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Hi all! This will still be a Shardcast week, and an episode is coming. However, we recorded it Sunday due to scheduling and it's been a very busy week with my teaching, so I haven't been able to start editing it yet. I will begin tomorrow but it's also the longest video we've ever recorded. Because of this (and because I have to do production on making WoBs appear on screen) it is almost a certainty that it will be out Saturday. I apologize for the inconvenience, but worry not, I'll be working on it! It'll be a doozy of an episode with us talking about the Nalthis star chart, a bit on the updated reading of the prologue, and tons of WoBs. I intend to have it done early afternoon Pacific time on Saturday, so not too late in the day. For more up to date Shardcast announcements, head to our Discord and go to the #shardcast channel.

When you actively wonder why you can't use your ability to translate Alethi women's script as a language requirement.

My two Zinc compounder twins for the Alleyverse Prequel Thread, Kaspar and Balthazar, all dressed up and ready for trouble. Featuring Kaspar's bonesaw, "Enlightenment," and Balthazar's scalpel, "Brevity" (it's the soul of wit! ).

Not unless you also have the high ground and the Heralds think that you are underestimating their power.

Arrow to the knee.

Kinda shocked I get the chance to go. I never thought I’d make it to any release parties, since I live across the country. The circumstances are unfortunate (close family funeral) but since I’m going to be in Provo that night anyway, I bought tickets for my niece and myself. Silver lining to a difficult time.

Chullracing was a dangerous sport. As Salas hung low in the sky, and Nalakor gripped his saddle, it was all he could do to stop himself from shaking. He had trained for this, practicing everyday since his brother’s accident. He needed to win this race, needed to use the emerald sphere reward to pay for Valtor’s treatment. He slipped his saddle over Dusty’s shell, before leading the animal over to the starting line. Both had been a gift from King’s Wit, who’d taken a liking to him after he had stolen his flute. He claimed to have stolen them from a top racer, but from what Nalakor could tell, the beast was nothing more than a work animal. That said, he’d formed a bond with Dusty. She had been his only friend since the accident, his only friend since the fire that ripped through Roion’s warcamp, taking his parents and leaving his brother comatose. Dusty had helped him through his grief, and taken him farther than he could have ever imagined. He was in the final for the Grand Warcamp Prix. The last race of the season before the weeping began. He was the only here because of sheer luck more than anything else, hanging on by the skin of his teeth. But, now? He needed to win. He rubbed Dusty’s eyestalks, slipping the animal a stonebud. Around him, the top racers from around the warcamp’s chulls were being carefully rubbed and oiled, as their drivers stood by, talking strategy with their coaches. On the next plateau over, the spectators sat, making bets, or watching just for enjoyment. Despite Chullracing being illegal, it was still one of the most popular forms of entertainment, and betting on, while heresy, only added to the fun. Nalakor hopped up onto Dusty, adjusting the saddle as he did so. He carefully began warming her up, walking her forward and backward, getting her used to both his presence, and the way he nudged with her feet. His lead system was homegrown he knew, nothing a true pro would use, but it may have been the only thing that could give him an edge. For while others were restricted to using one hand to steer, and only leaving one free, Dusty could use both to swing the long pole he lifted from a strap on Dusty’s side. The bat was the reason Chullracing was illegal. While one’s chull was doing the actual running of the race, it was the jockey’s job to take as many of his opponents down as possible. Needless to say, it was not a sport without mortalities, and when everyone was needed to fight in the war, needless harm was seen as a waste. The officials walked out from the spectator plateau, and onto track in proper. They carefully walked the length of the string that bordered the track, making sure it was both up to standards, 1000 paces long, and there was no foul play. As they did so, Nalakor turned to watch his neighboring racers, as they mounted their chulls. One was a young woman seemingly from the Reshi isles. He dropped his gaze and blushed when he realized her safehand wasn’t covered. On his other side was a tall and dark figure in a mask, some of the more prominent racers did such things to hide their identities. His chull was skinny and sharp, less like a chull, and more like the fin of a Skyeel. A whistle sounded, and the twenty-four racers lead their chulls to the starting line. An official walked down, checking to ensure that they were all in fact behind the line. The man, stepped back to the edge of the line, pulling out a simple whistle. He blew once, signalling the racers to ready. The audience drew to hush, eyes watching the main event of the evening. Nalakor felt himself tense in anticipation. In the distance, Salas was making its final descent, a small crescent hanging over the finish line. A long whistle sounded, cutting through the air like a shardblade. Nalakor kicked Dusty into motion, rocking as the chull began to move forward. Around him everyone was doing the same. A bat slammed into his back, knocking the breath out of him, and nearly knocking him from his saddle. He whirled with both his body and his back, and met the eyes of the Reshi woman, even as her pole met his own. He flipped it around trying to do one of the simple patterns he’d taught himself from his father’s spear training. She was too fast, blocking him at everymove, even as her other hand pushed her chull faster. Dusty let out a trumpet responding to his desperate attempts to simply run away from her, even as Nalakor took another hit from a different racer, the sound matching his own. The man was taken down quickly, but by then the woman had taken advantage of Nalakor’s distraction to land a punishing blow. He slipped, feeling himself begin to tumble from the saddle, his leg hanging over space, held on by his arm on Dusty, and his left. Storms it hurt. They were matching the leaders of the pack now, though whether Nalakor would even make it the next 5 paces was yet to be seen. He let out a prayer to the Almighty, begging for strength. The Reshi woman lifted her bat to finish him. And was taken out from behind, the masked figure capitalizing on her distraction. Nalakor wrenched himself up, his arm screaming from the pain, and looked around him. 500 paces to go, and he was. He was in the lead! It was only pure instinct that saved him. The masked figure’s bat was swinging towards his head, and only a flick of his bat saved from a near instant knock out. His arm rang with the blow, and he grunted. The masked figure bat whirled then came into strike again, and again, Nalakor barely blocked it, batting it away, this time using both of his hands. He still winced, but it seemed that both arms could take the impact. In his peripheral vision he could see, 400 paces. The masked man’s chull had caught up to Dusty, and it trumpeted, sounding like the grinding of metal. Dusty hissed in return. The bat came in again, then again and again. Nalakor’s arms were beginning to ache with the sheer stress of blocking the thrice cursed blows. 300 paces. He let out a sob, the two chulls were neck and neck, even as their riders fought. He was squeezing with his legs as hard as possible, wishing there was someway to tell Dusty just to go a little bit faster, but nevertheless the two animals continued to match each other’s pace, seeming to almost to want their jockeys to fight, seeming to want Nalarok to lose. An especially powerful blow rattled his already numb hands, and then another knocked the bat from his hands. It tumbled to the ground and was lost. The race was lost. The audience screamed. Desperation filled Nalarok’s mind as he realized there was only seconds until it was over. Until his brother was dead. In that brief moment, he flashbacked to the night of the fire, when Voriav had saved him, leaping to push him out of the way of a doorway, and hurting himself in the process. And Nalakor knew what he had to do. He leaned right, towards the figure, then leapt directly at him. He seemed to hang in the air forever, time slowing down as he saw the masked figure’s shock. He slammed into the figure with all of his body weight. They never stood a chance. They slipped off of the back of their mount like a bag of lavis grain, dropping their bat to grab the side of the saddle, hanging on with only a hand. Nalakor himself began to lose balance, standing on a chull was nearly impossible when they were walking. Next him, Dusty still ran. Good faithful Dusty. He took a breath, then leapt back to his mount. A hand gripped his ankle pulling him down. The figure had pulled themselves enough to grab him as he leapt. He felt himself swing in the air, hand grasping for something, anything. They felt the saddle strap and clutched them tight. He lay, stretched across the abyss between the two chulls, the figure pulling at his ankle with all their might even as he held on with his. He kicked with his other leg, slamming the foot into the figure’s hand. It hand slipped, and it was enough. Nalakor pulled himself, exhausted. He looked up to check how close they were to the finish line. They crossed. First. The audience roared, and he sagged. He had done. He could save Voriav. He could see his brother again. Brightlord Nalakor smiled as his chosen chull barrelled across the line, earning him one of the largest returns he’d had in a while—all from a shadowed man who still did not identify himself. But his spheres were on the table in front of the finish line, so despite his weakened state Nalakor wasted no time in nodding to the arbiter and sweeping his winnings into his purse. “Sorry, friend, and thank you for playing the game,” he offered the shadowed figure, who had shown no reaction. He did mean it—he got little enough business, having to bribe officials into looking the other way when he did conduct it, and any participants were appreciated in such a violent and bloody sport as this. “Better luck another time.” The man’s lips were drawn in a thin line, dramatised by the light of the red sphere by which Nalakor was seeing, but he nodded and began collecting his things, heading away from the pens. Eyeing the retreating figure, Nalakor backed up himself, pretending to fumble with one of the chull’s straps as he waited for the visitor to fade into darkness. You didn’t survive as long as he did in this sort of business without some underlying mistrust, unfortunately, and the bruises he had would take long enough to heal without his accruing new ones. Nalakor sighed, moving the exhausted beasts back to their pens, to lie down with their other companions who were lowing quietly. Tending to the beasts, in the end, was remarkably simple—not much could be required by normally docile and tempered animals—but it was his only trade, so he kept to it with a vigour which infused even the changing of water and food for the pens with meaning akin to a sacred ritual, a way of giving the ordinary importance. His chulls were perhaps the best cared for in the kingdom, and he intended to keep it that way to keep bringing in the lighteyes who enjoyed such sport. Keeping it that way also involved another precaution. Over the door to the pen, a heavy razor blade, attached to a rope pulled taut, lurked. Hidden behind a design in the ceiling, and further concealed by virtue of nobody having ventured inside his pens except him, it was the perfect security measure—if the rope was placed across the doorway from the inside, an opening of the door would send that blade falling to cleave in two the one who opened it. He armed the trap, yawning already, and went to his mattress in the middle of the pen. He did not often sleep in here, but would tonight—with the spheres he had on hand. a trapped door looked increasingly appealing to guard against intruders, and he doubted he retained the strength to make it back to the warcamps after his drubbing from the masked man. He yawned contentedly, and was asleep in seconds. Nalakor stirred, started out of his sleep by a noise near the wall of the pen. A...hammering? It was lighter than that, he thought, but certainly he had heard the stone being worked at. Someone was trying to enter the pen through the wall! No doubt it was the masked figure, seeking to recover the spheres lost in the race. His body on fire, Nalakor managed to stand, feeling a vague dread as light filtered into the dark pens through a hole in the wall. Around him, chulls snorted, shifting in their sleep, but mostly too dumb to rouse themselves fully. Peering from the curtained corner he was in, Nalakor could see a man’s silhouette block off the light, and enter the building, sword out in the dark of the pens, looking for him. He bit back a scream. There would be only one way to evade him—getting out the door quietly enough and then shouting for help before he was murdered, to apprehend the intruder. He might lose his spheres, but he’d keep his life. Masked by the bleating of chulls, the beasts themselves, and the pitch darkness of the far side of the pens, Nalakor edged along the side of the pen, feeling frantically for the panels of the door. The intruder was now in his corner, searching in vain among his sheets, and Nalakor’s hand grasped the doorknob. A rush of delirium came upon him—he had escaped—and he threw open the door. The sweeping motion would be his last. Even as he opened his mouth to cry for help, Nalakor’s eyes bulged at the sound of a catch being released and a rope suddenly recoiling, losing its taut arrangement; after all his escape plan, he had forgotten to disarm his own trap. The heavy blade above the door fell like thunder, cutting off the last scream of its victim, and Nalakor was no more. There had been a lot of deaths taking place at night recently. That didn’t stop Kay from wandering outside on a whim on this third night since Sebarial was attacked. Precedent was no predictor of future occurrences, after all. The moons were dim, but light was not needed to carry the sound of bellowing chulls through the unight. Kay found herself walking towards the noise. Chulls were usually quiet at night, and so the increased volume was unusual. The cause of the chulls’ alarm was immediately apparent. A clustered mass of the giant crustaceans were entangled at the end of a flat expanse of stone marked off vertically with string on either side. The Almighty had selected one empty-saddled chull to trumpet aggressively and snap out at the other chulls, none of which were sure how to proceed. Confused, the herd, all of which still had riders, shuffled around awkwardly and bellowed questioningly. Furious, the riderless chull charged forwards at an impressive 2 meters per second. This time, the other chull were able to scuttle out of the way as the rogue chull in the direction of a nearby plateau. Kay turned to follow the chull’s trajectory and saw that the spectators did not look concerned at the animal’s behaviour. Kay’s jaw tightened as she saw some of them were exchanging spheres. Racing by itself could be an honourable way to invite the Almighty’s judgement. Attempting to predict the outcome of a race was blasphemy of the highest order. Even the other Devotaries could see that much. Angrily, Kay headed after the chull, easily overtaking the lumbering beast. Her journey to the plateau was interrupted when the enraged chull reached out one of her giant claws and grabbed Kay by the waist. Though surprised, Kay remained calm as the chull led her not to the heretics flaunting their disrespect for the Almighty but to a fresh corpse still bleeding on the ground. Undoubtedly the man, Kay recognised him as Brightlord Nalakor, had been murdered by someone who valued money over the Divine. With far greater care than she had been shown, the chull picked the dead man up with her other claw and began the journey back towards the camp. Kay made no attempt to resist what must be the Almighty’s design as the three of them returned to safety. Striker has been killed! He was a Noble Spy with a half-shard! Drake has posted, and so will not be killed. Rath has been replaced by Young Bard. Day 4 has begun! It will end in approximately 46 hours, on Thursday 21 November at 9 PM EST. Please upvote Snipexe for the thrilling account of Nalakor's last race. (Fifth speaking: Please upvote both Devotary and Snip for coping marvellously after I dropped the ball unexpectedly.) Player List:

I discussed this in another thread a couple days ago, and I have finally decided to make a thread purely dedicated to it. For those of you who doesnt remember, Mraize wears slippers when he meets with Ash in Oathbringer. I find this awesomely hilarious. Mraize, the mobster boss, hunter, scarred warrior, worldhopper, spy and general enigma is wearing stormin slippers? So, lets discuss! Anyone else who are fascinated by Mraizes slippers? How many pairs do we think he has? Are they invested? Does he have slippers from different planets? What size are they? SLIPPERS!!!!

“The Night Watcher is of the old goat.”

I'm imagining a Cinderella-esque tale now, with the put-upon Mraizerella having to flee the ball and leaving one of his precious Shardslippers behind. Of course they can only fit him because they're made for him and so Princess Radiant goes around the land searching for the one person that the Shardslipper fits...

Other - Ialai. She's as bad as Sadeas, only still alive.

"Your goat is too nice. Old guys shouldn’t have nice goats. It means they spend way too much time swinging a sword or punching people. You should have an old flabby goat. Then I’d trust you." "Hello! Would you like to destroy some goats today?" EDIT: "I am... I was Goat." -- Honor

Given Sanderson's Final Fantasy inspirations, should we be on the look-out for evolved Aviar that people can ride around on---err, chocobos? Or if Aviar ride humans... are humans the chocobos???

I would never read this series by Beandon Seanderson:

Side note, "Mraize's slippers!" sounds like a fantastic Rosharan curse/exclamation.

These WoBs are what I could find on the heralds, spoilered for length.

When you use the Coppermind article on chulls for a Spanish assignment.

YKYASF when you give an abrupt, sharp intake of breath every time you turn off the light. or when you have to watch your stormin' language

@Robinski, @kais, and @Silk, I guess I'll have to have a little ReCon all by myself then! I'm sure there will be lots of pictures. My wife is busy putting together a travel package for the week before, which looks Amazing...

Here is a relevant WoB he answered recently regarding Tearim in the Stormlight Archives. https://wob.coppermind.net/events/360/#e10884

The big thing we have to know is whether the Sleepless are finite. Arclo seems to imply that he can breed new hordelings to store memory, and to me that implies he can breed more to supply mental capability. If those are both true, they can grow infinitely. If that happens, then killing them in a conventional sense is impossible for sure. They would have to be very stupid or suicidal to put all of their hordelings into the same location. That doesn't rule out something that attacks their soul or mind. Both of those are weapons that a shard has access to. If you killed the mind of a Sleepless, their cremlings might die all at once, or become normal insects (with high degrees of specialization, causing them to die in nature relatively quickly). Severing their soul would kill them as well, as we see with Shardblades (Shardblades wouldn't do anything except just cut off individual cremlings from the horde, but a more powerful item like Nightblood might hit the greater hidden soul) As for how they get into piles, the other sleepless would probably do that for a fallen comrade. I'm pretty certain that the sleepless are native to the system at least, and probably the planet. The type of crustacean/insectoid life that we have seen on Roshar has yet to be seen on any other visited world. The Saih, on the other hand, could very well be from Ashen or Braize or another system entirely. I would call out that Arclo does claim to Lift that he is "just another refugee." As he is talking to Lift, who isn't a refugee in the smaller sense of refugees from the local war, it probably refers to something else. That could be him stating he a refugee from Aimia, or more broadly a refugee of the planet Roshar (which is what Lift is technically).

I choose to believe Mraize was wearing these pink chicken slippers at the time. Honestly, this is the funniest thing I've read all day, I can't believe I didn't notice this. Of course, Mraize has slippers for all occasions. Hunting slippers, sleeping slippers, sneaky slippers. Slippers he wears under other shoes because who can't resist their fluffiness? The list goes on.

Apparently ya boi's a popular contributor this week.

You know you’re a sanderfan when you went around on Halloween as a Steel Inquisitor and whenever you were asked what it was you said, “It’s from a book by Brandon Sanderson, you should read it! Remember Brandon Sanderson,” while your fellow sanderfan friend pulls you away laughing.

YKYASFW you silently laugh at people complaining of the “really long” books they read in class.

I doubt it. How would you "stamp" an atom, after all? Also, it's not the size of the change, it's the plausibility. Changing the atom...you would have to convince it that during its creation, however many billions of years ago, it ended up with a different number of protons, and that everything that had happened since then was different. Don't think that's going to be happening.

The way I see it is that your unconscious mind can still tap something that you need like how an Allomancer can burn a Pewter when the body needs it. That the unconscious mind provides the Intent needed.

ITS HERE!!!! ARCANUM UNBOUND!!! THE LIBRARY GOT IT!!!!

Assuming they didn't just come up with that symbol on their own, it should be Malatium because it is the only metal we know of without a previously revealed feruchemical symbol.

"No." Lena shrugged. "If she digs her own grave, she digs her own grave. And from what I've seen of her so far, she works better on her own anyway." She followed Alask over to the front reception and added quietly. "I can answer some easy medical questions, so if they try to test us, just let me speak. Straightening she smiled at the person there. "Hello." She greeted them and made sure her smile was cute and harmless. "We are from a voluntary group focused on medical aid and wanted to ask if you have some classes available, where we could improve our knowledge." @ShadowLord_Lith

Welcome! Don't take anything that rhymes with Wookiee or bake. You will regret it for the rest of your life.

They risked getting bruises, so they got in their banana-mobiles and peeled out of there.

I don't see how that description is any different than what we see on-screen. You use primer cubes to copy other Metallic Arts; I suspect that's all they're referring to.

As I said before, nobody else has a problem with the way the polls are working. Therefore I will not be engaging in any more discussion along these lines, as it has no purpose. I’m not here to dig into the pedantry of polls, I’m here to RP. Ah, my bad. We use the PM so as to not clutter up the thread with endless discussions and stuff like that. Unless Sorana, as the creator of the PM, specifically wishes us to do it differently - and iirc she’s said the same thing I just did - we will not be changing this, as again, nobody else has brought up complaints. We have different people roleplaying now. There shouldn’t be a need to argue over every word in the questions. One person can look at the discussions going on, take the relevant information from them, and pose it as options. Boom. Done. What about my content was negative? I think that the only real issue we have is that these discussions aren’t going anywhere. That may be because there is nowhere for them to go. Oh, never mind. I never said I approved of that style of RPing, only that some people use it. I won’t fault them for it, but if they aren’t keeping track of OOC events, then that is their fault; however, they don’t have to vote if they don’t want to or can’t find the time. It would be best if we had as many votes as possible, to gauge what people want, but nobody is obligated to do so. Xino, this isn’t sudden. There have been complaints for months now. And regardless of what anyone wants, people will vote for what they vote for. Teenagers doing teenager things with magical powers and the emotions that come with sometimes fighting evil. It would be safest to stop assuming that. Literally everything is malleable. That doesn’t mean we should want to change it, not at all, but anything can be changed. Like your aversion to changing worldbuilding - inflexible. Xino, I don’t think any of the rest of us want to continue these lines of discussion. To the rest of us, there is nothing else to address. This discussion should already be at its end. We’re all tired of it.

Completely inrelated, but when you use YKYASW, you can’t add when after it, because then you just said ‘You know your a Sanderfan when when.’

“Blood for the blood goat.”

Oh my Shards, I can't unsee that now. But cats are more soft! Little dogs are aggressive and big dogs can't fit in your lap. Cats are quiet and sweet.

Recently I finished Warbreaker, and I loved the magic system, but was disappointed to find there was no visual Ars Arcana like we've gotten for most of the other magic systems. So, I made my own. I'm planning to make another one for the other aspects of awakening, but the there was so much info on the heightenings that it grew into its own page. Let me know what you guys think! https://imgur.com/a/4wF3fOj

In Soviet Roshar, you are stick

In Soviet Roshar, a Sanderson-obsessed kid makes up excuses to post on a nonsensical thread in rabbit-hole nerdy website when he's supposed to be doing something with his life! Oh wait, that happens in real life. Weird...

I'll take a swing at the mental health angle, since that's a large part of what I do. Kaladin is pretty straightforward so I'll agree on depression absolutely. Shallan is kind of impossible to diagnose. She doesn't have PTSD, although that term gets overused extensively by the lay community. I would classify her as "childhood trauma", with everything else being a coping mechanism related to that. She's demonstrated avoidance mechanisms, and occasional panic attacks as a result. She has something like a borderline personality disorder also occurring. The "multiple personalities" thing seems to be more a side effect of overuse of her illusion magic than an organic cause as Hoid seems immediately familiar with her problems. I think "Anger Management / Rage" are more the core mental health problems of Dalinar's psychological functioning. Dalinar uses alcohol as a means to an end (self-treating other mental health anguishes), rather than as an end to itself. It is a substance misuse problem, but I wouldn't qualify it as a classic addiction scenario. Indeed he has shown the ability to stop alcohol consumption rather rapidly at multiple points, and doesn't have that constant desire/craving to consume alcohol that is so central to addiction. Teft is a much better example of true substance abuse disorder, the craving to use is always there and he fears regressing into addiction whenever he has free time or expendable income. Alcohol is something Dalinar uses to retreat from the anguish of Evi's loss and later to hide of the re-awakening thrill he feels at Vedenar, he doesn't have a single minded fixation on using alcohol itself just to use it though. Also the alcohol benders are a fairly recent change for him, Dalinar's rage and the consequences of him letting it out have been a black mark on his career as far back as we have flashbacks though.Szeth has a cult mentality. That's not necessarily a diagnosis, but his need to follow an authority it is the source of his problems. For Renarin I'd note that Aspergers as a terminology has been phased out. Autism spectrum (high functioning) would probably be the more correct term. Even with that diagnosis though, I'm not completely convinced. Renarin has certainly shown a large degree of social awkwardness and likely has a history of bullying, but we haven't seen him grossly misunderstanding social cues from others though or acting unusually inappropriate in social settings beyond excessive fidgeting. Jasnah we don't know enough about. She had some sort of acute "madness" as a child, but the fact that it hasn't recurred makes a diagnosis of schizophrenia pretty unlikely. I think she also had some sort of traumatic event occur as child, and the extreme anger+violence she showed to the potential rapist/murderers in Khabranth, along with her comment about learning that even those you love can hurt you probably offers us a sad clue of what kind of trauma she experienced. It will likely be many books before we get a clear picture of her past though. Taln seems like a classic PTSD case. Even after his mind was temporarily restored by Dalinar's rush of stormlight and he started talking lucidly and hopefully, Ash later notes that the sights and sounds of battle reduced him to a catatonic crying mess. He seems like the classic soldier case of PTSD. We'll probably see more of this later. Ash is OCD. Her compulsion is to destroy any images of herself. The scene where she forces herself to look downwards because she knows that if she sees any images of herself she will need to destroy them is a giveaway. It's not a thing she chooses to do, it's a compulsive behavior.

I thought about this for a while, but this isn't an error. Kelsier is still in Shadesmar, and all the stuff (like the walls) in the Physical Realm manifests as misty stuff where Kelsier is. So even if he's carrying the knife and the orb, he can walk right through it.

I don't know if this is a typo, an oversight, or deliberate, but Kelsier uses almost the exact same words to describe something in a very short period of time. Chapter 3, second page, near the top. Page 66 of the ebook version. Also, Chapter 2, page 3 (page 51 of the ebook) it says I'm not sure if that turn of phrase is deliberate. It makes it sound like Khriss is following behind him with her weapon, while in fact she is sitting on her stool.

Location 1117 on the Kindle edition (on Kindle Cloudreader so i cant see page numbers). When Kelsier is talking about the stash behind the mantle left by Mare and himself, it says, "Those was gone now." It should read "Those were gone now." Unless I'm missing something painfully obvious. Actually, I think it may have been meant to say "That was gone now." Implying the stash as a singular object instead of a grouping of object. So idk, one of the two haha.

Two Years, Three Months, and Seven Days Ago Darwin Joy scrambled among the wreckage of her former home. It was made of ashes now. How had Joy survived the firestorm that had filled her home? She'd thought she was dead. She wasn't, surprisingly. Joy was still half dead. She coughed on the smoke, but it wasn't as bad as it could've been. She'd heard of the strange people from powers in other countries or cities, even, but... She hadn't thought the 'Epics' would come to Darwin. Epic was a name coined by Americans, but it had spread. Some people believed that the Epics were kind, still. Joy knew they weren't, now. She'd seen the monster who had destroyed her life kill a child in front of its mother. The monster had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it. That just wasn't right. Joy had gotten a good look at the Epic. He had broad shoulders and his muscles had ripped through his clothes. He had thick and bushy brown hair. He was clean shaven. Fancy. Joy coughed out and found herself limping. A pile of wreckage or something landed on her leg. And it had scorched her. She felt the fire. "That... monster." Joy breathed out as she made it out of the still warm wreckage. Joy was coughing up something. She was scared. She might still die. She found she didn't care as much as she should've. Joy's family had still been in her house. She'd tried to protect her little brother, Gabriel. Her memory of his burns scarred her memory. He'd died from the blaze consuming him. Joy's sister, Ella, had collapsed, mere breaths from the window. Joy's father had made it out of the door when the Epic had turned away with a dismissive wave. A bolt of fire had consumed him. Joy's last sight of her mother was the debris crushing her. She'd been having a party too. So it was her fault when her best friend, Madeline, died in Joy's arms as she'd nearly escaped. When Fern, another friend, had been lost inside the building. Gabby had tried to attack the Epic in an act of boldness and stupidity. She'd suffered as the flames sucked up her skin. Veronica had died from smoke inhalation. Or so Joy assumed. Joy didn't even know where Madison was. Joy thought she might've survived. She'd seen Madison's face as she'd gone out of the back window. Her long black hair wasn't even scorched. Madison might've died from the smoke, though. Callie had also been consumed by the fire. Ben, the first boy that Joy had ever kissed, was made of ash. John, Gabby's boyfriend, had let himself be caught by the fire after seeing her out the window. Joy didn't know how Mark had died. All she knew was that she'd found his corpse. The fifteen year old cried in the rubble for the end of life as she had known it. Her face was scarred, along with her hands. Everything had fallen apart. They were all dead. It was Joy's fault. I hate the Epics. I hate them all. Where was the monster now, anyway? Joy's name didn't fit any more. She wasn't happy. She was just empty. But she didn't have another one. Her last name was gone too. Probably wiped off the planet. "I'm going to kill him." Joy decided. "Good plan. I think I might too. Unfortunately, I can't have you knowing who I am." That was Madison's voice. Something was wrong with it. Too strained. Joy spun around. "You?" She asked. "What... You're alive!" Madison wasn't scarred. Her skin was perfect. Flawless. "I think I see it now. Yes. I will." She was distant. She was talking to someone else. Something was wrong. "Joy- if it counts for anything- I'm sorry I have to do this." "Madison..." Joy's tone was full of warning. "What are you doing?" She pulled a packet of seeds out of her pocket and tore it open with her mouth. "Don't call me that. From now on, my name is Ivystorm. And nobody can have heard you. You see, I have to kill everyone here now. They've heard that name, Joy. Thank you." Vines sprouted from the seeds. They shot forward towards Joy. She screamed as they wrapped around her, tightening. She- couldn't - breath. I won't be taken like this! Joy wanted to shout out. She kicked her legs out. Madison - no, Ivystorm - had a sick look of pleasure in her eyes. The vines sprouted spikes and the pain rushed down her arm. I survived! I survived the fire! "Flamebringer can't know I was burned. You see, I don't have scars. I can heal now. I'm immortal, Joy. Joy. I want to hear you beg. Or you're going to be thrown out-" Ivystorm flicked her hand and a planted tree rose up to a higher height. "Like a piece of trash." The tree immediately wilted. The vines loosened so that Joy could breath. "Madison, please..." Joy whimpered. "On your knees." Ivystorm shoved the vines down with her mind and they knocked her down. Her head hit the ground. Her mouth. A tooth sprayed out from her mouth. Pain. She screamed out. "Bark like a dog." Joy didn't want to die, no matter how noble she could sound. So she barked. "Cute. Like your little brother. Wait- he's dead, isn't he?" Joy felt rage rise up and she tried to jump at Ivystorm, but the vines tightened and pulled her into the ground. "Aren't you deadly allergic to roses?" She asked, as if pondering it. "No... you wouldn't... Madison, it's me. I'm your friend." "You always liked Madeline more." "That's not... to do... with this..." Joy choked out as the vines constricted. The first bud began to sprout. As a contrast to the danger, it was beautiful. Joy usually had an EpiPen on her, but she must've lost it in the fire. Besides, Ivystorm would never have let her use it. "Yes, she's dead, isn't she? I only wish I'd been able to watch." "Madison, it's me. Your friend. You don't want to do this!" Joy was crying. She was sobbing out. She was choking out terrible whimpers and tears. "Please... please... please..." "This is getting pathetic." Ivystorm waved a hand and the roses grew up. Joy coughed out. Her allergy was taking over. It was pulling her down. "I have work to do. Have fun knowing you failed. All of their deaths were your fault, you know." Joy coughed up a spitball of blood and spit it at Ivystorm. Her clothes were ruined, but her body was perfectly fine. Better than ever. Beautifully cold. The type of pretty everyone wanted. I failed. That was Joy's last thought.

Day 0 The Darwin Tree Ivystorm sat in the heartroom, watching the sun set. "Ivystorm, there is an Epic here to see you," a plaything said as she scurried up out of the stairway. Ivystorm pretended not to hear the thing. It would be amusing if she tried to get Ivystorm's attention. This thing was a new one in Ivystorm's service. She would need to be tested. Or maybe, if the others started to get riled up, she could use her as an example. "Ivystorm?" Ivystorm rose a branch just a tiny bit in front of the thing's feet so that she would stumble. The rest of the things who were standing around the throne room stared at her in a look of pity. "Who is it?" Ivystorm asked, finally deigning to look at the thing. She was pretty. That bugged Ivystorm. The thing hit the branch that Ivystorm had raised. "Wall-" The pretty little thing tripped over the branch and went sprawling over onto the ground. The playthings that were stationed around the heartroom of the enormous Darwin Tree looked at the pretty little thing with something that was alike to pity. She looked at Ivystorm with an expression of terror. Oh, yes. "Careful, thing. Wouldn't want to hurt that pretty little face of yours." "Um, no. Thank you, Ivystorm, thank you..." She got on her knees and was slobberingly thankful. It made Ivystorm sick to her stomach. She pulled a vine down from the roof and shot it towards her. "Wallraiser is here. He wants to build up a new residential section for some recent arrivals." She still hadn't noticed the vine that was creeping up behind her. "Tell me you didn't interrupt me to tell me that. Wallraiser could've come himself. I'm not mad at him." You pretty little thing, however... "You know Wallraiser. He's probably too scared of you, after that incident last week." Crystalvision said. She lounged against the wall of the heartroom. Ivystorm's spy had been informing her of important events in the rest of the continent. She checked something that looked like a mirror but was actually a crystal so she could see events far away. "Ugh, probably." Ivystorm ran a finger through her hair. "Now... I might not be mad at Wallraiser for that, but..." I can still stay in command. Ivystorm flicked her hand and the vine grabbed the pretty young thing's ankle. The pretty young thing screamed as she felt the vine. "Come on, give me a show. Maybe I'll even let you live." The pretty young thing looked up at Ivystorm in a look of utter terror. She opened her mouth to say something, but the vine grew thorns that pierced her ankle. She screamed out in pain and she grabbed at the vine. Ivystorm laughed and when she touched the vine, she wrapped the vine around her hand. She yanked the pretty little thing from side to side. Ivystorm wrapped the vine up and down the pretty little thing's arm and stabbed at it with vines. Crystalvision snapped the 'mirror' closed and watched the pretty little thing. "Come on, plaything. Scream for me." Red blood seeped into the vine. "Don't be so boring." "Help me!" The pretty little plaything screamed out. "Help, help, help." She tried to meet all of Ivystorm's plaything's eyes, but they all looked away. Ivystorm hoped one would try something. "Come on, you can do better then that." Ivystorm egged on. She got out of her throne and walked over to the pretty little plaything. She released the vines and she saw the scratches up and down the pretty little plaything's arms and legs. "Thank you..." The pretty little thing said. "Thank you..." The other playthings looked to each other with a look of pity. The girl didn't know what was coming for her. Ivystorm didn't know the meaning of the word 'mercy.' Ivystorm laughed. "You think I'm letting you go?" "Yes?" The pretty little thing asked, a question mark. As Ivystorm rose on top of her, tears began to streak down the thing's face. "I... please..." "Oh, come on." Ivystorm laughed and stabbed her with vines into her forehead. She scarred her. She ripped that face into ugliness. Tears stained her and she screamed and screamed as Ivystorm ruined every good part of her. She ripped up the hair and her clothes. "Isn't it hilarious?" She asked. Everyone was silent, except for Crystalvision who laughed. "What a failure. Come on, talk." "Please..." The plaything wept. Ivystorm shot a vine into her mouth and ripped out her tongue. Then Ivystorm killed her. "A warning." Ivystorm said as she sat back onto her throne. With a smile.