Prey Epic

[Thomasina Norse]

This2.3 prey bait mold is Absolutely Awesome....the baits come out perfect every time and they are Awesome for catching crappie. I'm a fisherman that likes to make my own baits and I can honestly say that if you try one of these molds you will not be disappointed. I have several other Epic bait molds and everyone one of them are exceptionally machined and produce perfect baits that actually catch fish. Any new molds that I buy from now on will definitely be from Epic Bait Molds as they are top of the line with exceptional service.

Hearing. A long range and highly developed sense, the auditory system of sharks can give important information about potential prey. This will often occur well before the animal is in visual range. They are especially tuned in to low frequency sounds, the kind made by a wounded or struggling fish, and are able to detect them often from distances greater than a kilometer away!

Vision. Contrary to some myths out there, sharks actually have good eyesight, as far as fish are concerned. They lack color vision and only see in black and white, but still possess the visual sensory equipment to produce focused images. Water conditions play a big role and low light or murky water will have a big impact on their visual acuity. Take a look at our blog focused on Shark Vision for more details.

The Vessel can use weapons to defeat prey, or can absorb prey the moment an attack hits to gain Breath. This is not possible when prey perform red attacks, which can be distinguished by the prey glowing red before executing the attack. Additionally, some prey cannot be defeated with a single absorption; these prey have one or more dividing lines in their health bar, indicating the amount of health the prey will have after a successful absorption. The full list of prey can be accessed in-game through the Bestiary.

Prey can be Absorbed in order to acquire their trait. You must Absorb a certain number of Prey in order to discover what their Trait is. In the Bestiary, Prey with a red border are ones that provide a trait, while Prey with a yellow border do not.

Epic Prey are akin to mini bosses. They are optional, and thus, do not need to be destroyed in order to progress through the story. Epic Prey are more dangerous and intimidating than Lesser Prey, but not as powerful as Great Prey. They will grant a Breath Heart after being slain, which increases the total amount of Breath the Vessel has. Each Heart grants one-third of a meter, with three Hearts making up one full Breath meter.

I mentioned, in my post on Panther's second Epic Collection, how Jack Kirby transformed Wakanda into a land that felt lived in. McGregor seems to take what Kirby crafted and push it even farther, particularly with Prey. Largely thanks to to Turner's painted illustrations, Panther's home country is gorgeously depicted, a 2-D reflection of a wide world and a blend of the archaic and new. Panther can spend one page leaping from tree branch to branch; the next, he's eating the latest Western introduction to his realm: pizza. The technologically advanced society feels real and almost tangible under Turner's pen, particularly in how wonderfully Turner fills his pages with Wakanda's technology. Together, McGregor and Turner imagine a whole world for the mighty monarch, a world he guards jealously.

As an aspiring young writer who grew up on the shores of Alabama's

Mobile Bay and for a long period of my life worshipped at the

altar of football, publishing a story in SPORTS ILLUSTRATED would

have been damn near as meaningful as playing for Bear Bryant at

Alabama or dating an LSU cheerleader. So, yes, I read this

magazine long before I saw the Swimsuit Issue.

Even when I left Alabama and took up residence on the infamous

island of Key West, where forearm curls with full "go cups" is

considered heavy lifting, SPORTS ILLUSTRATED followed me. By then

I was way past the point of hoping to make an appearance in the

magazine as either an athlete or a journalist and had settled on

an alternate route in search of fortune and fame--I was a lounge

singer in the Chart Room Bar.

One of my regular customers back in 1972 was the legendary SPORTS

ILLUSTRATED writer Martin Kane, who wrote for the magazine's

first issue, in August 1954. Marty was old by then (and retired)

but still cool. There were enough successful and fledgling

writers living at the end of U.S. 1 to fill that bar as we all

listened to his stories about tangling with famous athletes and

drunken editors. All of us wanted to be famous--or, failing that,

at least successful--but he had actually done it--he had been a

writer for a great magazine and then retired to paradise. Most of

the rest of us had skipped the job part and gone directly to

retired to paradise. I never would have admitted it then, but I

envied Marty and his real job.

My alternate route to success was music, which worked out pretty

well. However, I still love to write, so I can't tell you how

happy I was when SI's managing editor asked me to do a piece for

the magazine. When told I could write about anything I wanted

to--from fishing to football--the first words that came out of my

mouth were, "I want to write for the Swimsuit Issue." (My friend

Carl Hiaasen had written for the issue last year, and I was

envious.)

The next day, though, reality ran down my fantasy, and I

panicked. What did I have to say about swimsuits? That's fashion,

something I know almost nothing about because I have been

fortunate enough to live on or near a beach for most of my life.

Once I had thought about it, though, I realized I am kind of a

bathing suit expert, because I spend half my life in one. In

fact, I was wearing a bathing suit as I banged this article out

on my computer while sitting on a beach in the British Virgin

Islands in January. So sure, I could blow a lot of sweet-smelling

smoke about the social significance of bikinis, but what I really

like to do is fish.

Back when I was taught how to fish the flats of Key West, I would

rarely see another boat. There was enough water for everybody,

and maybe just a dozen full-time guides. Today there are more

than 100 guides in Key West and at least a half-dozen

TV-fishing-show hosts in an armada of state-of-the-art skiffs.

Fishing in the outposts has become a big business--there are

high-dollar fishing lodges in Patagonia and helicopter drops to

chase salmon in the far corners of Russia.

The fish do not appreciate all this attention. Tarpon in the

Keys, which used to be so aggressive that they would leave their

mating circles--known as daisy chains--to snap at a fly, are now

totally unpredictable in their eating habits. I have seen them

rise on my fly, then turn toward the boat and look at me as if to

say, Where's the mullet, you dumb-ass? Bonefish and permit, both

naturally neurotic, are now twice as hyper; I don't know if they

are having a reaction to all the cocaine dumped overboard into

the Straits of Florida over the last 20 years or if they are

changing their behavior because of all the fishermen. Whatever

the reason, though, the fish in the fabulous Florida Keys are

getting smarter.

A few years ago I was fishing a favorite flat of mine just north

of Cottrell Key. I was standing on the bow, casting and reeling

and doing that wonderful thing that fishing is all about: not

thinking about a damn thing other than fishing. All of a sudden I

spotted a fish out by the reef--the sunlight had marked it with a

split-second flash on the dark tail of what looked like a permit.

At first I thought it too big to be a permit and that a small

black-tip shark had tricked me, but when the tail came up again,

I knew that it was attached to the biggest permit I had ever

seen. This monster was meandering along the reef, looking for his

mid-morning protein fix of baby blue crabs.

I cast, and my fly landed in front of the big fish, exactly where

I wanted it to be, and I started to strip the line in short tugs

that--I hoped--would make the fly look like a tasty appetizer for

this hungry fish. As my line moved across his path, he locked on

my fly. My heart started to race as I pulled the line closer to

the boat, but the fish wouldn't bite. My fly was now no more than

20 feet from the bow of the boat, but the permit still hadn't

eaten it. I didn't give up. I kept casting ... and kept getting

nothing. My leader rattled as it hit the tip of the rod, and I

was now out of options.

The big fish swam into the shadow of the boat, which will spook

any normal flats-dweller, but this fish just cruised on by,

rolled a little to one side and stared at me with a big eye. I

flashed on that scene in Moby-Dick when the White Whale gives

Captain Ahab the evil eye as the big permit swam into green water

on the deep side of the reef and disappeared. It was then that I

decided it was time to change latitudes and look for a few stupid

fish.

Stupid fish are not really stupid. They just happen to prefer as

much distance between themselves and Homo sapiens as possible,

and once they achieve that goal, they let their guard down a

little. That's all I wanted--a fish that wasn't on orange

alert--but finding flats that haven't felt the crunch of a human

foot is pretty near impossible.

My endless wanderings--and damage done to my sailboat by a bad

storm--finally took me to the British Virgin Islands in the

mid-'70s. I parked my sailboat for a couple of winters in an

idyllic place called Cane Garden Bay, where I learned to play

cricket in the boatyard and chased all six cows on the island,

looked for magic mushrooms and wrote a song called Cheeseburger

in Paradise. The picturesque islands that line the deep waters of

the Sir Francis Drake Channel were my sailing playgrounds during

those years. There wasn't much out there you could hit with a

boat--except for Anegada, the most northerly and isolated of the

Virgins, which is surrounded by coral heads and jagged reefs that

have claimed more than 300 ships.

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