Heirs to the Final Empire: Roleplaying Thread

[Kasimir he/him]

I also hope to see a bit more RP.

Yes, your Grace. As you command:

 

Kyril Heron #8: Monsters and Men

“Isn’t that--” Elise began, as they left from a meeting where the Lord Ruler’s Mistborn had made herself known as an observer. She checked herself; Kyril touched her arm in warning, nevertheless. Words that had been spoken could not be taken back, and tin greatly enhanced a Mistborn’s senses.

Enough, perhaps, to pick up a murmured conversation in the hallway outside.

She did not speak again until they were in the carriage.

“Isn’t that Queade’s sister?”

He nodded, minutely.

Elise fidgeted with her wedding ring. “She’s different, now.”

“We all serve the Lord Ruler,” Kyril said. “In whatever capacity we may.” His eyes flicked, unnecessarily, to the curtains of the carriage before he added, carefully, “It was a wise choice that Lord Queade made. Certainly, one that has earned him great favour with the Lord Ruler.”

Elise said, “And Nax?”

He didn’t realise she’d taken his hand in hers. He tightened his grip.

“I am a man,” he muttered, fiercely. An answer to the unspoken question. “Not a monster.”

“And about marrying Nax to Finn Urbain?”

He sighed. “You know my reasons,” he said. “It would be a good marriage--Finn’s awkward, but he’s a good sort. He would treat Nax well, and that’s what’s important. And we need that connection with Urbain. We need it badly.”

“Garek’s been a good partner.”

“Words are one thing,” Kyril said. “Ties of blood another.” He looked down at his hands. “And...I have been giving thought to what you and Wystan mentioned.”

“Oh?”

“Allomancy,” he murmured. “We need it. Marriage to Finn would’ve strengthened it in our House. We cannot afford to pass that up.”

She waited.

“But Garek wants Nax to marry into Urbain,” he added. “And so, for many reasons, I have begun to reconsider my position there.”

“The House won’t like it.”

“I am Lord Heron,” Kyril said. “And you are my Lady. Let them say what they want.” She had begun to recognise that hard glint in his eyes; the stubborn set to his jaw that said he would do whatsoever he pleased, and damned be the consequences.

It was a side of Kyril she had barely begun to know. And to cherish.

She had brought that out in him, she thought. She felt pride, at that thought.

“Let them say what they want,” she agreed. Disappointment would be good for them.

Kyril Heron #9: Backs Against The Wall

They were displeased. It was apparent, Kyril thought, in many ways: in the simply disgraceful way he’d been summoned before the other members of his House to account for his actions in choosing to refrain from participating in the Allomantic Games, and in the way he’d simply ‘abandoned his duties’, or so they put it, to go haring off on a business trip to Tremredare to set Aniketos up with some other girl.

He argued, of course. But he knew a losing proposition when he saw one. They were simply blind, he thought. They wanted to play games Heron would never win. They wanted Heron to be caught up chasing the various social circles and games the other nobles played in Luthadel.

They forgot too many things. They forgot that Heron was weak; a candle-flame, easily snuffed out by the ashfalls. Hadn’t the attack--or attempted break-in, the rumours were far too garbled--on Urbain amply proven this? Urbain was powerful, its hold on the city strong. Any attack on Urbain would be ill-advised, at best.

It hadn’t stopped them.

He burned steel, drew out the coins in his pocket and pushed, hard. Wystan had warned him to stop gesturing with his hand; it was a crutch, Wystan had said, time and again, but Kyril only felt comfortable pushing and pulling metals with hand gestures.

A flick of his hand sent the shower of coins slamming into the stone walls, a few scant inches from their heads, striking sparks.

The protesting members of his House fell silent.

Kyril thought he could rather get used to it.

“First,” he said, holding up one finger. “It is over. The Games have ended, and I challenge any one of you to demonstrate you could hold a candle to a Wilson Mistborn.” He looked at each of them in the eye, and was gratified to see them shift uncomfortably. “Aniketos fostered with Wilson. None of you can match him in Allomantic prowess. Think about that.”

“Second.” He folded up the first finger, held up the next. “I have said it before, and I will say it long after I am in my grave. History will judge me; not you. Not any of you. How dare you? How many of you have suffered for the good of the House? How many of you have bothered to further Heron’s material position in the Empire? How many of you have frittered away your time emptily with salons and luxuries and nothing of actual import?”

“Third.” He folded up that finger, held up the third. “I. Am. House. Lord. I am Lord Heron, by right of birth and acclaim and metal.” He glanced at them, contemptuously. “The decision is mine to make. Not yours. It was never yours. Remember that, if you remember nothing else.”

He could have Soothed them. He decided against it.

He turned, and walked out of the room. It was just as well he was still burning steel--he caught sight of a blue line shooting towards his back, whirled about on his heel, and smashed it with a Steelpush.

The coin bent from the force of two different Steelpushes, and ultimately deflected off at an angle.

Wystan Heron nodded gravely to him. He was already moving to deal with the one who had flung the coin--a Coinshot, Kyril remembered, and a cousin twice removed. She was, all things considered, a bit of a hothead.

“You might recall,” he said bitingly, “That rumours of my incompetence with Allomancy are now a little exaggerated.” Giving them all a curt nod, he left, to deal with the ledgers and the other matters of true import.

He’d wasted enough time, this day.

Kyril Heron #10: The Parting Glass

Elise had died, years ago, on this day. Perhaps a week or two earlier, Kyril thought, dismissively. It grew harder and harder to recall--with painful clarity--the events of his youthful past. Faces lost definition; events their texture. The other day, he’d found a set of ledgers he’d mistakenly placed in the middle of a book of whales, of all things.

He couldn’t quite fathom why he’d done that, or why he’d wanted to read that book again. Just another of the things slipping his mind.

He sat on the bench, taking in the sunset, wineglass still in his hand. A fine Urbain vintage, Kyril remembered, pale and light, with the faint aftertaste of fruit on the palate. He’d have to remember to get someone to send old Garek something as well.

Nax had offered to sit with him. He had declined, firmly but politely. He was old, not decrepit, he’d told her. And he’d still had a few more years in those old bones. He wished he’d believed those words. It was getting easier to doze off in the middle of whatever task that needed completion.

If only he could feel…

Confident? Less wary about leaving the future of the House in the hands of his offspring, perhaps. Aniketos was warily silent; they treaded carefully around each other, as they always had. There was no way to bridge that silence, Kyril thought regretfully. Perhaps something else had snapped, the day he’d beaten his son almost to death with his own hands.

Aniketos was...always distant. If it hadn’t been for Elise, Wystan, and especially Nax, he might’ve wondered if his son was at all there. A difficult thing to accept, Kyril thought. That sometimes, you could not do much more than to wait. And to hope. Sometimes, time healed things. Other times, it did not. Rifts ran deep. Perhaps he’d waited too long; left things for too late. Perhaps they’d both been too prideful, both surrounded themselves with cocoons of silence.

Ghosts ran past him in the garden. He liked to think he was burning gold; seeing what could have been, except gold only showed you your past.

Elise. He remembered; with the faded regret of memory, the fragrance she always wore, what it felt like to kiss her, her warmth, her laugh...it tore at him, another of those memories that hollowed him out, that on nights like this, made him feel less a man and more a ragged collection of old memories stitched together by skin.

There was little place for him now, he thought, in the Lord Ruler’s new empire. Things were changing all the time, faster and faster, blurring out of recognition. They would be even more different in his grandchildren’s day.

Was it enough? He’d lived, and loved, and built a little place in the shadow of giants for his House. It only remained to see where Aniketos would go, from there.

Time claimed everything; even Wystan, Kyril thought. Once, their custom would’ve been to drink wine together at this particular bench in the gardens, overlooking the sculpture he had built.

“A little too much, don’t you think?” Wystan had said, smirking as he gestured at the sculpture.

Hollowed with loss, Kyril had only said, quietly, “It is too little.”

Wystan had fallen silent, then. Out of respect or out of friendship.

He knocked back his wineglass, left the very last of the wine on the stone bench as a libation to friends lost and gone; to the years swiftly come and past.

-

He burned pewter and flared a little tin, to keep himself aware, even as he worked on the papers in his studies. There was so much to do, Kyril thought, even now. So much to write.

He hesitated on the letter to Ani.

There was so much left unsaid, he thought. Was it too late? Even now?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure.

He turned around.

“Oh, my love,” he murmured. Smiled, and felt his heart break again, as it had on the day she’d died. “You’ve come, at last.”

-

The lamp winked out; the candle burned down to the barest spark, the barest stub.

And then:

Darkness.

 

I just wanted to conclude Kyril's story. He might still appear in flashes of Aniketos's and Anaximander's arcs, but as far as I'm concerned (largely due to lack of time...), this is it for Kyril.

Edited August 2, 2015 by Kasimir

[Kasimir he/him]

I also hope to see a bit more RP.

"A bit more RP", you said?

Aniketos Heron #2: L'ange sans ses ailes

The end of the year came, and went, and took his father. More buildings went up in Luthadel: sharp, dark points; barren boughs in a season when the fruit had long fallen from the trees. Ani could sense the cold nipping in through the open window of the study. He thought about stoking the fire. Decided against it. It involved getting up, moving, doing all those things he didn’t feel like doing.

Today was a grey day, he decided. For no particular reason than that was the colour of the skies outside the Keep.

He breathed; in and out. Wondered what happened if you stopped breathing. There were animals, once, said one of the books in a corner of the Keep’s library, stacked, forgotten. They chose to keep breathing: when they didn’t, they drowned and died.

Maybe this was what living felt light: breathing, whether or not you chose to. Drowning under several hundred metric tonnes of seawater.

He’d never been to the sea before. He wondered if he would like to.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

With an effort of will, he strode over to the window, burned pewter to improve his balance and swung his legs over the edge. Sat on the window sill, legs dangling out into space. Contemplating space, the air.

Space could oppress. It could be the empty hollow in your chest that never filled, the years yet to be lived that yawned ahead of you, full of threats, no promises. He couldn’t find the soft quiet seasons any longer. He wondered if they’d been a figment of his imagination.

He’d always had a good head for heights. Like Ani.

Gazing down into the depths, Ani burned gold.

The ninth metal, they called it. And a rather useless one.

He didn’t know.

He glanced around him, carefully. Nothing. Still nothing. No trace of the shadows that were supposed to be present, haunting you.

He extinguished the gold, for all the good it did him.

Araminta would hate it, he thought. Finding him here. So would Nax. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

---

Anaximander Heron #1: Never Meant To Belong

Nax sat on the edge of the Keep’s roof, gazing out into the night. By now, she didn’t even need a little pewter to improve her balance. “You’re as good as a cat,” Uncle Wystan had once commented, and then laughed all the harder when she was affronted.

She was in trouble. She knew that.

She also didn’t know how to stop. Sparring with Uncle Wystan and the House’s Mistborn was one thing. There was something pure about it; the thrill of combat, of receiving a blow when she wasn’t paying enough attention. That meant she was being sloppy, and she instinctively detested sloppiness, pushed herself to be harder, to be stronger, to be faster.

There was no point in being Mistborn if you didn’t use your metals like they were an extension of yourself, Uncle Wystan had said firmly. He had, she thought, possibly been speaking of her father. He still used his hands for Ironpulling and Steelpushing, as if that mattered. Uncle Wystan had praised her when she’d managed to keep her hands down. “Stop dropping what you’re holding,” he’d said simply. “Glass knives don’t take abuse very well.”

Mistborn weren’t supposed to do this, she knew. Neither were noble daughters. They weren’t supposed to sneak out late past curfew, dodging their uncle’s guards, to go and play the street skaa. Weren’t supposed to get into gang fights and get beaten to an inch of their lives.

It was the thrill of fighting. She didn’t know how to put it. It felt so good, to walk into a fight, to take blows and to give them. To push herself to her very limits and beyond; to watch those limits shatter each time like the sharp crunch of cartilage beneath a palm-thrust.

Was that wrong?

“Hey.”

Only his firm grip on her shoulder kept her from overbalancing as she turned around to see who it was and almost tipped off the edge of the roof. It would, Nax thought, shivering, have been a long way down.

“You need to burn a little tin,” Uncle Wystan commented, conversationally. “I’ve told you this time and again, Nax: you cannot afford to be unaware of your surroundings, even when you’ve stolen off to have a quiet moment to yourself.” He added, a beat later. “Even when you’ve snuck out of the Keep to raise some hell.”

“You knew.”

“‘Course I did,” he said, reprovingly. He sat down, next to her, glanced over the edge and shook his head. “I know Mistborn need a good head for heights, Nax, but this is just a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

He looked at her expression--guilt warring with secrecy--and threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, Nax, what are we going to do with you?” He shook his head. “I’d be a poor Mistborn if I couldn’t tell when a young’un’s trying to pull the wool over my eyes, don’t you think? This old hound’s still got some tricks, Nax, so don’t count me out just yet. Speaking of tricks--”

She caught the object he tossed, reflexively. It rested, heavy and comfortable, in her palm. It was her coin-purse, still jingling. “You found it?”

He waved a reproving finger. “What have we said about underestimating your Uncle Wystan, hmm?”

“Don’t do it.”

“Good.” He grinned; an expression that seemed to take some of the worry off his features. “Nice piece of improvisation. I have to say you caught me off-guard with that, for a while, but then I realised it wasn’t moving, and then that was a dead giveaway.”

“...Am I in trouble?” she asked. It was hard to tell, with Uncle Wystan. It was easier to tell with Father, she thought. You could always see the storm brewing in his eyes.

“'Course you are!” he said, cheerfully. “Your father’s fit to be tied. And you’re going to be helping me clean up the practice area for the next few weeks after the Allomancers are done. And I’ll be sure to keep working you until you’ve no more energy left for these night jaunts.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Uncle Wystan.”

“I’m not sure you are,” he said. “But I reckon you will be, once your father’s finished with you.” He made a shooing gesture with his hands. She understood what he meant.

“The study?”

Wystan shrugged; an exaggerated gesture. “Where else?” he asked.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Me? Nah. I think I’ll kick back and enjoy the night a little longer. I bet any Tineye could hear the shouting from here, anyhow.” More soberly, he added, “Once you’re done, remember to get those cuts seen to.”

She barely remembered them. She touched the one that traced its way from her ear to her left cheekbone. “They’ll heal,” Nax muttered.

“Uh-huh,” Wystan said. He folded his arms. “They’ll heal, all right. With all sorts of nasty stuff in them. You don’t even want to think what’s on those shivs. That’s the problem when you fight street, Nax. Get it cleaned, alright?”

“All right,” she muttered, reluctantly.

She flung her coin-purse off the roof, burned steel, and stepped off the edge.

Edited August 2, 2015 by Kasimir

[Wyrmhero he/him]

Bit of clarity with regards to what your Houses want: I am pretty much dividing Goods into Resources, Weapons, Luxuries and Food. Tier 1 Goods are all resources. Your Houses want Tier 2 Goods which can be placed in 'Food', such as Meat, Bread, or anything else along the same lines. Luxuries include things such as Clothes, Wine and so on.

 

Also, note that the penalty if you do not as severe as you might think. This is intended to be a House Rep sink for people reaching maximum House Rep (or who are willing to take the penalty). There is no penalty to your Actions or any other stats if they do not get what they want. So if you don't get this to work, don't worry about it. You may not even notice a change.

Edited August 4, 2015 by Wyrmhero

[phattemer]

What does the "Standard Action Cost" mean?

[Wyrmhero he/him]

What does the "Standard Action Cost" mean?

 

It includes things like purchasing property, upgrading property, bribery and stuff like that. It should probably also be the amount you spend/get whenever you train your troops, really...

 

Building/upgrading two related Properties now costs 10 Wealth, by the way.

Edited August 5, 2015 by Wyrmhero

[phattemer]

Apollonius looked over the accounts with a sigh. It seemed his dear, dear late father had made a few mistakes. What kind of idiot would have made it so that the farms were the only ones with skilled workers? He rang for a servant. "Go tell the workers to distribute themselves among all my properties. We can't afford any inefficient operations. When I'm done with it, House Erikell will be able to buy the Canton of Resource itself."
Public action 1
Upgrade 2 Bakeries
Who: Lord Erikell
What: Ordering more workers to be trained and sent to the bakeries.
Where: Since Lord Tekiel is attempting to destroy all my properties, I won't mention where.
When: action 1, generation 3, turn 1
Why: Money

Edited August 16, 2015 by phattemer

[Shallan she/her]

Action 1: trying for an heir(sorry!)

[Blank Fate]

Public action 1

Upgrade 2 Bakeries

Who: Lord Erikell

What: Ordering more workers to be trained and sent to the bakeries.

Where: Since Lord Tekiel is attempting to destroy all my properties, I won't mention where.

When: action 1, generation 3, turn 1

Why: Money

 Surely this defeats the point of a public action, if you're concealing a significant part of the information that the GM requires you to put forth?

[phattemer]

I mean, I didn't mention it in the PM either.

[Wyrmhero he/him]

Where: Since Lord Tekiel is attempting to destroy all my properties, I won't mention where.

 

If I don't know where it's built, how can your people get there to start building...?

[phattemer]

Ok, ok! New public action:

Action 2:

Try for an heir

[Shallan she/her]

New public action:

Action 2

Upgrading a training yard

To produce more soldiers

I think it's in luthadel

Action 2 gen3 turn1

[Quiver he/him]

Related properties?

 

Tyren sat in the Lord's Office, hand on his chin and smiling. Of course, traditionally this was Tyren's office now... but Marlon couldn't quite bring himself to think of it that way. The young misting still couldn't quite wrap his head around the fact that Rolan had named that... fop his heir. Right up until the end, Marlon had expected Lord Queade to name someone -himself- as the Heir to the House.

 

He had maintained that hope even after the end, actually, expecting each day for a Kandra or a Terrisman to arrive with Lord Queade's Final Testament, finally ousting his son. Sadly, that hadn't proven to be the case.

 

"Should we hold a ball?" the... Heir Queade asked. He looked up at his cousin, still grinning, and Marlon suppressed the urge to groan.

 

"I think that would be a terrible idea, Lord Queade," he answered, the final two words through grit teeth.

 

The boy had no idea what it meant to be a House Lord. He wore the clothes of one, true, but held himself with such... ease. Smiling, with none of the gravitas that should be expected of a member of one of the oldest houses of the Final Empire. His father had been a grim man at times -but it was a grimness that Marlon had respected, a certain solidity that had kept the House in line. 

 

Tyre had none of that. He didn't even resemble his father - Something to look into?, he thought- with his slim build, lighter hair and freckled features. Lady Asseday's features shone through on him, a fact which filled Marlon with indignity.

 

House Queade had made poor matches. Rolan had married a noble woman from some small house, and Tyren had done the same -as had Rowna. How long would it be before the purity of the bloodline of Queade was subsumed by those lesser houses?

 

Judging by Tyren, not long. He already doted on his Tineye overly much.

 

"Hmm. You're probably right," the young Lord said, ignorant of his cousin's thoughts. "We did just have a wedding after all."

 

He rose to his feet, slipping on a fine coat, and tapping a cane against the side of his boot - a habit he had picked up from who-knew-where.

 

Tyren was still riding his father's coattails. Rolan had been respected amongst the House- was still respected. Tyren... he was digging his own grave. Marlon just hoped the Lord Heir would still be alive when Marlon pushed him into it.

 

The dark-haired misting glared at his cousin. "Where are you going?" he asked, forcing his voice to be amiable before adding, "my Lord."

 

Tyren flashed his smile again, tapping a hat on his head.

"Shopping," he said cheerfully. "Claudia saw a dress she wanted the other day."

 

"So you are going to go and buy it for her?" Marlon frowned. "We have servants..."

 

"What? No. I'm going to buy the shop for her." Tyren laughed, slapping his housemate on the shoulder as he walked out.

 

Marlon stared at the sheets of accounting figures he was holding, scrunched the page up and threw it in the fire.

Waiting for Tyren to dig his own hole is going to take too long.

[Adamir he/him]

More rp, you say? If you're going to do something, you might as well do enough to make Wyrm regret his request.

 

 

 

 

Anders Farrsolin I - A Mistborn in Mind

 

 

 

 

 

The strength does it to everyone. It corrupts us all, or at least those who embrace it.

 

 

 

 

 

Although we dive right in to be swept away by the black waters of Allomancy, it is not easy to stay afloat. Our humanity is the coastline, the palm trees, the dry land itself. You put your humanity side by side with the fact that you're beyond humanity as a whole, coastline next to infinite expanse of ocean, and you decide being a litenmancer will be more rewarding.

 

 

 

 

 

It appeals to you. You can't get away from it, so you dive in and swim out to get a better taste. To feel the strength sink into your form. For just a single price; everything. Everything that makes life worth living.

 

 

 

 

 

The first time you dance in the ocean of mists, the power is ecstasy to your soul. It shocks you, shows you things you can't possibly understand but eventually do understand.

 

 

 

 

 

One day, it just so happens you might decide you're tired of swimming, so you turn around, but the coast is gone. You don't swim back, because there is no way back. You are above and beyond other, lesser men. You can never look at a skaa and see similarity again. You can never look at a fellow noble without the right blood in the same way again. All you can see in those who are beneath you is that they are beneath you.

 

 

 

 

 

I am Anders Farrsolin. Firstborn son and heir to House Farrsolin, one of the Prime Allomantic Houses, though not the most powerful nor the most respected.

 

 

 

 

 

I open my eyes and gaze across the city. Voices are carried by the west wind to every corner of Seran; a thousand specks of red begin to dot the ground as skaa take to the streets. To me, to Mistborn in general, seeing skaa walking in the mist doesn't just seem odd - it is simply wrong. They should be cowering in their homes, trembling and keeping their shoulders bent, gazes lingering on the ground rather than dare to meet the eyes of someone so clearly superior...

 

 

 

 

 

I force myself to reign in such thoughts. Humility, Anders; but can there be humility when you know for a fact that you are better than the skaa? Than most other noblemen?

 

 

 

 

 

The skaa were not entirely satisfied with their rulership. Ever since the Burnings enacted by Mennet Farrsolin, my grandfather, there has been a small segment in permanent dissatisfaction.

 

 

 

 

 

A hand taps me on the shoulder - Ebris Farrsolin, the 'overseer'. He failed to quell the skaa, and I hold as much a grudge as the next man. Its because of him that anyone with the last name Farrsolin has to be escorted through Seran.

 

 

 

 

 

(Entirely because of him? Are you sure?)

 

 

 

 

 

One of my Mistborn, Pollux, suffered that particular fate; the fool went out to a tavern when I forbade him drink, but didn't even make it that far. He had been a drunkard at only seventeen, tied to the bottle, and his death should have had more effect. But after you lose enough people, death becomes a joke played out too many times.

 

 

 

 

 

My eyes, as they always do, glance to Ebris's hand. While I can only see the smallest hint of what I'm looking for, I know its there. His skin is burnt; patches of it resemble the stark white of rushing water as it falls. His face evaded the worst of the damage, but I can tell he sometimes has trouble moving. Thirty years, and the burns continue to hound him.

 

 

 

 

 

'Aleph wants to see you.'

 

 

 

 

 

I nodded, then left the balcony. I navigated the corridors, realizing for perhaps the hundredth time how empty the citadel felt without Beskha and Bakuda, without Mother, Uncle Jorah or Aunt Cassandra. The place felt abandoned, despite the soldiers patrolling throughout the hallways.

 

 

 

 

 

The empty feeling was shattered upon entering the throne room, where I held my military discussions. It was empty, save for a single figure, standing slightly behind the throne, a vague silhouette which I sensed more than saw.

 

 

 

 

 

It took a slight squint to make him out, but everyone, no matter their attention, felt as though they were being watched. I had that feeling as well, even when this place was empty, before Aleph was recruited, with the eyes of my grandfather, and his grandfathers before him, a line that stretched back three hundred years watching me from portraits on the walls.

 

 

 

 

 

'My Fingers in in the East have nothing to report, nor those in Luthadel.'

 

 

 

 

 

His voice was grating to the ear, something that suggested similar burns to Ebris Farrsolin. I cringed involuntarily, my gaze looking for something else to focus on, settling on a on the wall.

 

 

 

 

 

Mennet, my grandfather by Mother's descent, stared back at me. Farrsolin blonde hair and sea-green eyes were his most striking features; though the genes seemed to have shifted between mother and son. Mai and Mennet are mirror images by most features, but my own hair is the color of week old straw rather than golden wheat on harvest, and my eyes are less sea-green and more storm-gray. While other Farrsolins, including most of my cousins, had slitted, small eyes, mine were almost always open wide, giving what I considered an intelligent appearance, and what others called 'haunted'.

 

 

 

 

 

When you are in the same room as a man who kills skaa for amusement, you can't just make your excuses and leave. I took the more direct method of making a run for it, vaulting around a corner, loosing myself in a maze of corridors.

 

 

 

 

 

The urge hit me, as it does every time I speak to that thing. I needed to head out, to get some fresh air, take a walk through the city, as if that would cleanse the filth from my soul.

 

 

 

 

 

I stepped through a door into my chambers, throwing open the wardrobe and looking for the specific pair of clothes I left buried at the bottom. A minor lord's clothes, one which might raise suspicion, but most certainly not as insane as going in my current attire. I don't bother with my hair; I am far enough already from what the average peasant considers a Farrsolin in appearance not to stand out. Not quite blend in, either, but a peasant walking like a king would just raise questions. My acting skills don't really translate from suit to action.

 

 

 

 

 

I try to move quietly; every now and then a member of the Watch strolls through the corridors. As Anders Farrsolin, he'd pass me by, trying not to look me in the eye. As a stranger he's never seen before, I'll either be executed on the spot or dragged in chains to Ebris. So I try to avoid them, stepping behind doors and corners, listening for their footsteps, burning tin to hear them a half dozen rooms away.

 

 

 

 

 

Finally, I found what I needed; an unlocked window. I push it all the way open, then take off at a run and leap through, Pushing myself off a nail holding a painting to the wall behind me. I've made this jump before; and so I grip my knees as I land on the battlements. From here, I skirt around a large gathering of skaa, before finding a group of eight City Watch guards. They recognize me as a Lord, at least, if not as Lord Farrsolin.

 

 

 

 

 

'Captain!' I yelled. One of the guards, with a silver rimmed shield and helmet, stepped forward, answering my call.

 

 

 

 

 

'How can I be of assistance, Lord...' he trailed off, ensuring he never looked me in the eye.

 

 

 

 

 

'Hyram. Lord Hyram,' I said, giving the first name that came to mind. I thanked the Lord Ruler that he didn't look further and find the holes in my mummer's farce.

 

 

 

 

 

'And you can be of assistance by assisting me through this mob of... peasants.' I let all my distaste for  the whole sorry affair find its way into the last word. That's the truth to being a good liar; the best lies are spiked with just the right amount of truth to make them believable. In this case it was all truth.

 

 

 

 

 

The guards didn't speak; the Captain made a few gestures, and they surrounded me, spears extended, before starting a slow march through the crowds. Every man took a step back at the sight of those weapons, but lost interest after I had left them.

 

 

 

 

 

'Captain, you and your men can head back. The Watch needs your help. And I'll be sure to put in a good name for you with Lord Aders, Captain...' I trailed off in the same way he had. There's an art to good mockery. Make it subtle enough that they don't know its mockery, and try to look like a Lord; it helps prevent getting your teeth broken in.

 

 

 

 

 

'Captain Curnow, how would you feel about becoming Commander Curnow? And to the seven under his control, I could slip a word in for you as well.'

 

 

 

 

 

One of them stepped forward. A boy of sixteen years, not far from my own age, probably never killed a man in  his life. 'Sir... what do we need to do, for this, this...'

 

 

 

 

 

Captain Curnow looked simply terrified in the heat of the moment. 'Gamble! Don't speak to your Lords without being addressed first.' He turned to me. 'I'm... I'm sorry about Gamble. He used to be a farmer, you see... Got no manners, these country skaa, M'lord.'

 

 

 

 

 

(Deceiver. He isn't from the countryside, whatever his accent tells you)

 

 

 

 

 

'No, no,' I said, trying to suppress a laugh. 'It's fine. And tell me, Captain Curnow, were you addressed before you spoke to me to apologize?'

 

 

 

 

 

His face paled. 'I... I beg forgiveness, Lord...'

 

 

 

 

 

(Too much pride in that stance, even for a Captain)

 

 

 

 

 

I couldn't suppress it any longer. I laughed, then spoke to him. 'Look, keep the East Door to the Barracks unlocked, and I expect all eight of you to be making sure it's completely clear of peasants until tomorrow morning, or until I come through. If you can manage that, promotions all around. Expect to hold it until the midday sun; I'm going to be a while.'

 

 

 

 

 

One of Curnow's men whistled. 'All right,' I said, 'Everyone but Curnow and Gamble, come here.' I asked each man his name in turn. I meant every word when it came to promotions; it was always nice to have a few men loyal to you more than anyone else. I tried to suppress that feeling of glee at lessening skaa, then gave in and let a smile break out across my face.

 

 

 

 

 

'And keep it subtle, all right?' I said. 'If anyone finds out I was here, expect to shovel horse dung for the rest of your lives in an Erikell plantation.' A minor lord wouldn't have the influence, but I doubted anyone would call my bluff.

 

 

 

 

 

I went by main streets; any man or woman, whether seeming rich or poor, had an equal chance of meeting the wrong end of a knife in a back alley. Eventually, I found a tavern to drown my worries in; House Farrsolin could wait, Aleph could wait, Ebris could wait. I had better things to think about at the bottom of a tankard.

 

 

 

 

 

I walked up to 'The Bull and the Bear'. Even from outside the door, I could hear raucous laughter and the sound of a lyre. They had a bard, then; well, no evening is complete without wine, song and a few other things. Of course, here all I had was peasant's ale and a bard who played the lyre as naturally as fish take to land. Still, things could be worse.

 

 

 

 

 

I stepped in, and a few glances went my way, but not that many. Walking up to the counter, I glanced over the manager of the tavern. He was unusually fat for his profession, and slowly balding, with gray hair; he seemed to be in his late forties, or perhaps early fifties. His nose protruded, more like a snout; pink flesh and small, beady eyes emphasized the appearance. In my mind, I re-christened him from whatever his name was.

 

 

 

 

 

'How can I help you, my...' the Pig said.

 

 

 

 

 

'Hyram will be fine,' I responded. 'For tonight, I'm not a lord; I'm a man looking for a strong drink, and I've been told you can provide it.'

 

 

 

 

 

He responded more brashly than I expected of a man of his standing, or appearance. 'A child looking for a strong drink; but who am I to question a paying customer?' The Pig ended his sentence with a grin and walked away.

 

 

 

 

 

When he came back a minute later, he had two full tankards of something that, while alcoholic, most certainly wasn't ale. I wondered if I had stepped out of my depth in ordering his strongest beverage, but I wasn't about to back out.

 

 

 

 

 

The first tankard he gave to the man next to me, taking three coppers in return. The second he passed to me, before stating his price. 'One silver boxing, twenty coppers.'

 

 

 

 

 

'Daylight robbery,' I scoffed. 'This fine gentlemen,' I said, patting the man next to me, who was already evidently drunk, 'paid only three coppers; you are charging me...' I took a brief second to count. 'Sixty times his price.' I wasn't even sure if that estimate was right; still, I doubted anyone would bother checking.

 

 

 

 

 

He put a hand back on the beverage. 'Now how about some paying customer,' he said, emphasizing the last two words, 'take this drink, as this boy wants a discount on his first real ale.'

 

 

 

 

 

I put a hand back on the drink, which was most certainly not ale, feeling the familiar fury that came with misbehaving skaa. This man was too stupid to understand what he was doing. 'I wouldn't do that if I were you. I pay you the regular rate, minus one copper for severe emotional trauma, and you get no trouble.' I kept my voice level with his.

 

 

 

 

 

'Six silvers, you keep the drink and keep your teeth.' I was beginning to feel tempted to puncture a few holes in his skull with his own boxings.

 

 

 

 

 

'And two more coppers for daylight robbery. That leaves you with...' I pretended to count with my fingers. 'Absolutely no coppers, and minus one drink. You can leave it there, or you can reset the bones in your wrist.'

 

 

 

 

 

I stared into those beady little eyes of his, as he stared into mine. And there it was; one small blink, and I grasped the Pig by his shirt collar, pulling him up to eye level, then flared pewter to lift him directly in front of me.

 

 

 

 

 

'No coppers, and you know what, I'd like another drink. On the house. And if you'd like my forgiveness, and if you wouldn't like the City Watch to burn this tavern to the ground and hang your family, you'll take that offer.' Less than he deserved as skaa.

 

 

 

 

 

A few drunks turned to look at me, but most returned to their tankards. Finally, the Pig took his hands off mine, before scurrying away, and coming back with two drinks of what he stated was 'Lockhelm brew'.

 

 

 

 

 

I took one in either hand and moved to a corner table. Resting my back against the wall, I began to drown conscious thought, sip by sip. This swill most certainly wasn't ale; it had hints of seaweed, and after the first tankard the world had already begun to float on low tides. By the time I was halfway through with the second, I felt as though I were on the deck of a ship on high seas.

 

 

 

 

 

I could have dispelled it; just flare pewter for a few seconds, and everything would become clear again. But this was why I came to the tavern, hopefully to turn twenty-four hours into a blur and get that meeting with Aleph out of my head. I still wasn't sure what it was about him that made my skin writhe at the thought of speaking to him.

 

 

 

 

 

With no drinks left in front of me, and unable to even get off my seat to ask for more, I began to look around. There was a woman whom the Pig seemed to treat like his daughter; listening in, I could hear the word 'father' mentioned several times from her to him.

 

 

 

 

 

She began to walk away, towards my table, but not directly to it. Perhaps if my mind had cleared I would have seen what she really looked like; but when drunk, all women look equally attractive. Still, my mind ignored the fact that she was the Pig's daughter.

 

 

 

 

 

She sat down on the table next to mine, grasping a bottle of Etorican White. So the pig did have wine here; I had just forgotten to ask. Well, too late now. I began to stagger towards her table, making it only a few inches every step.

 

 

 

 

 

When I got to the edge of mine, the door opened. I could see the first rays of sunlight coming through; damnation, I had been here for more than eight hours. A well dressed nobleman stepped in, clutching a hand wrapped in bandages, before staggering, more in pain than from any drink, to the counter.

 

 

 

 

 

The Pig walked over to him, and offered him the same Lockhelm swill he had given me; this time, some sympathy in those beady eyes, for only three coppers. Perhaps I had misjudged the man; but I wasn't one to care about resetting my opinions of others. He was still a Pig, and no amount of kindness would change that.

 

 

 

 

 

The man next to the nobleman spoke. 'If you'd pardon me asking,' he said, forcing the words through a numb mouth, 'how'd you get that...' He grasped for the word, before pointing to the man's injured hand.

 

 

 

 

 

'A child,' he said, smoothing his voice, 'was beset upon by a dog. I got in the way before it could do any real harm.'

 

 

 

 

 

I staggered to the counter, before tapping tin and looking into his eyes. He had suspicious eyes of a liar, but this once they spoke the truth. Still, the Pig's daughter heard his tale as well, and walked over to the seat next to him.

 

 

 

 

 

'Let me get you a drink, sir,' she said, giving him a smile. 'On the house.'

 

 

 

 

 

The Pig looked like he was about to protest, but changed his mind. This was a man, I could tell, who was owned by his daughter; he would do anything for her, including give away his stock for free. So a moment later, he had a tankard of regular Ale, without any of that Lockhelm stench on it.

 

 

 

 

 

The drunk who had first asked him ordered another drink, passing it to the nobleman. Soon he was showered with drinks for his sacrifice, and the Pig's daughter seemed to be transfixed by him. Finally, I decided to try and do something about it.

 

 

 

 

 

(You're going too far. Stop, now)

 

 

 

 

 

I waited until he got up to use the restroom, then staggered into him, knocking the man to the ground. My hand grasped his, and I burnt pewter for a quarter second, tightening my grip on his fingers and snapping one.

 

 

 

 

 

'Pardon me, sir,' I said, squeezing again. His kick met my stomach, and I flew back with a light Push on the doorframe, collapsing to the ground with a bit more melodrama than might have been necessary.

 

 

 

 

 

I knew how this would look to others. A kind, helpful, if slightly rich man accidentally knocked over another fellow of equal status. He bent over to help the man, but the thug on the ground considered himself too high and mighty for some pitiful lord to help him back up to his feet. He turns violent at the prospect of being lifted back up. I stood up in a manner that implied both surprise, endurance and pain - a sudden loss of sympathy for the other lord, with no lost respect for me.

 

 

 

 

 

The whispers had already begun. A few points I hadn't thought of, and almost every point I had listed, all of it condemning the nobleman and elevating me in status. I wondered when I would hear it, or from whom first; but there it was. The Pig's daughter repeated it to another woman, and mentioned the words handsome lord. The 'good handsome lord' tried to do a good turn, but instead exposed the other man for the brutal, traitorous scum he was.

 

 

 

 

 

The Pig's daughter slapped him, before grasping the man's tankard and pulling it away. Shouts erupted across the Bull and the Bear; one man threw his drink, another picked up a stool and hurled it across the room. Soon, I was forced to stagger away from him to avoid getting pelted.

 

 

 

 

 

After things settled down again, I angled my ear towards a few other drinkers. Apparently, I was a champion for the peoples' cause. Down with the Count, or Marquess, or Baron; the men here were so intoxicated as to forget which. Still, I had drawn too much attention. Sighing and turning my gaze from the Pig's daughter to the open door, I decided to head out.

 

 

 

 

 

I stumbled through the streets, lost one of my two coin purses to some piece of filth in the marketplace, then walked through Captain Curnow's open gate. All eight of them were still there; their eyes were red and sleepless, and they had clearly been taking shifts. Still, at that moment I put my two eternal priorities first; looking out for Anders, and looking out for Anders. Rather than care whatsoever about what they had to put up with overnight, I hit the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

Curnow caught me by the shoulder. 'Where to, Lord Hyram?'

 

 

 

 

 

'You... You're addressing a Lord... other way round...' I choked out.

 

 

 

 

 

'Look, My Lord, you're drunk. Now tell me where we can leave you.'

 

 

 

 

 

'My room, of course. Where else?' The drink was loosening my tongue, and melting my reasoning. Of course they wouldn't know.

 

 

 

 

 

'All right, but where? Which way?' He waved four hands in front of my face to check whether I'd fallen asleep or not.

 

 

 

 

 

(Stop... Think before you speak)

 

 

 

 

 

I ignored the Voice. 'Up the main stairs, left, follow the corridor to the end... Take a right turn... Third room on the left.' I muttered the directions.

 

 

 

 

 

'All right, then. Gamble, Emmer, grab his legs. Sable, help me with his arms. The rest of you, shut the door and return to your posts.'

 

 

 

 

 

Four men gripped my legs, and four more gripped my arms. They hoisted me up and began to carry me. The paintings seemed to be holding mirrors alongside them; even their eyes had multiplied. It was as if a reflection were placed directly on top of the original object, just a few degrees to the side.

 

 

 

 

 

We reached the door. Captain Curnow turned two exasperated expressions towards me. 'Look, Hyram,' he said, waving four hands in the air. 'You've led us astray. These are the Royal Quarters.'

 

 

 

 

 

The drink really had loosened my tongue, I thought a few hours later. The next morning, I would promise myself that I would never ignore the Voice again, at least until it next inconvenienced me. Or I happened to be drunk, bored, or annoyed.

 

 

 

 

 

(Stop... Think...)

 

 

 

 

 

'Recognize me, Captain? I'm your Lord Farrsolin.' I pointed to a portrait of myself on the wall. 'Now drop me on the bed, and be...' I was about to say 'be subtle', but staying awake an entire night simply by drink alone takes the energy out of one's limbs and Voice. My head fell back and I closed my eyes.

 

Edited July 2, 2016 by Adamir

[Wyrmhero he/him]

 

More rp, you say? If you're going to do something, you might as well do enough to make Wyrm regret his request.

 

Anders Farrsolin

 

<snip>

 

Why do you think that will cause me regrets?

 

Related properties?

 

I mean stuff like 'two Farms, two Bakeries, a Farm and a Bakery', etc.

[Mailliw73 he/him]

I recently found out that I'll be going on a surprise trip for a week, starting on Sunday. I'm not sure how reliable my internet access will be, so I'm going to have to submit actions early. For that reason, if anyone wants to negotiate a contract for next turn, let me know before this turn is up.

 

Turn 1 Action 2:

Trying for an heir

Male: Rasdon, Female: Abryn.

 

Turn 1 Action 3:

Who: Lord Votir Zerrung as House Lord

What: Donating Wealth to the Canton of Hegemony
Where: Luthadel Ministry Headquarters

When: Action 3
Why: To support the Lord Ruler's new officials.

 

Edit: Added second action.

Edited August 6, 2015 by Mailliw73

[Kasimir he/him]

Anaximander Heron #2: Luthadel Underworld

Nax glanced around carefully and then lifted the hood of her cloak to cover her ash-smeared face. Here, in the depths of Luthadel’s underworld, it was difficult to associate Nax, street brawler, with the unmarried Mistborn sister of Lord Aniketos Heron. Even so, old habits died hard; informants, she knew, had a way of carefully gathering bits and pieces of information and selling them to the highest bidder.

Perhaps she should have stopped, a long time ago. But carefully-crafted lies took in a life of their own, and soon the created become the creator.

The problem with stories, Nax thought, was that sometimes, you ended up believing them.

As she moved further and further away from the grand Keeps and into the shadows of the factories and forges, things grew more bleak, more desperate. Children begged for coins from passers-by; beaten-down skaa with missing limbs stared hopelessly at those walking past. Nax ignored them, kept a tight grip on her purse, and kept moving.

“Nax!” a familiar voice hissed.

She glanced over and casually adjusted her gait to match the person who slipped in beside her.

“There’s trouble,” Lenx said, keeping his voice low. It wouldn’t do to be overheard; she gave him a startled glance anyway. It was uncommon to speak so openly this far from the safety of the Stacks.

Lenx looked mildly abashed. “It’s big, Nax,” he added. “You heard what our Lord Despot’s gone and done now?”

She raised an eyebrow, inviting further comment.

“He’s set up cantons,” Lenx said. “Criers been out in the streets, making sure we all know about ‘em.” He looked at her. “What hole have you been livin’ in this time?”

“You know I don’t talk about work,” Nax said.

He waved that aside. “Big one for us is the Canton of Orthodoxy.” His expression grew grim. “It’s meant to make sure we keep to our place. He’s gone and established a church now, Nax. All those nobles, livin’ high and mighty in their keeps…” he turned, and spat. “Well. Now it’s Divine Writ.”

“We knew that all along.”

“Ah, Nax,” Lenx said. He shook his head. “You always were the cool-headed one.”

She never felt that way.

“Canton’s in charge of ‘noble-skaa relations’, whatever that means to them. We know what that means to us, though. You remember them ladies of the night at the Bloomin’ Rose?”

Nax nodded, did her best to look unconcerned. Nax was never worried, she thought. Nax always took whatever was coming his way--he rolled with the punches, weathered the ones he couldn’t dodge, and stood up again, no matter how many teeth he lost. No matter how much he was bleeding.

There was Nax and there was Anaximander. Sometimes it was hard to keep them separate.

“Well?” she prompted, when Lenx said nothing.

“Lord Malreaux went and killed 'em all,” Lenx said, simply.

Nax stopped. “He what?” she asked, remembering to keep her voice low and rough.

“Canton prodded him. He did it.” Lenx shrugged. And then he said, the words more cutting than anything else: “They could have borne his bastards, you see. And they were only skaa.”

She knew the laws were enforced, had known the Lord Ruler’s dictum against breeding with the skaa, but was shaken all the same. Hadn’t Lady Tormander been executed for such an offense? There was, however, considerable license afforded the local flowersellers in Luthadel. Apparently, with the inception of the cantons, this was no longer true.

“Lenx, I…”

“We’re just skaa,” Lenx repeated. She could see the anger in his eyes, in the tautness of his posture. He stopped; she drew to a halt beside him, realising they had reached the end of the Stacks and were in the slums. Strange how it felt like coming home, in a sense. Abruptly, he said, “Pell is plannin’ a raid. I remember how you fight.” He grinned, a sharp contrast to the expression he had worn a few seconds ago. But perhaps not, Nax thought. The anger was there, just buried deep. “Point is, you’re a good man to have around. And this raid’s goin’ to be more dangerous than our previous targets. Pays better, of course.”

“Where?”

Lenx was still smiling; sharp, feral. “Why, Pell and I thought we might pay Keep Malreaux a visit,” he said. “Take anything of value that isn’t nailed down. And look to them skaa servants, especially the women. If there are any left.”

Nax did her best to appear unperturbed. Lord Malreaux--had it really been that long? He’d been one of the nobles her father had briefly considered, before...before... How did you reconcile two images of a man? Malreaux had been urbane, charming, if a little antiquated and stifling. The Malreaux that had murdered a brothel full of skaa women simply because his god’s servants had told him to do so, however…

“Jobs like that are risky,” she said.

“Every job carries risk,” Lenx shrugged. “Some risks are worth it.” His voice turned clipped, professional. “We’ve obtained plans of Keep Malreaux--though those don’t come cheap. But we’re considerin’ it an investment for now. The main issue is dealin’ with Allomancers, if they’ve any. Especially Thugs--one of those is worth five of us. That’s why I wanted you in. Sure, none of us are Allomancers, but who better than one of the best brawlers this side of the Stacks to deal with those?”

“And Pell?”

Lenx said, apologetically, “He wants to keep it to his circle.”

It would be Lenx, of course. It had always been.

“I don’t know, Len,” she said, eventually. “It’s a big risk, and I’m currently running a job for someone. I’d have to think about it.”

She’d disappointed him, she could tell. “Take as much time as you need,” Lenx said, generously. “Just not too long. We’ll need at least two more weeks to get everythin’ right--we want our people in and out fast and no one dead.” He looked at her. “But we got to strike now, Nax, while everyone still remembers the Bloomin’ Rose. Ten years from now, there’ll be a thousand Roses. And everyone’s goin’ to be far too numb to care a whit anymore.”

---

Action Two:

•Who? - Aniketos Heron, in his capacity as House Lord.

•What? - Aniketos is going to upgrade the Artisan's Guild and the Glassblowers' in Tremredare.

•Where? - In Tremredare.

•When? - This is my second action for the Turn.

•Why? - By improving the Artisan's Guild and the Glassblowers', Aniketos hopes to be able to increase the productivity and the skill of the existing artisans. (Possibly attracting more skilled craftsmen to the better facilities. Follow the boxings and all that.) Consequently, he hopes to be able to make more glass and sell more mosaics. (And, of course, to make some boxings by doing so.)

[Araris Valerian he/him]

Gosh dang it! What the beans! I wrote up some RP for this, then let my iPad for a trip to the beach and when I come back it's all gone... Oh well, I'll at least get an action in. Maybe try and RP when I have a computer again.

Action 1:

Who: Lady Valeri, as head of House Penrod

What: Building a Sheep Milk Factory Thing (may be fatal to the sheep)

Where: By the sheep farm, which is on the outskirts of Luthadel

Why: To get some food that is different

When: First Action

[Comatose he/him]

Generation 3, Turn 1

 

 

Mikhail Elariel

 

OOC:  For clarity, I realize that this generation is set 100 years after Generation 2.  The fact that this Mikhail Elariel is also married to a Bakuda Farrsolin and has a brother in the ministry is another one of those "staggering coincidences" Wyrm spoke of in the game rules .

 

 

Mikhail paused from his work to massage his temples, screwing his eyes shut to give them a break as well.  How long have I been at this?  Outside his window, the sky was completely dark, and the city below the keep was obscured by constantly shifting mists.  When he opened his eyes, Mikhail turned back to his desk, only to realize that only one of his lamps remained lit, and even it was dangerously close to going out.  

 

"Zareen, could you see to my lamps please?  I need to finish these accounts before morning."  His voice came out hoarse and weak.  When was the last time I had something to drink?  Once you are done, I would appreciate some wine."  Mikhail turned back to the books and papers spread out across the imposing desk of Lord Elariel.  Having only recently ascended to the post after the death of his father, Mikhail was still adjusting to his new role as head of house.  Focusing intently on his work, the only reason he noticed Zareen was complying with his instructions was the slight improvement to the room's lighting.  

 

Perhaps if I move some of the skaa from the Tremredare Manor...  Mikhail reached for a ledger that was balanced precariously on the edge of the desk, only to send it and the pile of books it was resting upon crashing to the ground.  

 

"You seem tired, my lord.  Might I suggest you retire for the evening?"  Mikhail froze.  Zareen's voice had a higher pitch and melodious tone for a male, but the voice of the person in the room with him was no eunuch.  Slowly, he lifted his gaze, trying not to curse as he met the eyes of his wife, the Lady Bakuda Elariel. 

 

"I'm sorry if I have caused you to lose sleep, Lady Bakuda.  I did not realize you would be waiting up for me."  The voice that had been layered with fatigue moments before took on a stiff and formal tone as Mikhail addressed his wife.  

 

Bakuda snorted as she took a seat.  "It is customary for a wife to worry after her husband's health.  I thought it only prudent to wait up for you, rather than risk leaving my obligations as your spouse unmet."  Bakuda's narrow Farrsolin eyes gave her a permanent look of disapproval, a trait that was only magnified by her elegantly styled blonde hair and regal posture.  Even in her dressing gown,  she looked like a queen addressing the lowliest of servants.  She knows she deserves better than me.  Though their Houses were of similar strength and pedigree, both with ties to two of the original Mistborn, Mikhail knew that aside from his family name and station as head of house, he made an abysmal husband.  In his more self-aware moments, Mikhail suspected that his new-found tendency to work himself into exhaustion was less a symptom of Elariel's expanding list of business ventures, and more an attempt to avoid disappointing the woman he didn't deserve.  Feeling like a failure as a Lord was something he could handle.  Every day he could feel himself improving his skills as he settled more into his new role.  His failure to be an adequate husband was another matter entirely.  

 

"You flatter me with your concern."  Mikhail spoke slowly with deliberation, not wanting to start an argument.  "But you needn't worry about fulfilling your spousal obligations.  Since the day we were married you have been a model of support and devotion."  Mikhail felt his eyes begin to slide back toward the papers on the desk.  He still had hours of work to do before he would be ready to retire for the night, and the future of House Elariel could very well depend on the successful completion of his current venture.  As usual, the future of his entire family seemed to be a more desirable burden than the expectations of his wife.  

 

"The day I come to you for marriage advice, husband, will be the day the sun turns gold and the mists come out in the day."  I deserve that.  "You might think I am performing well as your spouse, but what of the rest of Luthadel?  You aren't entirely oblivious, so don't try to convince me you haven't realized that there is one particular spousal obligation we have been neglecting."  Bakuda's hands rested over her flat stomach.   "Our children may have the opportunity to be among the most powerful people in their generation, but all the opportunities in the world mean nothing if there is no one there to take advantage of them.  Four of my peers are already increasing and preparing for their confinement, Mikhail. I am ready to do my duty and provide future Lords and Ladies to rule House Elariel, but I cannot perform my obligations alone."

 

Mikhail sighed wearily, knowing in his heart that Bakuda was right, and he could not avoid his obligations to her any longer.  Indeed, providing heirs to carry on the Elariel legacy was just as important as his current work, if not more so.  Bakuda was correct to note that no matter how many riches or honours he acquired for House Elariel, they would all be meaningless without an heir.  With his brother in the ministry, and his aunt married into another house, Mikhail was one of the last members of the primary branch on the Elariel Family tree, and one of a handful Elariels who could still trace their lineage both to Elariel's founder, Lutha Elariel, and to Lord Locke Tekiel and Lord Mennet Farrsolin, two of the nine original mistborn.  The fact that Bakuda also had a strong allomantic heritage (she too was descended from the original Mennet Farrsolin), meant that their children would almost certainly be powerful allomancers, which were only becoming more and more valuable as generations passed and the old bloodlines were diluted.  

 

"You are right to reprimand me.  I must apologize for neglecting you, and my duties to our House.  I will join you in our apartments shortly, as soon as I am done putting things in order her."  

 

"That will not be necessary.  Zareen is already waiting outside, and is ready to set your things in order.  You may escort me back to our apartments yourself."  Bakuda stood from her chair, exuding complete grace and dignity with every minute movement.  

 

Knowing he could not win this argument, Mikhail spared one last look for the mess of accounts and inventories on his desk before following his wife out the door, prepared to do his duty.  

 

*****

One Week Later

 

"Darling, must you work in bed?  I'm feeling frightfully neglected, and if you don't kiss me soon I may be forced to pout."  

 

"Give me a minute.  I think I may finally be getting this new venture to work."  Mikhail pulled a ledger from the table next to the bed, and was elated to see that the numbers matched what he had scribbled on his scratch pad.  He would have to cut some corners to make his new scheme work, and postpone some projects for the time being, but those would both be small prices to pay if he could meet his current obligations.  

 

Now I just need to come up with a reasonable time frame... Mikhail's thoughts were interrupted when his notes and pen were knocked forcefully from his hand to the floor.  The commotion also disrupted the pile of books on the end table, making a mess of them as well.  

 

"What do you think you are doing?  I was almost finished, and now this will take hours to sort out again!"  Mikhail tried his best to sound dignified, though the effect was spoiled somewhat by the man who was using some sort of wrestler's hold to immobilize all four of his limbs.  

 

Valerre flashed a dazzling smile.  Mikhail tried his best to wriggle free of his lover's embrace, but Valerre's grip held him in position.  The minor nobleman was a noted duelist and athlete, and his muscular physique provided a distinct advantage over Mikhail's lean frame.  

 

"I'm serious!  You know this work is important.  Get off me this instant!"  

 

"Now, now, Lord Elariel, there will be plenty of time for work later.  Right now, your precious Valerre requires a kiss from the lips of one brilliant Lord of a Great House."  

 

Despite himself, Mikhail couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous expression on his companions face.  "You look like a kandra whose had too much to drink."  

 

Valerre sat back suddenly, bringing his hands to his cheeks in an expression of mock surprise.  "How can it be?  You've uncovered my secret!  Now I must return to my master to report my failure and seek out a new contract.  I knew I shouldn't have had that wine, but I didn't expect to be so unnerved by Lord Elariel's beautiful eyes."  

 

Mikhail found himself laughing several more times before he finally got around to putting his papers back in order.  At first it felt strange to feel such uncontrollable mirth welling up inside of him when outside of his hotel room the weight of his House's future was waiting to press down on his shoulder.  Eventually, after Valerre had exacted his 'fine' several times over, Mikhail gathered his things and prepared to leave.  After pulling on his jacket and straightening his cravat, he paused before leaving the room, realizing he had arranged this meeting with Valerre with a specific objective in mind--objective had yet to be fulfilled.  

 

"This has to end, love," he said, trying his best to keep any hint of warmth from his voice.  "Things aren't the way they were before.  Bakuda already suspects I think, and it's only a matter of time before she figures out."

 

Valerre snorted indignantly, and Mikhail couldn't help but remember Bakuda's similar response to him merely a week before.  They have more similarities than they, or I, would ever like to admit.  So why can I love him but not her?  "The barracuda?  Please Mikhail, don't jest.  Even if that ice queen did suspect something, she's far too concerned about appearances to take any action against you."  

 

"We are trying to start a family, Valerre.  If things go according to plan, I'm going to be father.  I have to think of what's best for my family.  My duty to them outweighs any duty I owe to myself."  

 

Valerre frowned as he sat back down on the bed, leaving one of his feet bare and his shirt unbuttoned.  "You're serious."

 

"I'm afraid I am."  

 

Slowly, Valerre began to shake his head.  "No."

 

"No?"

 

"No.  I won't allow you to do this.  To throw your happiness away for the sake of some inflated sense of duty.  You deserve to be happy, Mikhail.  Your responsibilities to your house and family are important to you.  I understand that.  But all the duty in the world doesn't take away your right to love and laughter."

 

"Valerre..."

 

"This conversation is over."  Valerre pulled on his remaining shoes and struggled into his jacket without buttoning up his shirt.  "I will see you next week in our usual place, and in between now and then I will continue to wink at you at every ball whenever the barracuda isn't looking."  Valerre paused to give Mikhail a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying out the door.

 

I'm in trouble.  

 

 

Public Action:

Action 3: Trying for an Heir [PUBLIC]:

Why:  Lord Mikhail Elariel and his wife, Lady Bakuda Elariel

What: Trying to produce and heir (Male - Valerre, Female - Valerie).  

Where: Keep Elariel

When: Gen 3, Turn 1, Action 3

Why: To provide for the future of the house.  

 

Not totally happy with this RP, but it'll have to do.  Let's just say I'm rusty after a full generation of missing out.  That said, I'm getting into Mikhail's character, so hopefully that mean's we'll see more from him.  

 

EDIT:  I also had a question about wealth.  Does the amount of wealth produced by our properties also go up with building costs because of inflation, or does it remain the same?  

[Wyrmhero he/him]

A sheep.... dairy, Araris? Delicious sheep cheese...

 

EDIT:  I also had a question about wealth.  Does the amount of wealth produced by our properties also go up with building costs because of inflation, or does it remain the same?  

 

Not usually, no. What is more likely to happen is a decrease in Upkeep costs.

[Curious Anamaximder he/him]

Rowan Orielle, Lord of...well nobody, looked across his keep. House Tekiel's attack had been foolish, resulting in many deaths. He turned to his scribe, Varot and said " Draft a missive in my name. Tell the houses that I will rent out my soldiers and Allomancers.... for purposes, for 1 Wealth per turn." Varot nodded. " Right on it, My Lord."

 

First Action: I am renting out my soldiers and Allomancers for 1 Wealth per turn. No questions asked. Just send me a PM.

[Adamir he/him]

Public Action I

 

Trying for an Heir (Male name Regnus, female name Lyna)

 

Public Action II

 

Upgrading a Mine

 

Who: Lord Anders

What: Upgrading the mine owned by his House

When: Action 2

Where: Countryside around Seran

Why: Profit

[Araris Valerian he/him]

Well, I was under the impression that "dairy" had the connotation of having cows. But yeah, that's what I was aiming for!

[Curious Anamaximder he/him]

Action 2:

 

Trying for a heir: Male- Lysander, Female- Vin

 

Hope the coin says female.

 

Action 3:

 

Rowan leaned against the railing, watching soldiers train in the courtyard. House Tekiel and its enemies have made this city one of war. "Varot!" Rowan barked. Varot shot up the stairs. "Yes, My Lord. What do you require?" Varot asked in a slightly sarcastic tone. Rowan scowled at that. " Start recruiting more soldiers. For the safety of House Orielle, I require trained men with weapons."

 

"Right on it, Lord Orielle." Varot turned to walk away. " Varot," Rowan said softly. " Why didn't you tell me you were a Coinshot?"  Varot turned, reaching into his robe for a vial. Rowan shot a coin right through his head.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I am recruiting new soldiers for the protection of my House. I also need a new scribe.

Edited August 7, 2015 by Venture Mistborn

[Adamir he/him]

Bit of clarity with regards to what your Houses want: I am pretty much dividing Goods into Resources, Weapons, Luxuries and Food. Tier 1 Goods are all resources. Your Houses want Tier 2 Goods which can be placed in 'Food', such as Meat, Bread, or anything else along the same lines. Luxuries include things such as Clothes, Wine and so on.

 

Also, note that the penalty if you do not as severe as you might think. This is intended to be a House Rep sink for people reaching maximum House Rep (or who are willing to take the penalty). There is no penalty to your Actions or any other stats if they do not get what they want. So if you don't get this to work, don't worry about it. You may not even notice a change.

Can I give a suggestion? The penalty could apply to skaa for Food, the ministry for Weapons and your own family for Luxuries.