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Prelude: The Sign of Fire As far as canalside inns went, the Sign of Fire was among the oldest, and the most reputable. The foundation stones had been laid, or so the legends went, in the days of the Deepness, the deep dark days before the Lord Ruler himself had slain the evil and ascended to divinity. Prelans and nobles alike tarried at the Sign of Fire, partaking of the house fare and the wine before their journey led them ever onwards, down the winding waterways towards Tathingdwen proper. Everywhere you looked, Kais said, was water, taking you where the proper flow of things were, whether it was to Tathingdwen, or the water eagerly seeking out the Channerel, and from the Channerel to Luthadel, the beating heart of the Final Empire. (Kais wasn’t much of a poet. But the house wine at the Sign of Fire did that to a man.) The water took you past majestic Torinost, where on a quiet day, the ash didn’t fall, and you could almost believe you lived in one of the days of legend, with skies a crisp, pale grey, and the air fresh and clear. Stories, mostly. And the follies of bards, some of whom wore bright copper bracelets that gleamed as they played the lute and the harp. Count Olaf, the newly-minted head of House Ffnord, set down his wine glass. Anticipation warred with caution; caution won out. He had not been acclaimed as lord of House Ffnord by utter recklessness. Yet, even accepting the invitation had been some form of risk. The promise of House Ffnord entering into a business contract with House Jerzy had been subtle, but it was the sort of promise that you had to respond to, because of the sheer opportunity it offered. Could House Ffnord afford to pass up this opportunity? And then there was the caution there: why meet in the Terris Dominance? House Jerzy was a Western House, famous for its fine wines, answering to the Herons of Tremredare. What business did any Jerzy—or their representative—have, meeting at an admittedly celebrated inn with admittedly fine wine in a Dominance so far from their own? So far, Kais had seemed painfully exacting. He’d wanted to know about the funds House Ffnord was prepared to offer, the state of House Ffnord’s previous ventures, figures, accounts, and schedules. A minor insult, really, that the head of House Ffnord had been met by a glorified secretary, but Olaf smiled tightly and swallowed it. A newly-minted House Lord could afford only so much assertiveness. And the letter had the secret marks, etched into the edge of the paper, indicating authenticity and urgency. Which meant that the Synod, too, was keeping a close eye on things. The thought brought him back to his wine glass. It was good wine, and Olaf felt his mood ease a little. Tathingdwen was a city of secrets, and the Synod was the best-kept secret of all. It was very much like the Synod to proceed with this level of skulduggery. Wheels within wheels. Generation after generation of Keepers, preserving the collective knowledge of the world within their copperminds, against some distant future where it might be needed. Always hoarding, in some desperate, blind faith. Risk endangered not just one member of the Synod, but the painstakingly-gathered treasure trove of human knowledge. “I presume,” Kais said, “That we can trust to your discretion.” He sketched it; slowly, with his index finger, the sign for authenticity again. And there it was, and Olaf wondered if it had been just that: some lie to wrangle him north, to the Terris Dominance, when really, any true representative of House Jerzy should have been satisfied with a meeting in the West. He made the recognition sign, slowly, deliberately, aggravatedly. “Do you represent House Jerzy, then?” Olaf wanted to know. He did not like the feeling of having been used. He did not much like being led on a merry chase under false pretences, either. Kais nodded. “This much is true. House Jerzy has been looking for new distributors with access to more lucrative markets. It was suggested that House Ffnord has those capabilities. The question of course is whether we have common interests, and the contract is suitable.” “I believe we’ve spent the past hours establishing that House Ffnord has the connections that House Jerzy seeks,” Olaf said, tightly. Two layers at once. Always deception, always another secret. “Have you,” Kais said, a seeming non-sequitur, “Heard about that business in Frebarind? A nasty affair, that.” “No,” Olaf said, tersely. “I can’t say I have.” “I think you’ll find it—interesting,” Kais said. The fire crackled with warmth and light, but Hazen still felt cold. He unfolded the letter again, and read it, but the words never changed. They know, he read. They’re coming for you. Get out as fast as you can. It was tempting to dismiss it. The Synod was too well-hidden; generation after generation holding fast to the secrecy that was their chief tool of survival in the Lord Ruler’s harsh world. But there were the deaths. Ias had drowned; a simple boating accident, they said. Canal boats were well-known to tip over, if the boatman wasn’t careful, and the boatman had been drunk. It didn’t matter that Ias knew how to swim. He’d gone under the boat, and hadn’t been able to get to the surface. Hadn’t stored pewter either, though Hazen wasn’t certain if tapping pewter would have helped. Perhaps it would only have meant that he would have drowned faster. Ancestors’ mercy, Hazen thought. A terrible way to die, drowning. And Ias had always that bright smile, the one that lit up an entire keep with its warmth. The boatman responsible was dead soon after: an attempted mugging gone bad fast. They’d found the murderer, and had strung him up without mercy. But it didn’t matter. The boatman was slain, and Ias was gone; another source of brightness faded from the world. Perhaps he had simply burned too brightly. But then there was Pashan, who had been run over by a wagon, and seriously injured. The wagon-driver had been distraught, and had sworn again and again that something had spooked the horse. Hazen did not think the man had it in him to lie, and yet the horse, a solid raw-boned draft-horse that was getting on in years, was placid, and Hazen would sooner swear that he was Mistborn than believe that the horse had spooked. Pashan had died in her sleep, days after. Radur had been knifed in an alley while on the way home. There were only so many unexplained deaths you could accept, before you had to start to ask questions. Before you had to wonder if there was something more sinister at work there. The Synod had sent them all to Frebarind. Hazen had been proud to accept the charge of leading the small branch of the Synod there. Frebarind was a bustling settlement, and the Steward of Tathingdwen was sparing no expense in investing in it. With the flow of funds came nobles and obligators, and various opportunities for the Synod to establish a presence in Frebarind and to listen in on the secrets and whispers of power. Not everyone had liked this move. The traditionalists had claimed this was too ambitious; that the Synod’s place was in the shadows, that this stepped too close to attempting to place a hand on the rowing pole. Their place was not to steer the boat, but to keep to the shadows beneath the water. The pragmatists had claimed that this was their chance to establish a new presence, and every available opportunity to increase the Synod’s resilience should be taken; they could not always rely on secrecy to save them from the Lord Ruler. The historians had flatly claimed this was a distraction from their sole task to preserve knowledge and ignored everyone. Did this sort of disagreement drive Keeper to kill Keeper? Hazen didn’t know. The thought was a distressing one. And now, days later, a letter had come to him, borne swiftly by water, and by the secret channels and ways that the Synod knew of, and bearing the etched markings for authenticity and urgency and secrecy, and a dire warning. Hazen bowed his head. He was the head of the Synod-in-Frebarind. Leaving was deserting his post, abandoning those under his care. And yet the letter had come, but it bore only a warning; no strict orders to leave. Decision made as swiftly as impulse; Hazen balled the letter up and tossed it into the crackling flames. “No,” he said aloud. He had a duty, and he was charged with the protection and the safeguarding of the Synod-in-Frebarind. His place was here. Even if staying here killed him. The watchman cried the hour. All was well. Few were brave enough to dare the mists, although the nobles and the Allomancers among their number might very well claim the mists as their own. In a small, unremarkable house in Frebarind, Hazen lay still on the ground, blood pooling onto the carpet. His arms were badly burned. The fire roared; the Keeper had stuffed it full of important documents, preferring destruction to having those documents used against the Synod. A desperate move, perhaps. Or a dying man’s defiance. It did not matter. Flames spread across the wood-paneled study, and across the house, and in an hour’s time, the house itself went up in a shout of fire. “Hazen,” Kais said, “Was a fool.” He looked at his wine glass, but his gaze seemed distant, recalling. “The Synod’s eyes and ears had received word that the Synod-in-Frebarind had been compromised, but we were not certain what the nature of the compromise was. I sent warning to Hazen. He chose to ignore it.” An entire branch of the Synod compromised, Olaf thought. It sounded disturbingly familiar, as though it was the same story, the same pattern, playing itself out again and again. He thought of that business in Luthadel, and the obligators. “And then he was dead soon after, and the Synod-in-Frebarind panicked. As though any reasonable person would not have been concerned after the first death!” He shook his head. “The Synod debated, of course. As always. The traditionalists screamed that this was the end, that everyone had to go back into hiding and the Synod-in-Frebarind had to be severed—” he made a sharp, cutting gesture with his free hand, “—forgotten, abandoned as lost. The historians didn’t care, but didn’t like the idea of abandoning our own. The pragmatists pointed out that cutting off the Frebarind branch meant we had no way of assessing the extent of the damage, or reasonably figuring out how much the Steel Inquisition knew, or how much trouble we were in.” The Steel Inquisition. Words to chill the heart, even now. And as the newly-minted House Lord of House Ffnord, Olaf was sternly resolved to stay on the right side of the Steel Ministry. Even the lord of a Great House gave way when the Steel Inquisition got involved. “Surely the most reasonable resolution was to assess the situation,” he temporised. “The Synod in Tathingdwen, no matter how well-informed, was too removed from the situation in Frebarind to make the necessary decisions.” Kais nodded approvingly. “That was the conclusion they reached eventually, when wiser, cooler heads prevailed. I was in Tathingdwen then, because Lord Jerzy was attempting to negotiate cultivar access with another House, and could be easily dispatched to Frebarind.” “How bad was it?” Olaf asked, curious in spite of himself. He had not heard of the Frebarind affair; he had been somewhat removed from Synod politics since his accession to the House Lord’s seat, and yet there had been something in the messages from the Synod of late. Something that suggested weight, foreboding. “The Synod-in-Frebarind was thoroughly infested with Spiked infiltrators,” Kais said, with distaste. “I don’t know what Hazen thought he was doing, but it needed to be purged, to the root...” Welcome to Long Game 86: A Stricken Match! The Terris Synod in the quiet town of Frebarind is threatened by Spiked servants of the Lord Ruler in their quest for the knowledge sought by the Keepers. Fail to root them out in this formerly sleepy town, and the last bastion of Feruchemy will be left vulnerable to his minions. This game is a rerun of LG48, but features minor edits to a few of the Ferring roles, and a slight change to the action system as well. Otherwise, it should function fairly similarly. You may access the rules here. Clarifications asked from LG48 are already in the doc, so please check there first to see if your question has already been answered. Also, please note for story and character purposes that this is a prequel, as Olaf has not reduced Tathingdwen to ashes quite yet. He's getting there, though. My co-GM for this game will be the wonderful @Kasimir. You have him to thank for the intro writeup, as well as all the writeups going forward. He will also be doing his best to fill your PMs with sarkastic commentary as he feels it is needed. The IM, to whom you may bring concerns, is @Devotary of Spontaneity. I plan to begin this game in roughly one week’s time, on Monday 30 May at 10:00 PM EDT (UTC -4). Should rollover change prove necessary, or an extension due to untenably low player counts, I will make an announcement in-thread. Thank you all and I look forward to a wonderful game! Good luck to all! Quick Links: Player List: (Note: if you do not give me a character description, I will give you a bad one. Please make one )

The wild chalklings were everywhere. They hit the soldiers like a tsunami, breaking all defenses in a matter of minutes. The cause of this devastation quickly became apparent. Several Rithmatists had become corrupted, and had turned into the nefarious Forgotten. They had placed themselves in positions of power, and had used their authority to undermine the defense. Many Rithmatists lost their lives that day. One group managed to form a defensive perimeter around themselves. Surrounded on all sides, panic transformed into paranoia. Were any Forgotten still among them? Could anyone be trusted, on this darkest of days? The group did not know, but resolved to rout out any Forgotten still left. Then, and only then, could they push back against the horde surrounding them. It was a desperate hour, and the Rithmatists needed all the help they could get. Welcome to Long Game 73. I'm Sart, your GM. This is a rerun of Long Game 57, but now all the secrets are revealed. Rules: Player List: This game will start on January 28th, at 6 PM CST. Quick Links:

Night fell on Tathingdwen, a still moonlight broken by falling flakes of ash the only lighting available to the shrouded, mist-covered city. The city, and the secret sect that lived within it: the Terris Synod, a solitary beacon of hope. Marne, the highest-ranking member of that Synod, paced in his office, discontent. Swirling rumours, which he had little power or desire to refute, were being whispered around the hideout. Rumours of Steel Inquisitors, Spiked servants of the Lord Ruler, that had supposedly infiltrated the last bastion of Feruchemy left on Scadrial. Marne found them near unbelievable, but who was he to dismiss the evidence of his Windwhisperers that had seen and heard otherwise? The Synod would be foolish to ignore the members they swore to protect, particularly when they warned of impending danger. However, paranoia was not yet necessary, especially when accusations were so weighty, and evidence was so scarce. The implications of a corrupted Synod were not lost on Marne. At best, it meant that one of his friends, who he had known all his life, was covertly plotting his downfall, At worst…at worst, the Lord Ruler would find and exterminate the last free, living Feruchemists. Neither option was particularly appealing to Marne, and he chose not to believe them—for now. But perhaps further evidence would be worth examining. At last choosing a direction, Marne walked over to his desk, plopping down in the high oak chair with a sigh. Taking out a simple sheet of paper and a pen, he tapped into his tinmind, allowing him to focus on the paper in the dim lighting, and began to write. My fellow Feruchemists, Concerns have been raised about supposed infiltrators and spies within our midst by several members of our congregation. While there may be no cause for immediate concern, as evidence presented so far is inconclusive… Count Olaf, an esteemed member of the Luthadel nobility and newly ascended leader of House Ffnord, prowled through the quiet streets of Tathingdwen. Small steel spikes pricked him in a dozen concealed places, the aftermath of an audience with the Lord Ruler himself. That audience had nearly destroyed his sanity, and had ended with him being given a task; to take a small group and investigate Tathingdwen, finding and infiltrating any groups of Feruchemists found. Then, he was to either kill them all himself, or report back to the Lord Ruler, who would send his Inquisitors to do the same. Finding the Terris Synod had been no easy task. The group was naturally secretive, and suspicious of newcomers. However, one by one, all the spiked in his group had managed to enter the community of Feruchemists there. He alone remained rejected by the society. There was no way for all his spikes to go unnoticed by the vigilant wardens that guarded the Synod’s network of tunnels and safe houses, and his discovery within the society would endanger those already concealed within the Terris ranks. However, feeding the fires of paranoia that existed within the Synod was always a good idea. Not only because feeding fires, even metaphorical, was a good thing in Olaf’s view—though that was certainly part of it—but because Olaf would have the chance to kill Marne, the leader of the Synod who retained skepticism about the presence of Spiked, which would cause enough general mayhem to keep the Synod impotent until he, Olaf, could report back to the Lord Ruler and instruct him to ravage the hideout. Readying a brand, the tip of which was covered in dry tar and pitch, Olaf approached what he believed to be, from the limited directions his associates had been able to slip to him, the study of Marne. The building was nondescript; two stories of solid oak, it had likely been built shortly after the city became a major trading point as a tavern or small storefront. Now it housed the last ruler of the Synod. Striking a match, Olaf ignited the end of the brand, watching it burst alight in a flurry of sparks. He grinned, breathing in once more the fragrance of smoke, and kicked at the nearest ground-floor window with his boot. The metal-reinforced studs on the heel easily shattered the thin glass, creating a sizeable hole through which Olaf threw the burning torch. As the house began to be consumed by flames, Olaf waited by the door, ready for his quarry to come fleeing. Marne put the finishing touches to his letter to the Synod, signing it with a flourish that was just slightly more extravagant than was perhaps necessary. Satisfied with his argument, which would hopefully help stop the paranoid rumours from spreading without solid evidence, he walked towards the staircase leading down to the ground floor, where his main desk was situated. Marne frowned. A faint scent of burning wood drifted up to him, followed by a wisp of black smoke. Panic rose in him immediately, followed by grim determination. Tapping some of his zincmind to clear his thoughts, Marne advanced cautiously down the stairs, careful not to breathe in the smoke too deeply. Peering down the staircase, he saw that the front window had been broken with what appeared to be a foot, judging by the boot-shaped imprint in the glass, and that a brand had been thrown into his writing desk. He felt another flare of panic rise within him. The desk contained older, yet important documents, and they were slowly being consumed by flames. Shoving down his innate revulsion at the sight of fire, Marne forced himself to tear his eyes away from the burning desk. Escape was his priority, even if it meant sacrificing some his papers to fire. Whoever had found him out would need to be neutralised. Tapping speed and strength, Marne rushed towards the door, slamming his shoulder into it and bringing the sturdy wooden structure down. Failing to regain his balance after his mad rush, he collapsed on top of the door. Storing weight, Marne drew himself up and turned around towards his burning house, scanning the street behind it for an intruder. It didn’t take long to find the culprit. A tall, skinny man stood framed in the blaze of the wooden house. Marne could pick out few distinctive features, other than the man’s single eyebrow and tattooed ankle, but from the brand in his hand, as well as the metalminds that were visible as bulges in his clothing, Marne knew he was facing a dedicated Full Feruchemist. Preparing himself to engage in his first real conflict, Marne slowly advanced on the intruder. His knowledge of Feruchemy was extensive. He now just had to use it. Olaf smiled as he witnessed the panicked rush of Marne out of the burning house. Knowing that the Feruchemist was likely a dangerous foe, and that the blaze of the wooden house would soon attract bystanders to intervene, Olaf would need every advantage he could get. A distracted opponent was a welcome one. Preparing to tap his steel, Olaf angled himself towards the oncoming Synod member, ready to face him; his first real challenge. And felt an overwhelming nausea take him, dropping him to his knees. It happened occasionally. Too often, really. Olaf cursed the conscience that remained in him, the vestiges of a code he had held before he came before the Lord Ruler, back when he had been only a minor nobleman, and had joined with Hadrian Heatherlocke to survive the small house war that had swept Luthadel up just two years past. He often would think of Hadrian when his conscience took him, as it did now. What Hadrian would think of him, what Hadrian would have him do. Olaf would often wonder, in moments like these, which was the real him; the hired killer and arsonist who aided the Lord Ruler, or the sceptical nobleman who worked with Hadrian to stop his machinations. Were the spikes the cause of this agony? Lord Ruler, he could be numb at times. Had he even thought about what he had been doing, these past weeks? The Feruchemist was advancing towards him, wary but determined. Olaf looked up at him. His nausea was subsiding. It would be so easy to feign defeat, and then, when Marne least expected it, to— No. Something deep within Olaf, even deeper than the introspection based on the bouts of nausea and thoughts of Hadrian, rebelled. Olaf moved quickly, not giving himself time to reconsider, not letting his insanity grip him again. Reaching under his robes, he pulled one steel spike out of his arm. Another followed, and then others from all over his body, the tips caked in dried blood. He continued until a dozen spikes lay on the ground before him. Bleeding in a dozen places, registering the look of shock on the Synod leader’s face, and finally free from the murderous thoughts at last, Olaf stripped himself of his metalminds as well. He looked up at Marne. “I’m sorry. It was the spikes after all,” he mumbled, and then passed out from blood loss. Marne stood in the burnt remains of his house. Based on the testimony of Olaf, it seemed that the rumours circulating about the hideout did have credence, after all. Storing weight in his ironmind to ensure that the stairs didn’t give way beneath him, Marne ascended to the second floor. His letter to the Synod still lay on his writing desk, remarkably untouched. Marne looked at it with a sad smile; it mattered not whether the letter was burnt or whole—it needed to be rewritten either way. Walking over to his desk, he began scribing a new letter to present tomorrow. My fellow Feruchemists, Concerns have been raised about supposed infiltrators and spies within our midst by several members of our congregation. There is cause for immediate concern, as having apprehended one of these infiltrators myself last evening, I can confirm that the presence of Spiked among us is a real and present threat... Welcome to Long Game 48: The Terris Synod. This game is set in the city of Tathingdwen during the reign of the Lord Ruler, and involves the last free remaining Feruchemists and Terrismen attempting to hide from several Spiked servants of the Lord Ruler within their midst. With Olaf’s testimony revealing the presence of Spiked among the villagers, the Synod has declared Tathingdwen closed, and will not let any in or out until all the Spiked are killed...or they themselves have been destroyed. It is now up to each of you to ensure that the last free Feruchemists survive until the fall of the Lord Ruler. The basic rules of the game may be accessed here. Should clarifications be necessary (and I imagine they will), I will add them to this post or a subsequent one as well as the doc. My co-GM for this game will be@Devotary of Spontaneity. Signups will last until next Friday the 10th of August, unless an extension proves necessary. Rollover for this game will occur around 9 PM EDT. Here is the countdown clock to the end of signups: Quick Links:

Dear ________ You have been invited to Fadrex, by the will of Lord Tekiel. And to refuse such an offer would be unprecedented. So First, I shall inform you that anyone reading this letter has a certain quality that we find extraordinary, and we wish to only grow your potential. Whether that be the will to survive these turbulent times, or a certain affinity for anything pointed, we have considered everything. However, we cannot accept everyone that has been invited, so we must first run a simple entrance test. Anyone that passes this test will be allowed in to Fadrex, and if you fail the test, well, we won’t have to worry about that. You will find enclosed within the letter all the information that you need to know before the test starts. We hope to see you next week. Sincerely, The Court Fool Roles: THUG: Our Scientists have a theory that the less intelligent you are, the stronger the body. They’re very keen to examine your dead body. Presuming you can actually survive the first attack. TINEYE: You know when everyone is silent and there’s that one guy that always talks? Well, we’re looking for you. At least you get others talking, ya know? But when you’re dead, everyone will go back to being lovely and silent. SMOKER: You hate people. Every night, you’ll take someone in so that you don’t hate yourself every night, but someone else. You can also go out and socialise with people, but who would do that? SEEKER: You stalk everyone, with no exceptions. You’ll find everything, metals or lack of metals. You can even notice if someone has spikes in their eyes! Isn’t that impressive? COINSHOT: You love to murder people. That’s all we need to know. LURCHER: You love to hug and protect people. Bit of a weird one, but we’ll give it a go. SOOTHER: You hate it when people interrupt your book reading. They’ve usually got a fair point though, like who even reads Sanderson books? Luckily, you can make people shut up. RIOTER: You love to debate, especially about politics. Is Lord Tekiel the best? After you talk to them, no-one would say no. However, no-one really trusts your opinion on the matter anymore. UNSNAPPED: We think you might be able to do something, but you also could not do anything. I’m betting on not doing anything, though. REGULAR CREW MEMBER: Everyone likes to compare themselves to others to make them feel better. You? You’re just the only one that can’t feel better. INQUISITOR: Ooooh! Shiny! Oh, and I guess you can give other people shiny things. Can’t live without shinies though, right? Cosmetic Roles: These are additional roles that players can take on at their own discretion. They do not affect the game play in any way other than to modify how the player posts. If you come up with your own role, feel free to suggest it. There is no penalty for not using one. These are here for your enjoyment, not to be a deterrent. High Imperial - Wasing the wanting of speaking in High Imperial. You must use it at least somewhere in your posts. Note: you do not have to use it for every sentence and you still need to be mostly intelligible. Survivor Priest - Kelsier wasn't just a famous crew leader for you. Perhaps you were in Luthadel during the riots. Perhaps you saw him come back. Regardless, you're a believer and must make reference to the Survivor or the Survivor religion in each post. Cassanova - Good looks are such a curse; one you know all too well. While you didn't ask for it, to you, it's obvious that you are the best looking person ever and you won't let anyone forget it. In every post, you need to remind everyone of what a heartbreaker you are. The Jaist - Somehow, somewhere, you heard about Jaism and knew it to be perfect for you. Now that the Lord Ruler is gone, you've taken up the mantle of this lost religion and in Jaist fashion, you frequently mention your faith. You must end your posts with "Praise the Ja." The Feruchemist - You’re secretly a Feruchemist, and you’re not really sure what all the metals are used for in Allomancy. But when you’re surrounded by Mistings, you just have to play along. In every post, you must mention how confused you are at all this Allomancy stuff. ---------------------------- And that's Game (3)2! Please state the name of your character and how you’re preparing for the test! If you have any questions or comments, feel free to ask either here or in a PM! Let the Chaos Test begin! All credit to my esteemed co-GM, Stink, for the role descriptions and setting, and a great many thanks to Meta for allowing us to rerun his game. I've always found rereading LG2 fascinating, and hope it's enjoyable for everyone to play! The game will begin in 168 hours time, next Sunday, at 11pm British Summer Time. Quick Links:

Iadon’s rule over Arelon is still new and unstable. The chaos of the new government is fanning the rumours of discontent in the newly goddless nation. The King’s paranoia grows with each pasing hour. Trusted friends, loyal servitors and skilled agents are all suspect in his diseased mind. He has taksed his son, Raoden, the crown prince, with the duty of investigating the ones he believes to be capable of overthrowing him. No one truly believes there is opposition to the Merchant-King, but all must bow to his mad whims. LG rules are in effect. All actions happen simultaneously. There is a 5 turn inactivity Filter.The Citizenry win when all the Eliminators are dead. PM's are Day only. Known Roles: Legionnaire - Chooses a player to Interrogate and Roleblock/protect next night. ChayShan Practioner - Can attack one player per Night. Retired Pirate - Can survive one attack or lynch per game. Bodyguard - Can protect one player from an attack per night. Merchant - Can cancel a vote. Duke - Can add a secret vote to the lynch. Dula - Can investigate a player and learn if they are an eliminator. Beggar - Can choose a known role from the dead players to become. Noble - All other citizens are nobles. They have a collective extra vote. More complicated Rules. These are the same rules, just in a lot more detail. Quick Links Game Starts: