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A chessboard sits alone in the void. It is not quite like any board one would recognize. Three colours of pieces have arranged themselves upon it, all intent upon a few small Grands painted colours just a shade off from true.

 

“Storm it all,” a spectral voice said. “Discovery Grand is Elevated to Arbiter.”

 

“Are you sure?” A slightly fainter voice asked. “It’s not within the Rules.”

 

“Neither is slaughtering the weakest Faction and deciding that no one but them will lose.”

 

“There is nothing against that in the Rules.”

 

“Nothing that would break the letter, perhaps. But they might as well have mugged the spirit of it in a back alley.”

 

“True, I suppose,” the fainter voice said, looking more closely at the board. “But is it worth going against the letter when any action you take will only have minimal effect, without going against the spirit of the Rules, as well?”

 

The first figure sighed, making a few small adjustments to the board with ethereal fingers. “It’s a matter of principle, my friend. The Game has been made into a mockery of what it was meant to be, and even if I cannot do what I would like without causing still worse harm, some justice needs to be served.”

 

“Don’t you think it’s a little cruel, giving them this moment of false hope? And for what? To make the others scramble like frightened ants, reacting to a threat that does not truly exist?”

 

“Oh, it exists. But only if they do not react to it.”

 

“So would doom them all, then. Fix the game on its current course, to derive some amusement from the shock of the other Factions?”

 

“No. This is to show them that their actions have repercussions, and breaking the spirit of the Rules comes with consequences. It may be too late to turn the tide of the Game, but if I can make them see, even for a moment, the error of their ways, then it will have been worth it.”

 

For once, the other figure found that they could not argue.

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MR7: Cycle Ten - The Remembrance of Lost Things

The painting occupied his spare hours, now. Kwai added the fiercely-grinning Cation Vinid, a splash of vivid blood on her knuckles. Another of those who had burned too brightly, he thought, and in the end, had burned out.

Bortholemew the Blind, he painted at her shoulder—barely coming up to her elbow, with a magnificent beard, curling like the froth of a well-poured cup of tea.

What did an artist do?

He created. Sometimes, Kwai thought, he remembered: more truly than the Rememberers employed by the Heritage Faction. He remembered those who were forgotten, those who were lost, those who had been trampled underfoot in the factions’ mad rush for power.

Did it matter?

Yes. He chronicled them, painstaking brush-stroke after painstaking brush-stroke, the lives that should have been. That could have been. Each figure was a memory, a quiet admonishment to the faction war that still raged, that had claimed the lives of so many.

All for a throne he himself had emptied.

Lives mattered, Kwai thought. There was the lesson in this: this was an art that picked out that which mattered, that which was of value. The Heritage Faction looked in the wrong place; in the books and the artworks of the past. They admired the splendid Lamio carvings, the rich tapestries and luxurious rugs, the wood-staining…all craftswork, but distractions from their subjects.

Art lived. Art breathed.

Another brush-stroke touched up on the faint light surrounding Eo; a platter overflowing with steamed buns before her. There was a moment’s choice between calm or joy; he hesitated and then selected the latter as the mood of the character.

After all, the inscrutably patient figures of Cang Lu and Kaleva were peace and mystery enough.

 

I5ZnETC-UOZjfiFvnDHE0W-C9SyvCqcblDZAV2ozgJeVlAIY_7ejfsiLDg7zAyHyIGVBRCeO_LkMZFvI9uqFwmCGhBSMIVl-kXHaAim64JoqxsghPzHk8Zgazmob7JPgIQ

 

Across the quiescent city, in the depths of the night, another man was hard at work. Another man remembered.

Dow sat at his workbench, frowning down at the stamp before him. Eventually, he would have to heat the soulstone, to harden and set it, he thought. But not just yet. Instinct said that there was something not quite right about the soulstamp.

His workshop was scattered with all of these things: articles he’d collected and salvage from heaps of discards. These odds and ends, these detritus spoke, if someone had the ears to listen to them. They murmured of the lives they’d led, of the lives they’d touched before they’d been broken and thrown away.

A child’s wooden doll sat on a shelf, the paint flaking, a glass eye missing. He would repaint it, eventually, and then find another glass eye for it. Not all things required forgery to fix them. Some required only the labour and a pair of attentive hands. And care, Dow thought. It was important to care.

There was a wooden horse, snapped. Perhaps in a child’s tantrum, or out of spitefulness. Or perhaps simple carelessness. Dow did not know. That required more work. He’d picked it up in an alley, still damp from the rain. Nearby lived a woman—a carpenter and a toymaker—who would’ve mended the toy without charge. Had lived; the woman had moved away a few months ago. He had known her passing well.

A simple soulstamp could rewrite the wooden horse’s history, so it had been broken a few months earlier and taken by a concerned owner to the toymaker. He knew her work.

His workbench was scarred—a long crack ran through the wooden surface, where a misplaced knock with the chisel had gone awry. He’d thought about fixing it but left it there. Sometimes, Dow thought, you couldn’t fix all the broken things. They remembered the fracture points: the points at which they’d broken.

Sometimes, even things had scars.

His MaiPon instructors had never spoken of this. He’d become acquainted with them after years of plying his trade, years of drowning out the voices of things at one of the Heritage Faction’s production lines.

He imagined that this was, in a sense, atonement. Listening to the voices of these fragile, broken things. Salvaging them, where he could.

It gave him peace, working with his hands.

There was a sound.

Dow looked up abruptly; startled from his work. He did not catch sight of anything. Probably just the cat, he decided. There had been a stray, recently, coming to the alley behind his lodgings. He’d taken to leaving some scraps of food for her, and he noticed she’d sometimes slink in through his window and inspect some of his salvaged treasures. Sometimes, she’d even clawed her way up to his workbench and watched him work.

Perhaps he’d tamed her, just a little. Or perhaps they’d tamed each other, he thought, smiling faintly. He liked that idea.

The sound came again.

Dow frowned. It didn’t sound like the cat.

The Shardblade made the faintest whisper as it ran him through. Dow did not make a sound as the tip of the blade jutted out through his chest: he was already dead; his eyes burned out.

 

I5ZnETC-UOZjfiFvnDHE0W-C9SyvCqcblDZAV2ozgJeVlAIY_7ejfsiLDg7zAyHyIGVBRCeO_LkMZFvI9uqFwmCGhBSMIVl-kXHaAim64JoqxsghPzHk8Zgazmob7JPgIQ

 

A cat mewed, forlorn, in the distance. Just another sound, in the various noises of the night. The stars gleamed overhead. The moon was on the wane.

The figure—the man who had killed Dow—looked at the oddments on the various shelves; the soulstamp that Dow had been working on. That interested him—he studied the marks that Dow had already made on the soulstone, reached out, and pocketed it.

The rest, he dismissed. The broken horse, the unpainted doll with the missing eye, the cracked spinning top, the children’s hoop-stick, the jewellery box, the snapped kite…

He could not hear their voices; now silent.

He stepped away, letting the Blade dissolve into the mist. He moved with the slow deliberation of a man who knew that he was in no particular hurry, no particular danger.

In the Imperial Seat, the night held many of its own perils, but the workshop of a Rememberer set in one of the cheaper districts was as safe a place as a man could be, in such days, in such times.

He pushed open the door.

And then, he was gone.
 


Dow was a Rememberer!
 
1. The Cycle has begun and will end at 11PM SGT on 19th July. Sorry for the time taken :/
 
2. Quick note: this is the second retcon of the game, the first having been of the Resealer. A Resealer cannot protect against Regicide but the wielder can be role-blocked. Happy slaughtering.

Edited by Kasimir
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Next question. Is Zephrer still in the Heritage Doc? The Teullu should have been protecting Dow, so there should have been a life lost. I don't know how the bribes went, but if we keep fighting amongst each other, Discovery may actually win this.

 

Discovery, that was a brilliant ploy yesterday, to keep us all fighting amongst each other by thinking that the other faction had allied with you. Looks like it worked too.

 

Also, announcement: I'm going to be largely inactive for the remainder of the game, so do what y'all want as long as you don't separate Araris and I. To be honest, we just aren't that useful to anyone anymore. At this point in the game, it's the roles that count. I'll pop on long enough to maybe participate in the lynch, but don't expect commentary or planning out of me.

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Zephrer has gone missing from our doc - I presume no one bribed him over, so it looks like he lost a life.

We could proceed, as Kas has indicated he now expects us to do, with a merger into Glory, giving us a platform within which we can discuss and plan a response to discovery with the benefits of perfect coordination, and the absence of a risk of interception?

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...as Kas has indicated he now expects us to do...

Point of order: I do not 'expect' players to do anything anymore, besides not breaking the explicit rules and the SE games policies. It causes less problems for everyone this way :P

 

Anyway, a quick GM announcement: dowanx has not been added to the dead doc as he has kindly agreed to pinch-hit for Zas. While this is a little irregular, I have chosen to permit this as Zas would otherwise be going inactive for over a week. So please don't worry if you see dowanx saying stuff, he's just taking over as Zas. Which brings me on to my final clarificatory point:

 

Finally, please be reminded that the dead are not allowed to speak in this game.

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Yep. This is to confirm the fact that Dow is pitch hitting for me and has access to my docs, etc. 

 

Have fun killing each other guys! 

 

EDIT- In Cycle 8, I was bibed to Moderation, all on my lonesome. Kasimir was kind enough to give me a doc, so I did some roleplaying. I'll go ahead and post the first bit now. There's more, but it includes strategizing, so I'll probably post it at the end of the game. 

 

Ishtar stood tall, talking and plotting to the best of his abilities with the Glory faction   (Glory be forever!) when he realized that a note had been subtly placed in his pocket. He wasn't quite sure where it had come from- from another Glory faction member? From one of the many servants that entered in and out, serving the needs of the many persons of the Glory faction? Ishtar, normally alert, had been distracted by the attempts to find a way to both rid themselves of the pesky Discovery faction and somehow come up on top of those of the Heritage faction.

 

But the note intrigued him. It had said "Come to the room in the center of the palace, at the place most central to the empire. You will be greatly rewarded."

 

A place at the center of the palace? Could it be? The slowly disappearing Moderation faction? He was quite loyal to the Glory faction, but loyalties were easy enough to change, especially since it seemed that this new group could prove to appreciate his efforts more than his own. He knew several people from the Moderation faction that had seen the light of Glory. Or, rather, the coin pouch of Glory.

 

And now it looked like Ishtar was going to see the coin pouch of Moderation. He smiled.

 

He walked in the dead of night to the center of the palace, and noticed a door that wasn't a Garish yellow-red like Glory, or the intense blue of Heritage, but a royal purple.

 

Moderation indeed. Ishtar thought as he knocked on the door.

 

No one answered.

 

What in the name of the Moon....

 

Ishtar knocked again, a little louder. Still no one answered. Ishtar wondered if he had the right door. He had obtained some maps that had served him well in his time here at the palace, and it indicated that this spot was the center.

 

Ishtar tried the knob of the door, and finding it free, turned it and opened the door.

 

A line of light illuminated a line of the empty room. It appeared clean and well kept- definitely not the dusty storage closet that his map had indicated. In fact, he saw a hearth in the back of the room that was still glowing- there had been people here recently. He closed the door behind him, and approached the fire. He began to blow and stroke the embers back to life. A fire would serve the purpose of warming the cool room and illuminating its content.

 

The fire now hissing and popping comfortably, Ishtar noticed a wooden chair and a table in a back corner of the room, with a large round bag on it. He quickly ran over and opened the bag- it was filled to the brim with gold coins. It didn't matter now if he was part of Discovery or not- these coins would make him rich. Far richer than he had been before.

 

He then noticed a piece of paper on the table, and began to read.

 

Ishtar,

 

We have observed you for a while, and have found in you what we wish for the future of the faction. You are capable and intelligent, and your mentality to try and broker alliances between the factions, to focus on the duplicitous Discovery faction who are the largest threat, is something that we admire.

 

With that being said. we welcome you to the most Magnificent faction of Moderation. Though our numbers are now few, we are strong, and we maintain our presence and our funds. Though many weaker willed individuals have left, we know that you will be strong and will help this faction rise to greatness!

 

However, it has come to our attention that our numbers, already dwindling, will continue to diminish. There is a small, but very possible chance, that by the time that our note and these funds have reached you, you will be the last one in Discovery. We hope this will not be the case, but in case it does, we trust in your capable hands to lead the Moderation faction on to its Magnificent future.

 

We trust in you the funds of Moderation. Use them wisely. Make the kingdom know and believe in Moderation once again. May Moderation rise from the flames like a Phoenix from the ashes!

 

Our trust be in you,

 

Moderation Faction

 

Ishtar sat down. Could it be? The time he had been waiting his whole life had finally came. He was now a faction leader. And it was empty.

 

Well, not entirely. I still have this sack of money to keep me company.

 

He needed a plan. If he was going to make this work, he needed to know who he would try to recruit to help Moderation survive. Kipper? He knew he had a solid head on his shoulders, and a keen eye for strategy. It was the reason why he had personally bribed him away from Moderation. Who else was left? He had brought a few notes with him from his time in Glory (funny how in such a short time he saw it as so distant) and started to examine them. He would do his best to help his faction survive first, and then and only then begin to flourish.

 

Ishtar had a lot of work to do.

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Why can we not lynch someone, guys? It ain't hard.

Alvron is where my vote will be, unless we can agree on someone else.

Also, as I roleblocked Zephrer and Regicide was still used, I will now be roleblocking Alvron.

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Fantastic write up Kas.  I think this is the first time I've felt sad for the victim.  You really managed to tug on my heartstrings.

We are targetting number seven so are willing to lynch either of two or six.

Why can we not lynch someone, guys? It ain't hard.
Alvron is where my vote will be, unless we can agree on someone else.

Also, as I roleblocked Zephrer and Regicide was still used, I will now be roleblocking Alvron.

Now why would you want to kill little old me?  I haven't done anything to you. :ph34r:  I also question why there wasn't a lynch.  It's not like you lot don't have us outnumbered. :D  Or was there a lynch and Zas wasn't protecting Dow like was claimed.  But what possible reason would there be for Zas to lie?  Also thanks for the help with Dow.  It was unexpected but very welcome.

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The Frozen Moon is in uproar. Strangers bearing gifts stranger still have come, bestowing unimaginable power to those perhaps least fit to wield it. The outraged conversations of the Faction’s elect seemed loud enough to drown out even the storm brewing outside.
                             
Certainly loud enough, one would imagine, to disguise someone arriving at the door.
 
And it did, at first. The cloaked figure’s footsteps were more than sufficiently muffled by the conversation and pouring rain. The knock that came however, was another story. A deep thud echoed throughout the teahouse, shaking the whole front wall of the establishment. There was a pause, as the raucous conversations were immediately silenced.
 
Another knock came, more insistent than the first. No one answered.
 
The third knock came, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood as the door began to give way.
 
Wenshon cleared his throat nervously, as the rest of the Frozen Moon’s inhabitants looked on in mixed curiosity and terror. “Come in?”
 
The door handle turned slowly, as whoever was on the other side carefully pulled the door open.
 
Cloaked and hooded, nothing could be made out about the newcomer, aside from a shock of white hair sticking out from beneath their cowl.
 
Looking towards Wenshon, the figure motioned for tea to be set out at a particular table. Small, innocuous, sitting in the corner of the teahouse, a game board was still set out in the middle, patiently waiting to be played again. The pieces were still in the positions they had been left in, one small Grand that still smelt slightly of tea holding the Emperor in check.
 
Turning back to the majority of the Moon’s occupants, he slowly pushed back his hood, revealing deathly pale skin, and eyes the colour of old blood. An intricate pattern of faintly glowing red lines sketched themselves across his face, pulsing rhythmically, as if in time with a heartbeat just a shade too slow to be human.
 
“Hallo gents,” Ashim said, flashing a brilliant smile. “I’m back. Miss me?”
 

 

Finally, please be reminded that the dead are not allowed to speak in this game.

 
Why the hate, Kas? :P
 
Anyways, as Kas has so helpfully insinuated, I am not, as it happens, dead. :P And I have been charged to reveal myself to you guys properly, on the pain of re-death. (I was hoping to just ride this out and join whatever Faction looked to be winning, but apparently, I can’t do that.)
 
Sorry about not getting to this earlier, but I really wanted to be able to post the RP at the same time I revealed myself.
 
Apparently, to balance out the addition of an unblockable kill to Discovery, Kas decided to give you lot an extra body. I’m not quite sure you deserve it, given how you were going about things (and the fact that, assuming Kas did not also resurrect a few Discovery members they’re going to die pretty quick with or without me around) but hey. C’est la vie. (And this means now I might be able to actually win this game. :P No offence Moderation, but somehow I get the feeling you’ll be the first to be taken down, after Discovery.)
 
However, there’s a hitch. I was resurrected Factionless. So unless I get bribed into somewhere, I’m basically useless. However, I do still have my roleblock power, which, thanks to Kas’s new clarification, means I can do something, at least.

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No way are you Factionless. You are definitely a Discovery member. I don't really think Kas would rebalance the game so heavily that he had to resurrect someone to make it less heavily. He could just have not done it so heavily. I don't know if that makes sense, but I have to go. Heritage will also lynch Alvron, but next cycle we should take Aonar.

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Lynch Aonar next

 

Risk: We might throw away the advantage Kas may or may not have given us, and waste another turn wherein Discovery can Regicide one of us.

 

Reward: We may or may not bring down a Discovery member one life.

 

Conclusion: We should hit ParanoidKing next cycle, and save Aonar for the last cycle, once the other DIscoverers are dead. I'll scan him this cycle.

Edited by Adamir
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MR7: Cycle Eleven - The Blood of a Ghost

Shi KwaiRan was not particularly alarmed when a striped cat slunk into the teahouse. After all, cats were a common sight in the alleys of the district, particularly near the teahouses and lodgings. Where there were scraps, the cats gathered. Among other things.

He was, however, a little more startled when a figure he knew, a figure he had, in fact, painted, walked into the teahouse, all colour drained from her features.

The ligature marks were still clear, around her neck.

Nights, Kwai breathed, freezing, a hand going to where the dagger had been secreted about in its wrist-sheath. The dagger with which he’d killed a king, with which he’d damned himself in the eyes of all men, in the eyes of history, for all time. What is going on?

Cation Vinid looked at him—looked through him. Her eyes did not register his presence. They were dead. She was dead, he told himself. She’d died in the brawl that had happened a few nights ago; the one they were still repairing the damage for.

Grey and lifeless, Cation Vinid carried on into the teahouse, following where the cat had gone.

Kwai passed a weary hand over his eyes and wondered if he was going mad.

 

I5ZnETC-UOZjfiFvnDHE0W-C9SyvCqcblDZAV2ozgJeVlAIY_7ejfsiLDg7zAyHyIGVBRCeO_LkMZFvI9uqFwmCGhBSMIVl-kXHaAim64JoqxsghPzHk8Zgazmob7JPgIQ

 

Perfectly calm, Asterion sipped from his cup of tea. Regicide lay on the table, before him, gleaming in the lantern light, well within easy reach.

Everyone gave the table a wide berth.

He frowned for a moment as the striped cat padded into the teahouse, and the Lifeless followed shortly after. Hadn’t it been a black cat, with deep green eyes? This one was amber-eyed and regarded the teahouse with an arrogant sort of curiosity.

Another Lifeless entered the teahouse. And another.

He’d had his ways, procuring those bodies. Waimin, the diplomat who’d died in the teahouse affiliated with the Moderation Faction. His gut wound had been stitched, his blood drained and replaced with ichor-alcohol. Hreo, the pirate, the crossbow bolts removed and the wounds stitched up as well. It was important that the ichor-alcohol didn’t leak. The Green Xienbei, now faded to grey.

The doorframe splintered.

A grey creature, much like a bear, ambled into the teahouse, shouldering its way past the door, scattering teacups and smashing into tables in its wake.

Jain, the mascot and the Arbiter of the Moderation Faction, had followed the cat into the teahouse.

 

I5ZnETC-UOZjfiFvnDHE0W-C9SyvCqcblDZAV2ozgJeVlAIY_7ejfsiLDg7zAyHyIGVBRCeO_LkMZFvI9uqFwmCGhBSMIVl-kXHaAim64JoqxsghPzHk8Zgazmob7JPgIQ

 

Asterion felt the sharp pain in his arm.

He set down the cup of tea. So, he thought, it had come to this. He was unsurprised by how calm he felt. Eventually, death came for a man. He had only been surprised—if he would allow himself to admit this—by one thing, in the past days.

The return of an old almost-comrade. The unexpected gift.

He reached out, and touched the hilt of Regicide.

This, he thought, had been most unexpected. Being finally able to fight back. To choose where and how he would end his days, instead of going to ground like a hunted animal. They had given him that, at least.

He willed the Blade to dissolve to mist, and stood up.

He approached the closest Lifeless. “Blood of a Ghost.” He Commanded. “Follow me and fight for me. Blood of a Ghost.” And then the next. And then the next.

The server was looking at him. No matter what, Asterion thought, it was clear he was no simple labourer searching for work in the Imperial Seat. His fingers were long and clever; suited, perhaps, for grasping an ink-brush. Or a paint-brush. He held himself differently, too. It was clear in brief flashes: reality breaking through the plaster façade.

He bowed his head; a swift gesture of respect. From one deceiver to another, or perhaps simply one of recognition. Many things could be said with a simple gesture. Words, Asterion had found more wanting in that respect.

He had, in any case, no intention of further wrecking the Frozen Moon.

He walked out of the teahouse.

The Lifeless followed.

 

I5ZnETC-UOZjfiFvnDHE0W-C9SyvCqcblDZAV2ozgJeVlAIY_7ejfsiLDg7zAyHyIGVBRCeO_LkMZFvI9uqFwmCGhBSMIVl-kXHaAim64JoqxsghPzHk8Zgazmob7JPgIQ

 

The skeletals were clustered on the street outside. That was the problem with skeletals, Asterion thought. None of them could figure how to do something as simple as using a door.

Each of them were in the shape of men with swords. He knew the bones would often be sharpened. And the pulsing, glowing scarlet seal on their foreheads animated them. The sharp flash of hot pain from his shoulder seemed to match it.

He held out his hand.

Ten heartbeats later, Regicide dropped into his waiting fingers.

He assumed a two-handed high guard stance, assessed them. There were ten to twelve skeletals. One of them was charred, blackened, somehow. Probably retrieved from a fire, but the Bloodsealer was unwise to do so. Depending on the heat, the bones would be more brittle.

He swept Regicide in a low swing. He’d expected the Blade to cut through the skeletal with little resistance, but there was a faint tugging as he drew the Blade across the skeletal; Regicide skittered, deflected, across the bones, having only traced a light surface scratch.

Asterion frowned.

Plans changed.

He reversed direction, leaping back from a slash aimed at his throat, and smashing the flat of Regicide into the offending skeletal with all the force he could muster. The force of the blow dislodged a number of rib bones and cracked some of them. But the skeletal remained, still operational, and sharpened finger bones dug deep into his biceps. Ribbons of blood trailed down his skin.

He reached for his cloak, swept it up over one shoulder, and snapped, “Protect me.” He felt the Breath leave him, draining from him to the now-colourless cloak. He saw no other alternative and smashed the pommel of Regicide, again and again, into the vertebrae of the skeletal.

Finally, one of his repeated blows with Regicide dislodged enough critical bones and the skeletal fell apart. Asterion gripped the finger bones that had driven themselves into his arm and yanked. They came free, trailing blood and bits of his flesh. The skeletal had managed to claw the flesh of his arm to ragged bone.

He shook his head. Time for that later.

Waimin had fallen, still twitching; ichor-alcohol draining to the pavingstones of the street. Cation Vinid had smashed another skeletal to bits but she, too, was leaking ichor-alcohol. The Green Xienbein had wrested a sword from a fallen skeletal and was systematically dismembering it. Hreo held two sharpened pieces of skeletal-bone, ichor-alcohol dripping from his fingers, and was fending off yet another skeletal with quick, circular strikes.

Jain was cornered.

The panda fought silently, muscles bunching up, swiping at skeletals with clawed paws. Each blow smashed skeletals to fragments, swept them apart. But Jain’s blows hadn’t hit upon any of the critical anchors of the skeletals and they swiftly reformed, again and again, hacking and tearing at the panda with their swords and sharpened bones.

Asterion strode over to where the skeletals had cornered the panda, and drew Regicide back. One, powerful swing smashed through the skeletal’s spine and severed it. The animating seal dissolved at once and the skeletal fell.

But now, the other skeletals had registered him as a threat and whirled about to engage him. Jain rammed another of the skeletals from behind, smashing it apart. Asterion beat aside an attack and came in, wielding the Shardblade like a club, using it to smash the skeletals beyond reassembly.

He had been too occupied in the fray to notice that other interests had planned the ambush, very carefully.

The first crossbow bolt glanced off his cloak.

The second and third lodged themselves in his throat.

 

I5ZnETC-UOZjfiFvnDHE0W-C9SyvCqcblDZAV2ozgJeVlAIY_7ejfsiLDg7zAyHyIGVBRCeO_LkMZFvI9uqFwmCGhBSMIVl-kXHaAim64JoqxsghPzHk8Zgazmob7JPgIQ

 

He was choking, blood welling up.

“Blood of a Ghost…” Asterion whispered.

They were his last words.
 


Asterion was a Blasphemous Scholar!
 
The Cycle has begun and will end on 21st July, Tuesday, at 11PM SGT.

Edited by Kasimir
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Does a new member of Discovery receive Regicide now?

You're assuming Alv even had it in the first place... :P

The write-up is pure fluff. Regicide is more or less just their Faction kill, really. Appointed killer takes Regicide and goes off.

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I just got my scan results. Kill Aonar. I don't remember rp names, so I have no idea whether he got lynched or not.

 

EDIT: Aonar is Discovery, according to my scan. There is a very small chance I am Svordish, though; should we eliminate the other Discoverers first?

Edited by Adamir
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Makes sense that Aonar's Discovery. After all, Kas' threat was to give Discovery SlaughterRegicide and to give them Wilson. Aonar said in the glory doc that Wilson volunteered along with a few others to be resurrected as part of the balancing. Aonar was just the lucky one the RNG picked.

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