos set sail.Then nigh the Horse drew Sinon: softly he called,Full softly, that no man of Troy might hear,But only Achaea's chiefs, far from whose eyesSleep hovered, so athirst were they for fight.They heard, and to Odysseus all inclinedTheir ears: he bade them urgently go forthSoftly and fearlessly; and they obeyedThat battle-summons, pressing in hot hasteTo leap to earth: but in his subtletyHe stayed them from all thrusting eagerly forth.But first himself with swift unfaltering hands,Helped of Epeius, here and there unbarredThe ribs of the Horse of beams: above the planksA little he raised his head, and gazed aroundOn all sides, if he haply might descryOne Trojan waking yet. As when a wolf,With hunger stung to the heart, comes from the hills,And ravenous for flesh draws nigh the flockPenned in the wide fold, slinking past the menAnd dogs that watch, all keen to ward the sheep,Then o'er the fold-wall leaps with soundless feet;So stole Odysseus down from the Horse: with himFollowed the war-fain lords of Hellas' League,Orderly stepping down the ladders, whichEpeius framed for paths of mighty men,For entering and for passing forth the Horse,Who down them now on this side, that side, streamedAs fearless wasps startled by stroke of axeIn angry mood pour all together forthFrom the tree-bole, at sound of woodman's blow;So battle-kindled forth the Horse they pouredInto the midst of that strong city of TroyWith hearts that leapt expectant. [With swift handsSnatched they the brands from dying hearths, and firedTemple and palace. Onward then to the gatesSped they,] and swiftly slew the slumbering guards,[Then held the gate-towers till their friends should come.]Fast rowed the host the while; on swept the shipsOver the great flood: Thetis made their pathsStraight, and behind them sent a driving windSpeeding them, and the hearts Achaean glowed.Swiftly to Hellespont's shore they came, and thereBeached they the keels again, and deftly dealtWith whatso tackling appertains to ships.Then leapt they aland, and hasted on to TroySilent as sheep that hurry to the foldFrom woodland pasture on an autumn eve;So without sound of voices marched they onUnto the Trojans' fortress, eager allTo help those mighty chiefs with foes begirt.Now these -- as famished wolves fierce-glaring roundFall on a fold mid the long forest-hills,While sleeps the toil-worn watchman, and they rendThe sheep on every hand within the wallIn darkness, and all round [are heaped the slain;So these within the city smote and slew,As swarmed the awakened foe around them; yet,Fast as they slew, aye faster closed on themThose thousands, mad to thrust them from the gates.]Slipping in blood and stumbling o'er the dead[Their line reeled,] and destruction loomed o'er them,Though Danaan thousands near and nearer drew.But when the whole host reached the walls of Troy,Into the city of Priam, breathing rageOf fight, with reckless battle-lust they poured;And all that fortress found they full of warAnd slaughter, palaces, temples, horriblyBlazing on all sides; glowed their hearts with joy.In deadly mood then charged they on the foe.Ares and fell Enyo maddened there:Blood ran in torrents, drenched was all the earth,As Trojans and their alien helpers died.Here were men lying quelled by bitter deathAll up and down the city in their blood;Others on them were falling, gasping forthTheir life's strength; others, clutching in their handsTheir bowels that looked through hideous gashes forth,Wandered in wretched plight around their homes:Others, whose feet, while yet asleep they lay,Had been hewn off, with groans unutterableCrawled mid the corpses. Some, who had rushed to fight,Lay now in dust, with hands and heads hewn off.Some were there, through whose backs, even as they fled,The spear had passed, clear through to the breast, and someWhose waists the lance had pierced, impaling themWhere sharpest stings the anguish-laden steel.And all about the city dolorous howlsOf dogs uprose, and miserable moansOf strong men stricken to death; and every homeWith awful cries was echoing. Rang the shrieksOf women, like to screams of cranes, which seeAn eagle stooping on them from the sky,Which have no courage to resist, but screamLong terror-shrieks in dread of Zeus's bird;So here, so there the Trojan women wailed,Some starting from their sleep, some to the groundLeaping: they thought not in that agonyOf robe and zone; in naught but tunics cladDistraught they wandered: others found nor veilNor cloak to cast about them, but, as cameOnward their foes, they stood with beating heartsTrembling, as lettered by despair, essaying,All-hapless, with their hands alone to hideTheir nakedness. And some in frenzy of woe:Their tresses tore, and beat their breasts, and screamed.Others against that stormy torrent of foesRecklessly rushed, insensible of fear,Through mad desire to aid the perishing,Husbands or children; for despair had givenHigh courage. Shrieks had startled from their sleepSoft little babes whose hearts had never knownTrouble -- and there one with another layGasping their lives out! Some there were whose dreamsChanged to a sudden vision of doom. All roundThe fell Fates gloated horribly o'er the slain.And even as swine be slaughtered in the courtOf a rich king who makes his folk a feast,So without number were they slain. The wineLeft in the mixing-bowls was blent with bloodGruesomely. No man bare a sword unstainedWith murder of defenceless folk of Troy,Though he were but a weakling in fair fight.And as by wolves or jackals sheep are torn,What time the furnace-breath of midnoon-heatDarts down, and all the flock beneath the shadeAre crowded, and the shepherd is not there,But to the homestead bears afar their milk;And the fierce brutes leap on them, tear their throats,Gorge to the full their ravenous maws, and thenLap the dark blood, and linger still to slayAll in mere lust of slaughter, and provideAn evil banquet for that shepherd-lord;So through the city of Priam Danaans slewOne after other in that last fight of all.No Trojan there was woundless, all men's limbsWith blood in torrents spilt were darkly dashed.Nor seetheless were the Danaans in the fray:With beakers some were smitten, with tables some,Thrust in the eyes of some were burning brandsSnatched from the hearth; some died transfixed with spitsYet left within the hot flesh of the swineWhereon the red breath of the Fire-god beat;Others struck down by bills and axes keenGasped in their blood: from some men's hands were shornThe fingers, who, in wild hope to escapeThe imminent death, had clutched the blades of swords.And here in that dark tumult one had hurledA stone, and crushed the crown of a friend's head.Like wild beasts trapped and stabbed within a foldOn a lone steading, frenziedly they fought,Mad with despair-enkindled rage, beneathThat night of horror. Hot with battle-lustHere, there, the fighters rushed and hurried throughThe palace of Priam. Many an Argive fellSpear-slain; for whatso Trojan in his hallsMight seize a sword, might lift a spear in hand,Slew foes -- ay, heavy though he were with wine.Upflashed a glare unearthly through the town,For many an Argive bare in hand a torchTo know in that dim battle friends from foes.Then Tydeus' son amid the war-storm metSpearman Coroebus, lordly Mygdon's son,And 'neath the left ribs pierced him with the lanceWhere run the life-ways of man's meat and drink;So met him black death borne upon the spear:Down in dark blood he fell mid hosts of slain.Ah fool! the bride he won not, Priam's childCassandra, yea, his loveliest, for whose sakeTo Priam's burg but yesterday he came,And vaunted he would thrust the Argives backFrom Ilium. Never did the Gods fulfilHis hope: the Fates hurled doom upon his head.With him the slayer laid Eurydamas low,Antenor's gallant son-in-law, who mostFor prudence was pre-eminent in Troy.Then met he Ilioneus the elder of days,And flashed his terrible sword forth. All the limbsOf that grey sire were palsied with his fear:He put forth trembling hands, with one he caughtThe swift avenging sword, with one he claspedThe hero's knees. Despite his fury of war,A moment paused his wrath, or haply a GodHeld back the sword a space, that that old manMight speak to his fierce foe one word of prayer.Piteously cried he, terror-overwhelmed:"I kneel before thee, whosoe'er thou beOf mighty Argives. Oh compassionateMy suppliant hands! Abate thy wrath! To slayThe young and valiant is a glorious thing;But if thou smite an old man, small renownWaits on thy prowess. Therefore turn from meThine hands against young men, if thou dost hopeEver to come to grey hairs such as mine."So spake he; but replied strong Tydeus' son:"Old man, I look to attain to honoured age;But while my Strength yet waxeth, will not ISpare any foe, but hurl to Hades all.The brave man makes an end of every foe."Then through his throat that terrible warrior draveThe deadly blade, and thrust it straight to whereThe paths of man's life lead by swiftest wayBlood-paved to doom: death palsied his poor strengthBy Diomedes' hands. Thence rushed he onSlaying the Trojans, storming in his mightAll through their fortress: pierced by his long spearEurycoon fell, Perimnestor's son renowned.Amphimedon Aias slew: Agamemnon smoteDamastor's son: Idomeneus struck downMimas: by Meges Deiopites died.Achilles' son with his resistless lanceSmote godlike Pammon; then his javelin piercedPolites in mid-rush: AntiphonusDead upon these he laid, all Priam's sons.Agenor faced him in the fight, and fell:Hero on hero slew he; everywhereStalked at his side Death's black doom manifest:Clad in his sire's might, whomso he met he slew.Last, on Troy's king in murderous mood he came.By Zeus the Hearth-lord's altar. Seeing him,Old Priam knew him and quaked not; for he longedHimself to lay his life down midst his sons;And craving death to Achilles' seed he spake:"Fierce-hearted son of Achilles strong in war,Slay me, and pity not my misery.I have no will to see the sun's light more,Who have suffered woes so many and so dread.With my sons would I die, and so forgetAnguish and horror of war. Oh that thy sireHad slain me, ere mine eyes beheld aflameIllium, had slain me when I brought to himRansom for Hector, whom thy father slew.He spared me -- so the Fates had spun my threadOf destiny. But thou, glut with my bloodThy fierce heart, and let me forget my pain."Answered Achilles' battle-eager son:"Fain am I, yea, in haste to grant thy prayer.A foe like thee will I not leave alive;For naught is dearer unto men than life."With one stroke swept he off that hoary headLightly as when a reaper lops an earIn a parched cornfield at the harvest-tide.With lips yet murmuring low it rolled afarFrom where with quivering limbs the body layAmidst dark-purple blood and slaughtered men.So lay he, chiefest once of all the worldIn lineage, wealth, in many and goodly sons.Ah me, not long abides the honour of man,But shame from unseen ambush leaps on himSo clutched him Doom, so he forgat his woes. 2ff7e9595c
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