Heirs to the Final Empire: Roleplaying Thread

[Comatose]

Ditto for me!  Totally forgot about this until now!

 

Action:

Action 1: Trying for an Heir (Public):
Who: Lady Valerie Elariel
What: Trying to produce and heir (Male - Adrian, Female - Isolde).
Where: Keep Elariel
When: Gen 4, Turn 3, Action 1
Why: To provide for the future of the house, and forge marriage alliances.
 

[Orlok Tsubodai]

I'm really sorry for the ridiculously late action - it's my 18th birthday and I haven't had an opportunity to get online. As such, unfortunately, no RP this turn.

Action 2:

What: Upgrading 2 banks

Where: Fadrex

When: G4T3A2

Who: Lady Tekiel

Why: To increase the yield from the buildings

[Wyrmhero]

The Turn is now over! Hoping to get stuff out tomorrow at 6, but LG15 in the Sanderson Elimination subforum comes first. But then, 3 hours should be more than enough time to get you lot sorted out here.

Edited October 31, 2015 by Wyrmhero

[Curious Anamaximder]

I'm really sorry for the ridiculously late action - it's my 18th birthday and I haven't had an opportunity to get online. As such, unfortunately, no RP this turn.

Action 2:

What: Upgrading 2 banks

Where: Fadrex

When: G4T3A2

Who: Lady Tekiel

Why: To increase the yield from the buildings

 

Happy Birthday to you!

[Kasimir]

Have more RP, to make up for the fact that my previous post had none. In fact, I'm pleased to say that I've finally finished Nax's story. Just need to wrap up Ani's, after doing a bit more work

Anaximander Heron #9: Choosing Sides

Ani looked up as she entered his study. A different study, Nax thought, bracing herself against the wooden doorframe. For one, the casement was closed; for another, it was her brother who sat there, slowly working through a pile of contracts. She thought she saw one of her monthly reports there--certainly, she recognised her own handwriting.

“Any word on the Malreaux assassination?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” Allowed a note of disgust to enter her voice. “Lord Aldan Malreaux’s assassin may as well have vanished into thin air.”

“No different from the ones that attacked me,” Ani muttered.

She stiffened, slightly, but Ani caught that. He said, reproachfully, “I know you’ve done your best, Nax. And we just have to move on, but it’s annoying that we don’t know who they are. They could strike again anytime.”

“I’ve made certain they won’t,” she said. It wasn’t quite a reminder for her to do her job: she was doing hers. As Ani was doing his.

“I know,” he smiled. “So why worry?”

She pressed her lips together; a gesture that she belatedly remembered Uncle Wystan doing on occasion when he’d been exasperated by her father. “Because it’s my job to,” she said, shortly. “And when I slip up, things happen.” She nodded to his cane, leaning by the table. The polished length of wood wasn’t a dueling cane, but it was a reminder of the one time she hadn’t managed to clear the hall and Ani’d fought off his assassins on his own.

“We’ve been over this more than a dozen times, Nax,” he said, exasperated. “I don’t blame you.”

She changed the subject. It was better this way. “All things point to an assassination, and word on the street says it’s not even clear that the assassin came from outside House Malreaux.”

It was Ani’s turn to stiffen. “Really?” He shook his head, tired. “And here I was thinking we’d have a House war on our hands. Certainly, none of the Great Houses are concerning themselves overmuch with it, but the lesser Houses are far more agitated. And everyone’s whispering that this reeks of the kind of concerted attack Farrsolin, Erikell and Vinid used to prefer--you remember that mess of a trial with Zerrung, Orielle and the other Houses, though nothing was ever officially proven.”

“Except for the guilt of Erikell and Vinid.”

She saw that flash of emotion in his eyes before it was carefully concealed. “Yes,” Ani said, shortly. “Except for that. Still, it does fit the pattern, doesn’t it? Agitate their skaa, and then send in Mistborn to offer a concentrated attack on the House itself.”

“It does,” Nax acknowledged. “But of course, no one’s talking.”

Ani sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Of course,” he repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They never did find out who set fire to that Urbain distillery, didn’t they?”

Nax shook her head. “The culprit probably took the information to their grave.”

For some reason, Ani’s mouth twitched, as though he’d almost made a smart remark and then thought the better of it. She wanted to ask, but something held her back. Let him, Nax thought. After all, they were keeping more than enough secrets from each other.

-

“So,” Lenx said.

“So,” Nax replied, evenly. Most of the skaa in the tavern were craftsmen; able to do well enough for themselves. Even the drinks were better than those offered in some of the other watering holes. The proprietor sold pale Horst mead here; it was the rich pale gold of the hives it’d come from.

“Word on the street’s that Malreaux was knifed in his own Keep.”

“You’d know better than I do, Len,” Nax said. “You’re the one with the informants.”

“I know,” Lenx said. He nodded to the proprietor as his mead arrived. “Thing is, most of ‘em are prepared to swear blind that another House sent an assassin to knock him off. After all, only another House would have one of them Mistborn.”

“You don’t seem convinced.”

Lenx shrugged. “Malreaux is a small fish, in a large ocean,” he said. “Big enough to trample the skaa, small enough that none of the truly big fish care. No indications of rivalries, nothin’ of that sort. So who gains from the death of his Lordship, hmm?”

“How’d I know? I don’t particularly follow House politics.”

Lenx shook his head, slowly, almost pityingly. “I weren’t born yesterday, Nax. I kept your secret; do me a favour and don’t treat me like a mist-eaten fool. You were plenty angry, that day, when we went together and watched ‘em flog and hang skaa as an example for our raid. Didn’t see you again that night. Didn’t see nobody either, as able to tell me where you were.”

“What does it matter?” Nax snapped, annoyed now. “Does it help any, Len? Knowing who did it? You know they’re looking: the next Lord or Lady’ll treat the matter seriously. What’s done is done and there’s no use speculating about it.”

“Isn’t there?” Lenx sipped from his mead and glanced at hers; still untouched. “Well, for one, if I knew them as did it, I might buy ‘em a drink.”

“Right.”

“For another, I might have more work for ‘em. If you knew who did it.”

Nax snorted. “If I knew who did it,” she muttered, and drank. Horst mead was a rarity back in Keep Heron: Ani did not often drink, and the alcohol they did have was the fine wines from the Urbain and Jerzy vineyards. Nax understood that, of course. Not all connections between noble Houses occurred in the marital bed.

“Y’know,” Lenx said, “We’re on the same side, Nax.” He put his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly, intent. “Think about it, man. There’s only two sides in this city: you’re one of us, or you’re one of them. And if you’re skaa, your life means nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”

She knew. It was the splinter in the corner of her eye; the thick desolation that always seemed to hang in the air when someone entered the Stacks--it was the way the skaa seemed to slump everyday, becoming more and more beaten down.

“Doesn’t mean some of us want to fight,” she replied.

“That’s the problem,” Lenx retorted. “If you don’t fight, you’re helpin’ them. Your silence helps them. Those who work for ‘em help them. All the boxings you earn--for every one that goes into your pockets, five go into theirs. They’re parasites, feedin’ off our hard work.”

Nax didn’t have to be burning tin to notice that Lenx’s words had been overheard; had caught the interest of the other patrons. Even the proprietor was discovered to be mysteriously cleaning a table in the vicinity.

“You can’t do nothin’, Nax. Doin’ nothin’ means they’ve won. That’s all they need: for us to do nothin’. There’re thousands of us, for every one of them. They couldn’t stop us if we all turned on them, all at once.”

“Len, you’re missing the point,” she snapped. “Some of us have a lot to lose. Did you think about that? Some of us have families. And did you think about everyone who suffered because of a botched raid on House Malreaux?”

“Every day,” Lenx said, solemnly. “That’s why I fight, Nax. Because someone has to, and if we don’t, no one else will. Then that boot on your neck keeps pressin’ down, Nax, until one day, you wake up and you can’t breathe and you can’t remember when you gave up. Will that be it, then? Will that be what you want?” He lowered his voice, cautiously. “What’s the point of havin’ those gifts if you ain’t gonna use them more than you did?”

She stood up. “I think that’s enough for today,” Nax said. She glared at the other patrons, all of them listening intently, and most of them had the good grace to look ashamed and to turn back to their own conversations. “Goodbye, Len.”

“Goodbye,” Lenx said. “Guess you’ve picked your side, then.”

“Yeah,” Nax said. “Guess I have.”

She strode out the door, and promised herself she wouldn’t look back.

 
Anaximander Heron #10: Iron

Although she hadn’t known it at that time, Nax wondered, if she had just the faintest inkling that her decision to walk away, to turn away from Lenx’s talk of rebellion, would’ve had the consequences it did.

There were rumours that a band of skaa had tried to break into Kredik Shaw, had tried to attack the Lord Ruler. Certainly, they had succeeded in setting a building on fire; the next day, the Lord Despot declared heavy reprisals and blood ran in the streets and gutters for weeks.

Rebellion was dangerous. She knew this. She’d known it since that night in the tavern, when she’d taken a deliberately long and circuitous route home to avoid being followed. The Steel Ministry had eyes everywhere, she’d heard, and you didn’t become the Heron spymaster without knowing that; without knowing where you’d put some eyes and ears, yourself.

She went about more cautiously now, when she was in the Stacks. Most of the people knew Lenx, and it seemed that they regarded her with caution, and her them. She almost laughed at the thought: she’d known that Lenx was in with the skaa thieving crews, but she hadn’t known that he was sitting right on a boiling skaa rebellion.

Not that there was any rebellion any longer. The reprisals at the assassination attempt had seen to that. Perhaps it hadn’t even been Lenx, but no one had heard from him or seen anything of him, since then.

She’d known from the very start it was a dangerous game she was playing, and perhaps it was somewhat ironic that she’d killed Aldan because she couldn’t have stood by, only to balk when Lenx spoke of a more far-reaching rebellion. In for a clip, in for a boxing, as they said in the Stacks. But that wasn’t true: she’d seen the executions of Apollonus Erikell and Cladent Vinid, hidden among the crowd. Your family could die, and in that moment, she’d thought of Ani and Kyrus and Thales and knew that she couldn’t have taken the step; in that moment, she’d felt fear, had backtracked.

Cowardice? Perhaps.

And that was all that mattered. Nax thought, often, about that night. Sometimes, she felt regret. But never for the night she’d killed Aldan.

-

“You ever thought about settling down, Nestor?” Zadeth Jerzy asked, lazily slouching back in his armchair. Ordinarily, a small House like Jerzy might’ve been grateful for the friendship of someone from House Heron, but Nestor Heron was a distant cousin, thrice-removed, and of no importance within House Heron.

On the other hand, Jerzy mattered, Nax thought. It was clear to her that the small House was carefully accumulating wealth and contacts; Jerzy wine and horses had fast become a byword in the Western Dominance and in Tremredare, and that meant that Heron couldn’t afford to ignore Jerzy either.

Nax shrugged. “Maybe one day,” she said. “If they offer me a large enough dowry.”

Zadeth threw his head back and laughed. “You wish!” Amused, he said, “You’re getting long in the tooth, old man. You’ll be lucky if they can find a girl for you who’s cross-eyed.”

“I’m not in the line of inheritance,” Nax replied, affecting a careless shrug. “Really, Zadeth, you’d think you ought to be a little more worried about yourself. Vasileth isn’t getting any younger, and you’re still his Heir.”

“Don’t remind me,” Zadeth begged. “I enjoy my status as the Heir, but I’d rather not deal with any of the responsibilities. Bah. Responsibilities are for old, boring people.”

“And you, of course, aspire to be none of them.”

“Naturally,” Zadeth said. “Why, I am the epitome of what it means to be a handsome and charming man. By definition, therefore, I am dazzling and brilliant and very much neither old nor boring.”

Nax made a dubious sound.

Zadeth threw a book at her--deftly, she snatched it out of the air. A dangerous sign, Nax thought. A quick glance showed it was one of the skaa-sympathetic writings on the rights of workers that had, of late, come out of Fellise.

“You know,” she said. “It won’t be long before they ban this book.”

Zadeth snorted. “Does it matter?” he wanted to know. “Do you see a Steel Inquisitor coming here to have a poke in my study, trying to see what sort of things I read?”

“I mean it,” Nax said, dead serious. “Zad, they’re cracking down. You must know this.”

Zadeth waved it off. “Look,” he said. “Only you know, and you’re hardly going to turn on me, are you? Sure, they’ve been pressing the skaa hard--pretty stupid, if you ask me--and they’ve been sitting on some of the nobles who haven’t been toeing the line, but I’m not stupid, Nestor. The day I cross the line is the day they ruin my House.”

“You should burn this, all the same.”

“No,” Zadeth said, sharply, all trace of foolishness and good humour fled. “There are some risks that are worth taking, Nestor.” A corner of his mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “Forgive me if you’re getting too old and cautious to see this.” He picked up the wineglass resting on the table and raised it in a toast. “To youth, and beauty and daring. Which, of course, would be me.”

“They’re skaa.”

Zadeth shook his head. “They’re people,” he said. “And I’m sorry if you can’t see it, Nestor. Everyone thinks I’m a fool and a rake, and I am. But they’re also people, Nestor. And you can’t just shut your eyes to that, no matter how much you’d like to do it.”

Two words: rake. People.

Nax said, burning tin to try and catch any hint of eavesdroppers, for they’d surely react when she said this: “Zad. Look at me.”

He looked at her.

“Tell me you haven’t gotten a half-breed child.”

Zadeth looked at her, smiling calmly. He said, “I have done no wrong.”

“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

Zadeth shrugged. “I am willing to swear to it,” he said. “And it would be true.”

“Then say it,” Nax said. “And mean it. That you have no children.”

Zadeth said, “I have no children. Really, Nestor, you’ve become quite a bore, of late.”

But she could read the lie in his eyes.

-

She could’ve written a letter to the Canton of Inquisition, could have betrayed Zadeth, could have earned Heron no small measure of favour, for all Thales’s joining the Steel Ministry had pleased the Ministry. But part of her rebelled: she’d killed Aldan, once, and still regretted nothing of that night. She’d walked away from Lenx’s talk of open rebellion, and she still wasn’t sure whether she’d made the right decision.

Of late, she heard him say, once again: “What’s the point of havin’ those gifts if you ain’t gonna use them more than you did?”

She had no answer, to that old ghost.

She thought she saw him, once, at that same tavern in Luthadel, drinking Horst mead. But then the man shifted and she saw he was over two decades younger than how old Len would’ve been, now. He was dead, of course; it was the most likely outcome, but without a body, it never seemed quite real.

You made your choices, Nax thought. You picked your side and then you soldiered on. And that was all you could do.

Burning steel and iron, she launched herself into the mist-laden night.

Edited November 1, 2015 by Kasimir

[Wyrmhero]

Generation 4: Turn 4

 

"Magnificent! This is just the place I was looking for."

 

"...My Lady... It's a just a lot of trees and some dirt."

 

"Yes, but it's dirt with opportunity," Gracia Heatherlocke said with a smile as she surveyed the lands of the southern isle. "Untouched and ripe for exploitation. Who knows what we could find in this deserted place?"

 

"But what if we don't find anything?" the Captain of her ship asked. "What if the reason it is untouched and has not been exploited is because there is nothing to exploit?"

 

Gracia shrugged. "It's still land. Even if there's nothing here, we can still pack some people in and put them to use. I'm sure something must grow in this inhospitable place. At the very least, the trees seem to be thriving here."

 

"That's true," the Captain nodded. "And considering it is an island, it would perhaps be a good place to put some malcontents. Nothing better as prisons go than a natural one. Not like they can swim back, either."

 

"Precisely. Anything else we achieve here is a bonus."

 

---

 

Vin Orielle finished signing her name upon the sheet of paper with a flourish and replaced the quill in its inkwell. She read it once over and, satisfied with how it read, blotted it down before rolling it up and tying a ribbon around it. She passed it to a servant. "I want copies of this made and sent to every Great House in the city, exactly like this."

 

"My lady? Would some not find this... strange? You have, after all, not been noted for being active in the affairs of the realm."

 

"It's just a little fun," Lady Orielle shrugged. "I'm sure that no-one would begrudge me that. Besides, I'm sure everyone will be interested in finding out which House lays claim to being the 'strongest'. We can simply make more of an event of it while finding that out."

 

---

 

Lady Tamsa Wilson was awoken at the crack of dawn by a knocking on the door to the family bedroom. She sat up, her husband slowly rising as well next to her to see what the commotion was about. One of her Mistborn stood at attention in the doorway, uniform slightly torn but still looking fairly smart.

"My Lady," he said, averting his gaze despite the fact that the pair of them were both more-or-less modest. "I am here to inform you of an attack upon our guardsmen."

 

"Yes, and?" Lady Wilson asked. "I hope there is a point to your waking of us? Are we in danger still from these attackers?"

 

"No, My Lady. We were successful in driving them off, even if they did kill a few guards first. I just thought that-"

 

"Then we do not care anymore. Let us sleep." Lord Wilson said, before turning over in bed.

 

"I... As you wish, My Lord," the Mistborn nodded, before withdrawing and leaving them Lord and Lady to sleep.

 

---

 

Generation 4, Turn 4 has begun! The Turn, and the Generation, will end on Saturday the 7th at 6PM GMT.

 

There will be a series of war games this Turn! Players may choose to take part in a variety of combat exercises to see who appears to have the strongest military. Note that this is a test of soldiers, not of Allomancers. This does not require an Action.

 

Generation 4 Player List

• little wilson - Tamsa Wilson
• Gamma Fiend - Grace Urbain
• Unodus - Guadium Uethorn
• Adamir - Regnus Farrsolin
• Venture Mistborn - Vin Orielle
• Orlok - Nienna Tekiel
• Comatose - Valerie Elariel
• Aonar Faileas - Bronwyn Izenry
• Quiver - Senna Queade
• wblk - Den Wair
• phattemer - Dis Erikell
• Araris Valerian - An Penrod
• Renegade - Elden Garde
• Shallan - Vinda Vinid
• Haelbarde - Gracia Heatherlocke
• Mailiw73 - Rasdon Zerrung
• The Crooked Warden - Tacitus Protegat
• Kasimir - Kyrus Heron
• RadiantRaven7 - Ryna Ravir
• Winter Cloud - Cleo Venture
• IrulelikeSTINK - Leyton Domos
• TheMightyLopen - Owain Nohr

Edited November 8, 2015 by Wyrmhero

[Kasimir]

And here is the end of Ani's story, long-promised. I'll need to get back to studying for a bit, but will also start working on the pieces from Kyrus and Thales that I owe, besides the newer generation of Herons.
 
Aniketos Heron #9: Shattered

There were days that Ani had begun to call the grey days, the days when he felt like glass: like cracks were winding their way inside of him, that bit by bit, day by day, he was slowly falling apart. Days when it hurt to breathe; when it felt like a knife was scraping his lungs.

There was only one answer to the grey days: to somehow finding the strength to keep breathing, step by step, watching the days grind slowly by.

He sat, and watched the shaking in his hands, as though they belonged to someone else. As though he had slipped out of his own body and into the dusk, and was watching a stranger inhabit his; the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the days-old stubble. You were supposed to get up and move on, to keep moving, to keep breathing.

How did you do that, when being alive was the wrong?

There was something obscene about this: about being a father and outliving your own child. About being a father and having beaten your own child to death.

They always cried, always pleaded. You had to numb yourself to get down to the task. He wondered, not for the first time, if that was how Kyril had felt--he regretted never having asked, having treated the beatings as the shameful, unspoken memory of the day he’d become distant from his father; the day that gap had opened up between them.

He was a father. He’d killed his own son; beaten him to death with his own hands. Jonas had been barely seven. He’d done it out of fear--knowing he was aging, knowing his leg pained him, knowing he’d fought off four more assassins the day before, and still Nax had no idea who’d sent them.

Jonas had been barely seven; bright-eyed, curious. He’d worshipped his father. There was no way to describe how his adoration had made Ani feel. Neither Kyrus nor Thales had quite reacted to him, like that. Had held him in such regard.

Empty, now. He’d put the sun out of the sky.

He’d needed Allomancy, he’d told himself then. It was the only thing he could’ve left Jonas. A way of protecting himself from assassins, from all who might do that boy harm.

Instead, Jonas hadn’t Snapped--he’d died.

He recalled that moment: perfect, painful clarity, even though he hadn’t remembered, even though by then, the world had narrowed to nothing but the lash of the hickory rod against Jonas’s skin, the crack of breaking bone, blood, the limp, helpless way his son’s body lolled against his arms, the arms that were supposed to protect, never to break, never to kill.

He wanted to protect his son from the world.

He couldn’t even protect Jonas from himself.

The glass of Urbain wine sat on the table. He couldn’t remember who had left it there. He swept it off the table, watching as the vintage seeped into the carpeted floor, watched as glass shards glinted in the fading light.

He went over, brought his boot firmly down on them.

Heard glass crunch underfoot, sharp enough to cut. He could cut himself on that glass, Ani thought, quite calmly, quite dispassionately. A long shard, untouched lay on the carpet, on the spreading purple stain.

He considered it, for a few long moments.

At last, he turned away. He’d fought that battle: the battle against hopelessness, against despair, against the emptiness within, for most of his life. He wanted more than anything else to give up, now, to stop paddling, to drown, to let the ocean swallow him up.

His eyes blurred.

He stomped--hard--on that last shard, and went away to call a skaa to clean his study. There was only so many times you could look at the edge; only so many times you could sit there, before you had to choose, before you had to make a leap of faith.

He thought of Kyrus, his apprenticeship with Master Tormod long completed. He thought of Thales, long gone, now, that room still empty, still another part of the undertow.

Instead, Ani thought, he was going to have to make the harder choice. He was going to have to live, to keep breathing. To keep refusing to drown.

He dreamed of the vast ocean, that night; thick and black, like ink, like obsidian, like black glass. Above him, a sky full of stars; gleaming with a cold light.

Aniketos Heron #10: A Sky Full of Stars

Ani made the brief climb and winced, and sat down for a moment to regain his strength. Days on which his leg didn’t hurt were becoming the exception, now, and he was getting stiffer everywhere else. The aches and pains from old injuries and falls were beginning to set in.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Kyrus asked, settling down on the wide step beside him.

Ani nodded. With Kyrus, he couldn’t have gone by the roofs. He almost laughed at the idea: he was far too old for such adventures; the mere fact that he was having so much difficulty climbing the tower from the inside indicated as much.

“I did this a lot more, when you were younger,” he said. “To keep my skills constantly honed, and because…” he shrugged. “It relaxed me, I think. Calmed me, even.”

Kyrus raised a sceptical eyebrow but said nothing. Thales would’ve made some sort of sharp comment about parental idiocy.

The thought brought less of the old ache, now. Thales was old enough; he had chosen his own path, and he was at some measure of peace. In all his regrets, this would not number amongst them.

He stood up again, leaning heavily on his cane. “Come,” he said. Kyrus stepped in smoothly to brace him--he might’ve been burning pewter, Ani wasn’t sure, and it didn’t seem worth the effort of using bronze to check.

Step after step, they made their way at long last to the top of the tower, and up the ladder to the hatch that opened in the roof. He braced himself against the last rung of the access ladder and worked the hatch open and painfully clambered out, his leg protesting that move.

“I don’t understand why you do this, you know,” Kyrus said, joining him on the roof as Ani sighed and stretched out his aching leg. A cool breeze ruffled their hair; it was a clear night, and he could see the cold gleam of the distant stars through the thin layer of haze.

“It became a bit of a tradition,” Ani said. “When I was young, one way your grand-uncle Wystan used to train the House Mistborn involved climbing this tower. Your Aunt Nax and I did that a lot. She loved the view of the stars, on clear nights. I didn’t, at first. I do, now.”

Kyrus blew out a short, exasperated breath. “So does Sofia,” he said. “You’re spoiling her, by the way. If she falls off the roof and kills herself, it’s going to be all your fault.”

“She’s old enough to take care of herself,” Ani replied. “Besides, as her grandfather, it’s my job to spoil her rotten, and your job to be her father.”

Kyrus accepted that comment with good grace, as he settled himself down carefully on the slick tiles of the roof. “True,” he said.

They settled into a companionable silence as they watched the stars; for all his words, Ani thought, Kyrus was an artist at heart, and even now, his long, clever mosaicist’s fingers twitched, as though longing to memorise that glorious play of starlight against darkness and to memorialise it in glass and light.

“A long time ago,” Ani said, at last, “There were a people called the Nelazan, living far to the north, beyond the boundaries of the Terris Dominance.” He’d read about them in a book, one of the last anthropological surveys that spoke of the different peoples who’d existed in a time long before the Final Empire, long before the Lord Ruler had sent armies to conquer all those lands and left only a single Empire to end all kingdoms and dreams of empires. “They used to worship a god called Trell; to them, the night was sacred, and the stars were the thousand eyes of Trell, watching over them.”

“You think so?”

Ani shrugged. “People believe what they want to, Kyrus. Always have.”

He still dreamt of the ocean, these days, dark and ruthless; of drowning beneath black glass, of a sky full of stars overhead. Of Jonas, of his father, of all the various regrets he’d accumulated in his life, crushing him like twenty-four thousand tonnes of seawater, collecting in his lungs, weighing him down.

But then, there were nights like this, clear and beautiful, the sort of beauty that made life worth living, the sort of beauty that set it all in perspective, this high above the world, and suddenly, living, breathing, refusing to drown--it all became possible.

How did you make sense of the difference between the drowned and the saved? It was choice, Ani thought. You chose to keep living; you chose to kill, you chose to save a life. From the choices of men emerged meaning, emerged sense. That was all there was to it.

“Trell didn’t save them from the Deepness,” Kyrus noted. “Nor from death.”

“I know,” Ani said.

Kyrus could’ve said: the Lord Ruler destroyed the Deepness. He saved us. It was what the Canton of Orthodoxy was teaching. It hadn’t been that way when Ani was young; it’d been about politics, not religion. He wondered about what he could say to that.

“What do you think happens after we die?” he asked.

Kyrus shrugged. “No idea.”

It wasn’t something the Canton of Orthodoxy talked about, and for good reason, Ani thought. People who didn’t think about death thought about the present; about the here and now, about savouring the moment.

“I’d like to think that they’re all up there, somewhere,” he said, quietly. “Looking down at us from the stars.”

“Them?”

He closed his eyes. “Everyone who’s left,” Ani said, simply. “Everyone you’ve ever loved, everyone you’ve ever cared for--everyone who cares for you. Everyone you’ve ever lost. Looking at the stars reminds me of them; makes me think that they’re alive, somewhere, and that if we don’t carry them with us, perhaps the stars do, for us.”

“Mmhmm,” Kyrus said, non-committally.

“Kyrus, promise me something,” Ani said, abruptly.

“What is it?”

“One day,” Ani said, “You’ll find you have to beat your children, to force them to Snap, to awaken their Allomancy. Promise me that you’ll do it yourself. And promise me that you’ll do it after they’re twelve.”

Kyrus was silent, for a while. “You could’ve told me before Sofia,” he grumbled. “It’s not like I’m looking to have a third child anytime soon.”

“I remembered,” Ani said, simply. There was no other way to put it; he thought of Jonas, of his infectious laugh; another body beneath the surface of the ocean, another life drowned and lost.

Scars carried; aches fading.

He gazed up at the stars, and simply breathed in the cool air, quietly content. At peace.

[the winter system]

Anyone have any girl children? I need someone for Dieter to be married off to. Please PM me. 

 

Also, I will take part in the war games.

[Kasimir]

Thales Heron #1: What The Water Said

Water was everywhere; a network of canals connected most of the Dominances and cities within the Final Empire to each other. Water flowed in the Empire’s arteries, carrying with it the precious cargo and, accompanying that cargo, beings and wealth.

Tremredare had no walls: no city in the Final Empire did, except for Luthadel. But it had watchtowers, overlooking the approach to the city, and Thales peered over from the furthermost watchtower, to see the long snake of the canal wind its way past Tremredare, and the roof of the supply dock. From that station, goods were unloaded from entering boats and brought into the city proper.

It was, all in all, cursed inefficient, Thales thought. If the supply dock was built within the confines of Tremredare--if they simply dug a second, smaller canal that branched off the Conway, and established a larger supply dock--well, then they would be able to load many more ships at once.

At present, the supply docks allowed two boats to be unloaded at a time; further risked a capsized boat, and that would’ve been trouble. It wasn’t so much the loss of skaa lives but the obstruction such a thing caused: it would block the canal for hours, and Thales understood, even then, that the lifeblood of Tremredare and indeed, the Final Empire itself was the trade--the raw wealth--carried along its canals. A blockage meant the slowing of trade; correspondingly, it meant wealth lost.

Every week, at night, a small, slender craft would glide along the glassy surface of the Conway. It carried five skaa: four cleaners and a navigator. The latter was in charge of paddling the narrow boat and ensuring it didn’t capsize; the former were tasked with carefully dredging the ash from the canals. The canals flowed slowly enough that it was easy for them to be all choked-up and blocked with ash. Once again, trade was held at the mercy of the canal system itself, Thales thought, leaning against the crenellations of the watchtower.

Canal-dredging was a dangerous task, of course. For one, as it was done by night, the skaa in the canal-boat had to navigate and work by torch-light. They could not dredge the canal during the day, for fear of disrupting the incoming trade and travellers along the Conway. In addition, canal-workers who fell into the black waters often drowned; with no way to discern where the surface was, it was easy to end up choke on the thick ash-mixed-water. Canal sludge, they called it. Sometimes, the canals had to simply be drained and then cleaned and finally flushed with fresh water. But that was much more expensive than sending a bunch of skaa out. And it obstructed the flow of goods and boats down the Conway.

It was, in many ways, a system that worked, despite its inefficiencies. But Thales found himself strangely fascinated by it: by watching the gears of commerce grind exactingly before his eyes, by watching the places where the system failed, and by trying to think of a way to make things work better.

Granted, it wasn’t as straightforward as that. He’d have to have the plans. He could think of the possibilities of a secondary canal and dock, but he’d have to convince his father of the expense and that the benefits outweighed the projected costs.

The thought came, almost unbidden: this is what Kyrus should be doing.

There were plenty of craftsmen in Tremredare. That was true. The artisans and forges and painters and sculptors and mosaicists and weavers of Tremredare only brightened the marketplace--and far more pertinently--sent out shipments of goods to enrich the marketplaces of Fadrex and distant Luthadel. As far as Thales was concerned, it was all to the good. They paid their taxes, and they imported raw materials and converted it to something people wanted by carving or by daubing pretty colours all over it.

But his father’s idea? Turning Tremredare into a centre of arts and culture?

Madness, he decided, gripping the crenellations fiercely and scowling. It was sheer, utter, madness. What Tremredare needed now wasn’t more artisans or craftsmen. It needed renovation: in the years that came with the Lord Ruler’s ignoring the distant cities (relative to Luthadel, always), Tremredare had become run-down. Streets had pot-holes; his father had only begun to put things right by paying out of his pocket to have essential repairs done, among them fixing the sewage system of the city and seeing to a high standard of public health and hygiene. And that was only one aspect of running a city.

To make Tremredare flourish, they needed wealth. They needed commerce. They needed trade.

None of that had to do with producing ever-more artisans, when the fundamental economic infrastructure of Tremredare was already broken in a way that had never been fixed.

And Kyrus. Thales scowled, harder. It was a senseless waste of money, he decided. Kyrus didn’t need to be spending his years on a pointless apprenticeship, learning to make pretty pictures out of coloured glass. Sure, he’d spent a good amount of his time in their childhood drawing just about anything he could see with his charcoals and paper, but what good was that? Kyrus wasn’t skaa. He was the noble son and designated heir of Lord Aniketos Heron, Steward of Tremredare, and it infuriated him that they could not see the responsibility that entailed.

What use was glass? Kyrus should’ve been spending his years learning how to administer a city; how to run it smoothly and efficiently. None of that could be learned in a late, last-minute internship with their father.

He’d told his father as much. Aniketos Heron had just shook his head and said, “We need art, Thales. And Kyrus’s connections with the mosaicists will help the prominence of our own artisans.”

“It’s superfluous,” Thales said, to the dark waters below, shimmering in the sunlight like black glass. “It’s pointless.”

The waters made no reply.

 
Thales Heron #2: Water Crossings

If his youth, spent on the Conway between Luthadel and Tremredare, had given Thales an insight into how essential water was to the flow of goods and services within the Final Empire, his time with the Ministry of Finance only served to deepen that raw intuition into a sense of certainty.

His time as a Ministry acolyte was half-spent learning the various procedures and arcane workings of the different Cantons within the Steel Ministry. The other half was spent on the waterways, moving up and down the canals to the different cities, observing and carrying out the standard inspection duties of a low-ranked obligator.

He’d set foot on plantations where lords rested their skaa; although they glanced at him nervously as he scribbled notes on the pad he carried with him and kept his expression carefully neutral. “The skaa work better if they’re rested,” one lord said, nervously mopping the sweat from his brow with a pristine white handkerchief.

Thales said nothing. He’d begun to learn the value of judicious silence.

“Truly, my lord obligator--”

He used the wrong title. It was readily apparent that Thales was only an acolyte and his mentor stood a careful distance away, feigning distraction, but ready to intervene. More than anything else, he was a clear sign that the Steel Ministry’s authority was invested in even an acolyte--and that it could be taken away without a second’s notice.

“What is your runaway rate?” Thales asked, abruptly, cutting him off. It was a fine line to tread: between spoiling the skaa and allowing the skaa to grow rebellious. One of the signs of a poorly-run plantation, according to the handbook, was supposed to be a high runaway rate. He’d studied the book before he came and carefully memorised the figures from the reports of the actual obligators who’d conducted the inspections. It was now time to see how all this theory meshed onto the real world.

If it was even useful.

The lord stuttered and named a satisfyingly low figure. Thales nodded and scribbled that down among his other observations. Raw reports, of course, did not compensate for actual lived realities; so he asked the lord to show him around the plantation.

“A-Among the skaa, my lord?”

Really, Thales thought, irritably, such a noble lord should have more steel in his spine. “Yes,” he said, trying his hardest not to snap. He burned brass and reached out to soothe a little of that nervousness, a small bit at a time. Too much too soon and the man would realise his emotions were being tampered with; too little and he’d have to keep reassuring the nervous lord, and he didn’t particularly want to spend the better part of the afternoon doing that. “It’s a regular part of procedure for a plantation inspection.”

“The previous obligator never did that,” the noble said, wringing his hands.

“Oh, for the Lord Ruler’s sake,” Thales grumbled. He hit the man with another careful Soothing, for good measure. “The previous obligator was an incompetent, all right? I need to see the plantation proper and I will see it now.”

As the noble murmured reassurances and promised to take him out among the skaa, immediately, Thales caught, out of the corner of his eye, a faint smirk on his mentor’s impassive features.

It was just as swiftly gone as their eyes met.

His mentor folded his arms across his chest and stood there, waiting.

A surprisingly commanding and forward gesture for an obligator, Thales thought. Some of their instructors had stressed the importance of fading into the background; of being gentle and reassuring to their Lord’s chosen.

He hid his own smirk. He rather thought he preferred such direct methods. Time was, after all, wasting. He tucked away his writing materials and moved to catch up with the noble, who was already a good distance away in the ash-strewn fields.

-

The ash fell lightly on his robes, and irritably, Thales swiped at it. At least the wide-brimmed hat he wore kept the worst off it off his face. Ashfalls were a common hazard of the travelling obligator’s life, and while he commanded a canopied boat as a prelan, those boats were always poorly-designed; the prelan was meant to spend most of the journey resting in the protective shelter of the canopy, rather than moving up fore to glance at the passing plantations and supply stations.

It was another thing that should be improved, Thales thought. No telling if the Canton would care about his recommendation.

Trips up and down the canals weren’t just about reaching a given destination; they were a way for getting a feel for the region, for how that particular area of the Final Empire was being run. Similarly, it was very much possible to obtain an idea of how dedicated to his duties--or how remiss--the obligator assigned to that particular region had been. Some years before, in his mentorship period as an acolyte, he’d accused the area’s obligator of having been lazy in his plantation inspections.

His mentor had drawn him aside as they departed and said, “It’s not an incorrect observation.”

“And?”

“Reynard has always been lax as an inspector,” his mentor replied. “He takes short-cuts, and he spends far more energy avoiding work than the work itself takes.”

“Then why is he still an inspector?” Thales wanted to know. “House politics?”

His mentor looked at him as though he’d just suggested they rip off their robes and walk stark naked back to Luthadel. “No, don’t be ridiculous.” He hesitated. “House politics does play a role,” he agreed, “But influence plays a much bigger role. Reynard was mentored by the woman who would later become High Prelan of the Canton of Finance.” His mouth twisted in clear distaste. “Later, when things went bad in the Canton, he was sent out here. He draws a prelan’s pay and makes some pretence at inspecting the plantations. Eventually, when the fuss dies down, he’ll find himself transferred back to Luthadel again.”

You did this, Thales knew. You slipped money to obligators, to customs officials; the wheels of commerce turned fastest in the Final Empire when they were greased. But even then, the casual way his mentor spoke of it...it startled him, at the very least. Perturbed him, rather.

It was rather ironic that he found himself faced with just such a situation now. He’d made prelan, and then stopped rising through the ranks. He needed to be better at playing the political games within the Ministry, his colleagues said. Ironic for a Soother. But he had patronage: he’d been interviewed by the High Prelan of the Canton of Resource himself, and he was supposed to be a rising star.

So much for that, Thales thought. He stared out stonily at the clear water. On either side of the canal, he saw the sprawl of plantations. Skaa laboured, some of them beaten by guards who watched the boat glide past, carrying with it the markings of the Canton of Resource.

How long would he spend out here? A year? Two?

In the clear surface of the water, he saw his tattoos reflected. He’d stood tall and proud, the day he’d gotten them, unflinching. He wanted to serve. He wanted to be of use.

Do your duty, Thales told himself. He would be patient. He would wait. And he would be exemplary; he would be perfect.

 
Thales Heron #3: Run Deep

“Are you surprised to see me?”

Thales considered the question, prodded it from various angles, trying to discern if there was a trap embedded in it. At last, he said, “Yes, High Prelan.” He opted, in the end, for honesty. For all it had gotten him into trouble, he believed it had also served him well.

“Presumably,” said the new High Prelan, “You must have expected someone from the Canton of Resource to have called you back.”

“I did expect that any summons to the capital would emerge from my own Canton,” Thales agreed.

The High Prelan grinned toothily. “Then why,” he said, leaning forward, “A bright young man like yourself might be asking, would the High Prelan of the Canton of Finance have called you here?”

Thales offered the man a short nod, but said nothing further.

At last, the High Prelan grunted and slumped back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him. “Well,” he said. “For one, I wasn’t misspeaking when I said ‘a bright young man.’ If I hadn’t checked some of your actual work, I might’ve considered the reports from your acolyte period and your mentor to be exaggerations.” He gestured to a stack of papers on his desk; Thales glanced at them and was mildly surprised to see his name scrawled in top of the heap, with the seal of the Canton of Resource in bright scarlet wax. “For another,” said the High Prelan, drawing Thales’s attention back to him, “One might then be forgiven for wondering: what is one of the best acolytes our programme has ever produced doing in the Southern Dominance?”

“I was assigned plantation inspections,” Thales said.

“Bah,” the High Prelan waved it off. “We all know that’s a lie. Plantation inspections are meant for low-ranking obligators, not for gifted prelans. Only two sorts of prelans get sent to do plantation inspections, Prelan Thales. The first sort have connections and want an easy life, away from people who might ask too many questions.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together; a fairly universal gesture, that Thales recognised immediately. “The second sort, now, are more interesting. More often than not, they’ve been sent there, for asking far too many questions, and sticking their noses where they shouldn’t be going.” He glanced directly at Thales. “So, my question is: which are you, Prelan Thales? Hmm?”

It was a dangerous question. Thales looked at the High Prelan and tried to consider his options. He knew nothing about the man; Sarek hadn’t been prominent in the Canton of Finance before Thales was sent off to the Southern Dominance, and even then, his Canton did not work closely with the Canton of Finance. New travelled slowly, the further away from Luthadel you got. Until the summons came, with the seal of the Canton of Finance, Thales hadn’t even known that the former High Prelan had been removed, much less why.

Little could remove a High Prelan, save death, or treachery.

Calmly, he said, “I expect you have some idea, High Prelan. Doubtless I would not be here if you thought it likely that my position was a sinecure.”

“True,” the High Prelan acknowledged. “But then you must have some story of exactly what happened to you. I want to hear it.”

“My supervisor was accepting bribes,” Thales said. “I reported him to our overall section chief. Nothing was done. So I went above my section chief and reported straight to the High Prelan. He was...displeased.”

“Ah,” the High Prelan made a face. “So you were involved in that mess.” He set his writing instrument down on the table’s surface and flicked it lightly. Thales watched it spin about on the polished surface. “Did you know they discovered that the High Prelan himself was accepting bribes? In fact, that’s why I’m sitting here, talking to you, now. The Lord Ruler takes it most seriously when two of his own High Prelans are colluding in a private scheme to accept wealth and to act to the benefit of certain noble Houses. The extent of the rot in the Cantons, unfortunately, is not widely known. Yet.”

Thales sat bolt-upright. “So they were accepting bribes, as well.”

The High Prelan pursed his lips and nodded. “Do you see why I’ve summoned you here?”

He had several guesses. He expected at least two of them were close to some semblance of the truth. He said, “Corruption is the purview of the Canton of Finance, is it not?”

He received an appreciative nod. “It is,” the High Prelan confirmed.

“Then,” Thales said, “With all due respect, High Prelan, why the game? We both know you asked me back from my time on plantation inspections; you don’t call me all the way back to Luthadel and call up all my files--” he gestured to the stack on the table with a short movement of his head, “--and inform me that I was effectively sent off to the plantations to be silenced by my own Canton, if you weren’t planning on offering me a job.”

The High Prelan laughed; a short, sharp bark. “Well,” he said. “I needed to see if you were sharp. And I don’t trust reports. I like to talk to people, to see what they’re actually doing. Reports aren’t the same as seeing a situation in person. I expect you know a great deal about that.”

Thales nodded. He did, of course.

“Transfers aren’t easy,” the High Prelan continued. “But in your case, I think you’re well worth it, what with your...history, shall we call it. I’m prepared to offer you a job as a Prelan with the Canton of Finance. Specifically, you’ll be with the department in charge of investigating allegations of fraud among the Houses, as well as those of corruption in the Steel Ministry.”

Thales closed his eyes, for a long moment. It wasn’t what he’d signed up with the Steel Ministry for, and yet in a way, it was. He’d signed up to change things, to make them better. To be useful. And between the lines, that was exactly what the High Prelan was saying. He wanted Thales.

He had known corruption had existed, hadn’t expected it to have penetrated to the very heart of the Steel Ministry itself. No wonder the Lord Ruler had been furious.

“Well?” the High Prelan demanded. “Is that an acceptable offer?”

Thales offered him a smile. “Very much so, High Prelan. I have only one question.”

“What is it?”

“When do I begin?”

[the winter system]

I am declaring Dieter as my heir. 

 

And my public action:

 

What: Offering a donation to the Steel Ministry for five Wealth
Where: A steel ministry canton

Who: Lady Cleo 

When: 1st Action Period

Why: So they like me more

[Shallan]

Public Action 1: marry my second child, Coanti, to an NPC into my family.

[phattemer]

And my public action... Drum roll please... Is... Buying as much atium from the Canton of Resource as they will sell me! (Action 3)

Why: Since my house has degreaser into a drunken stupor, I want to at least be able to tell when I am about to fall down.

[Adamir]

Public Action

 

Who: Lord Regnus

What: Paying off debts to House Zerrung; six Wealth.

Where: Luthadel

[Kasimir]

Kyrus Heron #3: A Time of Spires

It was, Kyrus Heron thought, a time of spires; he could see it, unfolding in the city before him. More and more Keeps sprung up in Luthadel with each passing year; sometimes, old, established noble Houses sought to remodel their ancestral homes, to keep them in line with current fashion.

This tower had been his father’s refuge. Now it was his. He sat a wary distance from the edge. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but he knew that he needed to respect them. The skies were the province of the Mistborn. By definition, then, he had no business meddling there.

The current trend was towards tall spires, unfurling towards the sullen, ash-clouded skies, pale imitations of the Lord Ruler’s palace, Kredik Shaw, standing in the centre of Luthadel, heavy with the weight of the centuries and with palpable power.

It was almost possible to regard Luthadel as a sprawling soot-stained forest: each spire, each Keep, each noble House as a tree vying for the clear skies and sunlight. With the spires and the ever-increasing number of balls came new opportunities: nobles wanted sculptures, glassworks; large sheer windows of stained glass, meant to capture what light there was, reflecting their status, livening the dull colours of stone and obsidian and ash.

The Heron glassworkers found commissions easily, and so did Kyrus. For all he was a House Lord, he’d been trained as a mosaicist, after all, and it seemed that the novelty of having a House Lord himself create a mosaic was in fact something that his fellow nobles were willing to pay for.

Some of his House grumbled. It was beneath their Lord, they murmured, to work as though he were a common skaa craftsman. But the creation of mosaics was art; it occupied, therefore, the grey borderlands between what was acceptable behaviour for a noble Lord and what was below his station. And so he kept on with his craft, even when the long hours and interminable meetings and things that needed to be done wore on him.

Art was a kind of escape. It was one he intended to permit himself, for as long as he could.

It was something Thales would’ve disagreed with. His young brother’s disagreements with their father had seemed to have gotten better, for a time. And then Thales had left and joined the Steel Ministry. There was word that he’d ended up as the adjutant to some High Prelan. Kyrus could believe it. Thales was the sort who was never content for anything to be just good enough: it had to be perfect.

In a way, he could understand that. If art didn’t capture the emotion it had set out to; if art was a poor shadow of its subject, then it was poor art. There was no room for approximations or rough caricatures in art. If art imitated life, it had to do so perfectly.

There was some value in overlooking Luthadel at this hour. He could see the stained glass windows, set in the immense spires of the halls, lit up from a hundred different angles and scattering the limelights within.

It was a clever thing, he’d begun to understand, heating quicklime to cast all sorts of incandescent splendour.
Of course, it meant the artist had to work, had to adapt. It was something Master Tormod had stressed, constantly. (How he missed the old man!) “Many craftsmen,” he would say, “Only look at their mosaic as they’re working with it. But light matters. You must always think about not just what kind of light your mosaic looks best in, but what it looks like in any kind of light. Some mosaicists get lazy and have them put candles at strategic points of their work.” He shook his head. “Sloppy. What’s the point of making something if looks breathtakingly beautiful until you douse the lights and then it looks like someone’s wolfhound took a crap on it?”

Limelights were the trend now; for the Urbain task--a personal favour to his sister-in-law, Grace Urbain had said, with a cool smile--Kyrus found himself surveying the ballroom and the layout. He stood there in the morning, in the afternoon, attended one of the Urbain balls with Fianna and paid attention to the placement of their limelights: the way the light fell, and then tried to imagine what he could do with it.

It was Urbain, of course, and so they would demand purple-and-orange glass, to be displayed prominently, as it was their House colours. The result was something that would look terribly garish, if it wasn’t properly blended with the other colours, enough to soften the harsh mixture of orange-and-purple. Not to mention that orange-and-purple were both ruinously expensive colours…

Why did you make art?

He’d drawn, as a boy; clumsy, children’s sketches using charcoal on paper. Perhaps that was why his father had seen fit to send him to Master Tormod. Or perhaps Aniketos Heron had seen something of the transformation at work in Luthadel even then; the shift towards things of beauty in this scarred, soot-stained world beneath the ash and sullen skies.

Was it to memorialise?

He’d seen the sculptures of nobles, and the ever-popular sculpture of the Lord Ruler slaying the Deepness, all of it set into glass and stone and obsidian, so it would never be forgotten. And did such deeds not deserve memorialisation?

And yet…

Art was fickle, Kyrus thought. An artist had to choose truth, to cultivate it, just as different light and different angles revealed different aspects to a mosaic. It was complex, and to simplify it to a tool did not do it justice.

He sighed, and stood up. It was late, and if he didn’t turn in soon, he wouldn’t be able to make the morning meeting with his factor. While House Heron’s financial standing had improved from his great-grandfather’s day, he knew it still needed close attention.

Another thing he imagined Thales chiding him over. But Thales had left now; was with the Steel Ministry. You gave up your name and House when you worked for them. Cut all connections to your previous life.

He allowed himself one last backward glance at the spires of Luthadel before he cautiously picked up the lantern and began to head back towards the open hatch, the access ladder and the waiting stairs.

  
 
Action Three

•Who? - Kyrus Heron, in his capacity as Steward of Tremredare

•What? - Kyrus is attempting to build more vocational schools in Tremredare.

•Where? - In Tremredare, naturally.

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

•Why? - Kyrus is attempting to develop Tremredare in the direction of being a cultural centre. Correspondingly, given the sluggish productivity and economy of Tremredare, Kyrus hopes that by working with the existing guilds to build more vocational schools, he will create more opportunities for the population in Tremredare to train as craftsmen and artisans. This aims to stimulate both the job market and the economy, as well as to enhance social mobility, and hopefully the quality of life in Tremredare.

[Mailliw73]

Action 3: Buy a unit of food from NPCs.

[Aonar]

Still no time for RP, sorry.

 

Who: Lady Bronwyn Izenry

What: Funding research into stronger glasses.

When: This is my second action for this turn.

Where: Urteau/Luthadel.

Why: Guess.

[Araris Valerian]

Here is some RP:

An scanned the reports that her spies had accumulated from local skaa. It seems that the nobility are about to realize the power of thousands of starving parents that hear the cries of their children every day. House Wair was on the brink of collapse; their skaa population would either die off or overthow their taskmasters in an attempt to become free. House Penrod, which was known to be on good terms with its skaa, stood to benefit greatly from such an event. But supporting a skaa rebellion would be beyond treason; even the nobility were not permitted to march armies against each other. She picked up a pen and began to compose a missive to the Ministry:

 

Honored Prelens,

     It has come to my attention that the skaa of House Wair are in a dire predicament. They are starved and yet have not lost their will; open rebellion is imminent. Such an event, if not quickly quelled, could spread among all of the nobility and disrupt the Final Empire in all of its entirety. And who would be to blame? The skaa, who have the choice between a slow death of starvation and a quick one by the swords of the Garrison? Or House Wair, who has neglected that all skaa are the property of the Lord Ruler? If a man starts a fire in his house, leaves, and returns to find the entire city burned to ashes, is it the fault of the fire? Or of the man? For what fire, had it the ability of choice, would choose to be extinguished? House Wair's conduct is a stain upon all of the Final Empire, so let House Penrod remove the mark. Give us the freedom to assist these skaa, to make the rebellion quick and painless. I pledge the forces of House Penrod as a policing force, to protect the surrounding families from destruction and to provide a constructive outlet for the skaa. We are prepared to deal harshly with any skaa that break out, for as Hadrian before me wrote, skaa are men and subject to all of the same responsibilities as men. Murder cannot be condoned even in an impassioned slave. The death of the master may be justice, but the death of the neighbor is certainly a crime What man, once free from bondage, would willingly go to serve under the same cruel master? Yet House Penrod has no such reputation. Skaa come to Fellise from across the Empire in search of a better life. And Fellise is not becoming a slum, but instead a center of culture and education. Surely the Lord Ruler's own property would be better off in the hands of a respected House than laying dead in streets and alleys. And I'm sure some of the spoils of this "mess" will find their was back to the Ministry.

 

If you are still resolved to quell the rebellion by military strength alone, and to uphold House Wair, then know that House Penrod came to you with this information so that you could act quickly and with proper information. Remember that our first loyalty is to the Lord Ruler and his obligators. And consider sending any skaa that remain to Fellise rather than to the Pits or to the Fountain Square.

 

Lady An Penrod

 

and my actions:

Action 1:

Who: Hadrian the 2nd

What: Marrying a mistborn NPC (if one is available)

Where: Fellise

Why: To continue the line of House Penrod

When: Action 1

 

Action 2:

Who: An Penrod

What: Upgrading the University

Why: To increase productivity

Where: Fellise

When: Second Action

 

Action 3:

Who: An Penrod

What: Asking the permission of the ministry to sell weapons (with half of the profit going to the ministry) to the skaa rebelling in House Wair (and doing that, if I get the OK). Also, my house is willing to commit its own military to prevent the rebellion from affecting the overall structure of the empire or any other noble houses.

Why: Because if House Wair cannot control its skaa then it doesn't deserve to have them and they are an embarrassment to the noble class, and so that the skaa can join the workforce in Fellise afterwards

Where: Wherever House Wair is

When: Third Action

Edit: House Penrod is not going to be participating in the War Games, but An Penrod will attend as the official recorder of the events.

Edited November 7, 2015 by Araris Valerian

[Unodus]

Guadium stared out the window of his keep towards the street below. It was too early for stargazing tonight, though the mists had already grown too thick for that already today. Instead, Guadium was watching a horse drawn carriage unloading barrels of wine. He'd been watching it motionlessly for about half an hour.

"Are you alright, Father?" asked Relmolina, causing Guadium to jump in surprise,
"Ah, sorry my dear. I didn't see you there." he replied, turning back to face his desk, "I'm quite alright, just got a little distracted"

Unconvinced, Relmolina walked over to the window he had been facing,
"Why on earth are you watching a carriage being unloaded? Surely you have better things to do with your time."
"Hm? Oh, I wasn't watching the carriage- I was watching the driver. He's the ringleader of a particular smuggling ring near the channel." 
"A smuggler?" Relmolina gasped, appalled, "in the keep? Why haven't your men apprehended him?"
"Well, technically he isn't a smuggler yet. Tonight, he will return to his family and find his only son has developed a terrible illness. Knowing he cannot afford the treatment, he'll request a pay rise from us. When we refuse him that, he'll start looking for other sources of finance. That's when he'll turn to crime. Realizing the opportunity being a carriage driver offers, he'll turn to smuggling because of how easily it is to cover up from his position. Within the month, his smuggling business will become the biggest crime syndicate in Luthadel. Days later, he'll be captured by my men and executed for his crimes- and in doing so, we also condemn his son to death."

Relmolina frowns,
"But, if we increase his pay- he'll never have to turn to crime. If you know what he will become, why won't you give him what he needs? It's not like we can't help pay for the medication for his son"
"Ah, sweet Relmolina" Gaudium sighed, shaking his head, "I wish that were possible. But if we raised the pay for one person- we'd be liable to pay extra rates to every worker with an ill sibling. Within the year, workers will realize they could intentionally force illnesses on their children in order to be able to afford food. I'm sorry. my child- but sometimes the solution to one problem can lead to creating worse problems."

Relmolina turned back to face the window.
"I see... If there's nothing you can do, though-  why have you been watching him for so long?"

Guadium paused. Eventually, he said "Well, imagine from the drivers perspective if, before he returned home, he stumbled across a rare jewel among the cobbles simply by chance- and by selling it he could afford his sons treatment. No need to turn to crime, and no social backlash."
"But thats impossible, nobody would accidentally misplace a jewel of such worth- why would you..." Relmolina started, just as the driver bent down and picked up something hidden beneath a pile of ash.
"One day, Relmolina, you will be the head of the house." Gaudium nodded, "I can only hope the issues of your generation will be as trivial as mine."

 

Action 3

Who? Guadium, in his capacity as House Lord

What? Donating 10 wealth to the Steel Ministry

When? Second action

Why? I've got some disposable income, might as well try for a stewardship again. Gotta smooth things over with the ministry before applying though V:

[Comatose]

No RP for me again, sorry.  November is the worst, and I am also starting working on a side project which will be requiring a lot of my attention.  Between that in school, I might need to take a generation or two off.  I'll be working out the details of that with Wyrn, hopefully.  

 

Anyways, for now, here is my action for the turn.  

 

Action:

 

Kenneth Elariel is declared as heir.  

 

Action 1: Marriage of Kenneth Elariel (Public):

Who: Lady Valerie Elariel
What: Marrying Kenneth to an NPC.  
Where: Keep Elariel
When: Gen 4, Turn 4, Action 1
Why: To provide for the future of the house.

[Haelbarde]

Action:

Third Action:

• Who? - Lord Heatherlocke is performing this action, in his capacity as House Lord.

• What? - Upgrade the Southern Isles Prison

• Where? - Southern Isles

• When? - This is my 3rd Action for the Turn.

• Why? - To increase net wealth output

[TheMightyLopen]

A little bit of RP.

Lord Owain Nohr sat at his desk, inspecting the letter he had written for his Heir.

 

    My dearest daughter Ophelia, 

 

            Soon it will be time for me to step down as leader and Lord of House Nohr. I have full confidence in your ability to guide and lead our House in a positive and orderly manner. I am sure you can and will be an excellent model of strength and justice. Keep a firm hand with the Skaa, but do not be so proud to never show mercy. If you treat them fairly, they can be a powerful asset. I hope you will show more wisdom than I concerning financial affairs. I am not sure what to think of this Inquisiton, but I believe they can be a powerful ally for our House. You have shown great promise and I trust you will do the Nohr Legacy proud. Be careful that you do not get so caught up in your duties that you do not enjoy the small things in life. The breeze on a cool day, or the embrace of a loved one. The small details can often effect the largest of decisions. Know that I love you and am proud of you for the woman you have become.

 

                                                                                                               Your loving Father,

                                                                                                                                 Owain Nohr

 

Owain slid the letter in a small steel container on the underside of his desk. "Yes, she will make a fine leader indeed! Now, I must prepare for the War Games. I've got to show the strength of House Nohr after all! What better way than this?"

 

 

I would like to participate in the War Games!

 

I am declaring Ophelia Nohr as my Heir.

 

Action:

Who: Lord Owain Nohr
What: Upgrading my Lumber Mill
Where: Fadrex
When: 1st Action
Why: Increased production for increased Wealth

Edited November 7, 2015 by TheMightyLopen

[little wilson]

Who: Lady Tamsa Wilson and Lady Senna Queade

What: Tamsa is accepting Lady Queade's marriage contract between Shan Queade and Whyan Wilson and Allera Wilson and Samden Queade

Where: Luthadel

When: Action 1

Why: To forge an alliance with House Queade and maintain the allomantic strength of both Houses

 

Whyan Wilson is marrying into House Queade, to Shan.

Samden Queade is marrying into House Wilson, to Allera.

[Renegade]

I have a bunch of projects coming up, so this will have to be my last turn for a while.

 

Action 1: Elden Garde is purchasing a large shipment of bread from an NPC house in order to feed the House members and skaa.

[Orlok Tsubodai]

Action 1:

What: Purchasing 1 atium from the Steel ministry

Where: The Steel Ministry

When: G4T4A1

Who: Lady Tekiel

Why: To provide an additional line of defence against attacking Mistborn

[Wyrmhero]

The Turn is over! As is the Generation. Write-up posted this time tomorrow.

 

By the way, the latest in the computer saga: Motherboard replaced and re-sent... And they sent it for delivery on Monday. I am at work then, and specifically requested Saturday while on the phone. Kelsier, they're bad at this...