Long Game 74: You Want It Darker

[Kasimir]

24 minutes ago, Ashbringer said:

... so that’s why you were so talkative at what was around 11:00 at night PST 

Yes I know you stay up that late anyway Illwei

Been telling y'all my timezone is SGT/GMT+8, which is why it's a bit awkward for stateside players. @TJ Shade knows this pain, am I right, Dark Bro?  But my hours have been really awful so there's that.

21 minutes ago, Burnt Spaghetti said:

Hm. So Kas is evil incarnate. But, doesn't this just mean he is straight up Ruin? After all, we know he's gonna be speaking to the spiked! He's not just evil, HE'S RUIN!! Can we simply vote out a shard??? 

You wound me, Burntling

After all these years? I gave you a knife and let you slaughter your way through guests at a party. I led you to the gathering of conspirators and let you and Elan have your murderous way with them. Was all that blood not enough to satiate you? I'm not responsible for the darkness in the human heart, Burntling, nor your choices - all I did was give you exactly what you wanted. 

Victims. People to toy with, betray, and murder.

And you call me evil incarnate? I, who have bled for the Village and died for the Village, and who have, by your own words, not been Evil in millennia?  

I am disappoint. 

Ladies, gentlespren - I take my leave. You have, by my reckoning, slightly under twelve hours to get your votes in before rollover.

Edited February 24, 2021 by Kasimir

[Ashbringer]

Spoiler

Don't you all make me Mercycide again... 

 

[Kasimir]

2 minutes ago, Ashbringer said:

  Reveal hidden contents

Don't you all make me Mercycide again... 

 

There is no Mercy in this game, little one.

No mercy. No Shard to save you now.

Just your votes, your choices.

And me  

[Burnt Spaghetti]

1 minute ago, Kasimir said:

You wound me, Burntling

After all these years? I gave you a knife and let you slaughter your way through guests at a party. I led you to the gathering of conspirators and let you and Elan have your murderous way with them. Was all that blood not enough to satiate you? I'm not responsible for the darkness in the human heart, Burntling, nor your choices - all I did was give you exactly what you wanted. 

Victims. People to toy with, betray, and murder.

And you call me evil incarnate? I, who have bled for the Village and died for the Village, and who has, by your own words, not been Evil in millennia?  

I am disappoint. 

Ladies, gentlespren - I take my leave. You have, by my reckoning, slightly under twelve hours to get your votes in before rollover.

Ah. I see you caught me in my lie, dear friend.  After all, is not Ruin my favoured lord? Is not Ruin who I have always fought for? Murdered for? Betrayed for? Sung for? Ruin is, and by extension, you, true, not evil incarnate, as far as I am concerned. Ruin is, as you have just described, a facilitator, one who gives those who follow him the means to ruin. And you know I would do it all again if you grant me such a blessing. Grant me the tools and you know I will lay waste to those who are against me. This I swear, ancient one.

[Gears]

This is what you know: You are an ant before a council of gods. They speak of legends and fables, of days long before your time, and you know in your heart of hearts that you will never match their glory. They banter with knives and bloodshed and fangs, and what are you before them? You are new to the table, one of a vast generation that came crawling out of the broken earth to witness these people smile with mouths of shadow and lies. They forged this land from nothing, they tore it out of the cruel landscape of the void, they built an empire from ash, and you thought yourself worthy of marching alongside them. 

The one who guides you into the mists engages in raillery with old friends, speaking of figures from myth as though they were as close as the grave. You try to partake in the laughter, but it quickly turns into a game you cannot follow, into a dance you do not know. The mythos opens its maw to swallow you whole, and you drown beneath the weight of history, beneath all the days you never knew, all the people you'll never know, all the years they carved out without you. You could disappear, and they would never notice your absence, or if they did, it would only be as another line on a spreadsheet. You could fade into the mists, and they'd continue on without you. You are not Lore, not Legend, and in the face of Glory, you know that all dreams of Becoming were just that: dreams. 

You stand at the feet of giants, of titans, of gods, and you Know with bitter certainty that you are fundamentally Different, fundamentally Other from the First Ones. You are young, stumbling to your feet and running down paths that they have witnessed a thousand thousand times before. When they were as you are now, you were a child, too small to even dream of possibility. They play games while you try to survive. And you might try to stand by them, to keep pace as they stride onwards, but you have always been a follower. You hide in the corner and let them have their fun, following one or another as their pretty words sway your feeble mind. 

You reiterate their words with your voice, acting as their instrument. You listen and obey. Perhaps if you mimic them enough, you will become them. Perhaps if you act as they do, perhaps if you simply claw your niche into the earth they made, then perhaps they will remember you. Perhaps your work will not be wiped away by the sands of time, left as a mere footnote in the bloody tapestry of history. But no one gets remembered as a copy of someone else. Inevitably, you will be remembered in connection to another. Or perhaps you are being melancholy again, lamenting the fate that has not yet bound you. Yet here you stand, a crawling thing before dragons, waiting to be forgotten as soon as you leave.

The First Ones are Eternal. The Next Generation is not. Hundreds of names in that spreadsheet, and most are relics without a mythos. They stand with blood on their knives and joy in their hearts and a smile on their lips, and you can't help but long for halcyon days, the formative days, the days when anyone could be a myth, a legend, a Story, and all it took was simply existing and being glorious. But of course, you wouldn't be a myth of eras past either. These people, these First Ones you follow as a matter of course, they existed then too. That's what defines them as First Ones. And you, ever the follower, would have marched behind them in that era as well. No matter the time or the meta or the mythos, you have always been easily swayed by insidious words and shiny things.

This is not the best era, nor the worst era, but simply an era, the era you have arrived in, and despite your idle misery, you know logically that this era is a fine one. The First Ones remain to steer you away from the paths they have traversed and fallen down on. The New Generation stands by your side to run down the wild paths anyways. The future shines before you, brighter than ever, and you will be a part of that future, so long as you don't leave. Yes, there are pitfalls and dangers, but the Legion marches by your side. The tapestry weaves itself with skeins of death and bloodshed, and you have already claimed lives for its cloth. You are a part of this history, even if you will never match the shadows that the First Ones cast. You hold the knife, and the Legion stands with you. Always.

[The Unknown Ajah]

Obliteration stood there watching these interesting events, they seemed to be voting for an imaginary person. Or was this person not imaginary? If that was the case, who was this Kasimir?

[Kasimir]

1 hour ago, Burnt Spaghetti said:

Ah. I see you caught me in my lie, dear friend.  After all, is not Ruin my favoured lord? Is not Ruin who I have always fought for? Murdered for? Betrayed for? Sung for? Ruin is, and by extension, you, true, not evil incarnate, as far as I am concerned. Ruin is, as you have just described, a facilitator, one who gives those who follow him the means to ruin. And you know I would do it all again if you grant me such a blessing. Grant me the tools and you know I will lay waste to those who are against me. This I swear, ancient one.

I'll admit, old friend, it's a little tempting. But it's not Ruin you're talking to, and if it's Ruin you're looking for, you'll want my bro Axl ( @Matrim's Dice) over there.

I am and have always been only Kasimir.

In LG5, the Village drowned in blood as they slew their brethren to get to me. They never saw me coming. Not until Wyrm stopped me, with a well-placed arrow. In MR1, they killed me three times in fear and still I lived. Wyrm had to stick the knife in twice more before I would die. I descended to the lands of the dead and rooted out every single last one of his kin, and had the living send his wretched soul to the underworld to explain himself to me and Awes. 

In LG6, I died through a bargain poorly-struck with Maili, rather than because my Evil was discovered. I was in their deepest circle of trust and Alv, too, claimed to me as security against Wilson and Awes. In QF2, I died early, valiantly trying to hunt the mutineers, as my bro Wyrm sought to avenge me.

In MR3, I was the Forgotten everyone forgot existed, and together, Wyrm and I tirelessly rooted out every Villager and had them executed. 

I was the King's Wit in MR4, rallying Dalinar's loyalists against the perfidy of the spies. I tricked the spying Ser Wolf into conversation and worked out his identity. I crossed wits with Meta several times and lived to tell the tale. Meta did not. I survived every single one of the multiple attempts to slay me, that game. 

I was the Prophet in LG7, the Ironborn who did not protect, the one who stood between the coalition of Villagers and the Skaa we slew. I was the Speaker for Elantris in LG12, the foe of the Jeskeri, the bane of the Gyorn, Wilson's Lover, and Wyrm's Dula brother, connecting two cities sundered by the will of Hreo and Tulir. 

In QF6, I was the Cryptologist, and I came out swinging for Team Stephen as we executed Nightmare Aspect after Nightmare Aspect. We could not speak, so I spoke for them, and connected separate PM groups. Heedless of death, I revealed myself recklessly to Maili and Aonar in order to provide the Village with the one advantage we needed: a language. A code. A way to bridge the distance. Together, Joe and I wreaked havoc and we slaughtered the Evil ones without mercy.

I was Aranmir, who hammered to save the Village. I was Tenth of the Dusk, intrepid trapper, exacting a bloodprice for the death of STINK. I was Duncan Kerr, who sought to die meaningfully, by leaving the Village with whatever help I could give them.

I am Kasimir, brother to Wyrmhero, Philosopher-Analyst of the Inquisition, King's Wit, Good Guy Fain, and the Last Son of House Urbain. I am the Keeper of King's Laws, the Village Renegade, the Loresinger, the Namegiver, the Ironborn, and the Kingkiller. I am one of the last of a dying generation and when I fade into the dark, the names I bear, the memories I carry will go with me.

It is not me you need to ask blessings from, old friend. I am who I am. I am what I am.

Go pray to the gods of luck and chance for your boon.

I will remain.

For my watch has not yet ended. For I am your GM. And I have a job to do.  

Edited February 24, 2021 by Kasimir

[|TJ|]

Fleur Tieste was visibly confused. He was just in the village to chat up some lads and lasses, maybe fall in love, finally settle down in life? (heh who am I kidding, I've got loads of love to share with the world). 

And now the occupants had decided they want to kill the lead investigator? Hmmm, suppose some of these would be from the killer's party to stunt the investigation. No matter, he liked old Kast, and he wanted to find the killer just as bad. Who'd be in the mood for romance when the whole town is anxious, yeah?

Hmmmm, might as well flex my skills a bit, it's been a while.

"HEY! Ain't no one be killing this old investigator here. We need the killer found quickly. And besides, I quite like him. You could say....he's Kast a spell on me. You touch him, and I'll send you back in a Kast."

Mmmm, a tad rusty. Ain't causing any ladies to swoon with this. Need to finetune these skills...

[Condensation]

 I'm going to have to shift to pinch-hitter. Sorry. 

[Kasimir]

Day 0 - Interlude: Prelude for the Straying Stars

“Well, some nights I wish that this all would end
‘Cause I could use some friends for a change [...]
But I still wake up, I still see your ghost
Oh Lord, I’m still not sure what I stand for, oh.”

—’Some Nights’, Fun

Fallion’s Tears turned on Kast.

Perhaps he should have seen it coming.

After all, he seemed to know something about the spikes. And one of them had read a novel where one of the detectives was the murderer, and if evil lurked beneath the tired and worn faces of the private investigators, it was surely the surly and bitter Kast Spiers, rather than the charismatic Wyl Sharpe…

 

 

“Right,” said Wurum. “I’m going to have to stop you right there.”

Khas sighed. “Are you storming serious?” he wanted to know. “You wanted a story. I was, mind, under absolutely no obligation to entertain you, but I obliged out of the goodness of my heart—”

Wurum held up one finger. “It’s a bad story,” he said, bluntly. And then he held up a second. “I’m not interested in entertaining your martyr complex again.”

“It’s my story,” Khas replied. “You asked for a story. You didn’t specify exactly what kind of story you wanted. I wanted something a little dark, a tale of murders in a rural Scadrian village. You said that was fine with you, and now you’ve got exactly what you asked for. I can’t see what reason you could possibly have to object to this.”

Wurum stared judgementally at Khas from across the battered table. “I can see every possible reason to object to this. I’ve sampled a broad selection of Alethi literature, and I don’t think I’ve heard anything as appallingly bad before. The private investigators are obviously a thinly-veiled attempt at self-insertion, a hallmark of bad writing if I’ve ever heard one.”

Khas dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Ah yes, your heretical reading pursuits. You ever get worried you’d be strung up if someone caught you actually reading?”

Wurum raised an eyebrow. “If anyone ever finds me reading in the safehouse, I’ll have bigger problems than whether reading is the proper pursuit for an Alethi male. In other words, no.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Khas admitted.

“Don’t I always?”

“But,” Khas continued, “What I was really saying was that your pursuit of trashy detective novellas, a couple of adventure books, that forty-book Saucerworld series, and garnishing that selection with a half-hearted read of the Way of Kings is pretty damned heretical, if you ask me.”

“No one asked for your opinion.”

Khas grinned. “I know. I offer it freely regardless. It’s part of my charm.”

“It’s...something,” Wurum said. He sighed and pushed half-heartedly at the assortment of papers on the table. “You still haven’t learned to clean up properly.”

Khas shrugged. “I have a lot of side projects,” he said, unrepentant. “I’m currently working on a short paper for submission to Silverlight. Applying Menzi’s ethical framework to the practical problems of working as a Ghostblood operative—”

Wurum stared at him, aghast. “You can’t possibly publish that!” he hissed. “Your superior will—”

“Gotcha,” Khas smirked. “Had you going there for a bit, didn’t I? No, I understand opsec. Probably a little better than you, even, what with that one time you revealed yourself in a Scadrian village on the first night.” 

Wurum sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. “Fine. Get back to your story.”

 

 

The villagers of Fallion’s Tears turned among themselves. The killer—or killers, as it were—clearly lurked among them, but who could it be?

Dr. Aliker turned on Lasalen, the alchemist who had procured far too many ducks than was reasonable for a sane person. After all, what manner of reasonable person would wrangle so many ducks? Clearly, only such a depraved individual would be capable of the horrific murders of Leas Fel and Bartholomew.

Meanwhile, Lasalen had quickly stepped up to accuse Dr. Aliker in return. Where had he gotten his medical credentials? Why would a doctor even retire to Fallion’s Tears, if not to hide some dark secrets—perhaps even to practice murder?

The cobbler, Marll joined in. According to him, Dr. Aliker was suspicious for jumping so swiftly to accuse Lasalen. Perhaps Dr. Aliker knew more than he was letting on?

It was at that point that calamity struck.

A seemingly ordinary villager who went by the peculiar name of Obliteration decided for reasons unfathomable to all that evil lurked in the heart of the surly and bitter Kast Speirs. Probably read too many detective novels, like the trashy Scadrian murder-at-a-mansion paperback, Death Comes At The End where the narrator was the killer after all. 

Of course, his partner, Wyl Sharpe, might have been considered guilty, but Wyl was charismatic, and suspicion seemed to slide off him like water off a duck—

 

 

“It takes skill,” Wurum interjected. “Well, that and a basic understanding of human psychology.”

Khas let out an irritated sigh. “I thought you had decided to let me tell my story?” he asked, pointedly.

“I’m regretting it.”

“Not as much as I’m regretting letting you in,” said Khas. “You barge into my safehouse, demand to be entertained, and tell me you left your last posting because you were bored—”

“Ah, and your story is most certainly not sufficiently entertaining. Check and mate.”

Khas’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “I could tell you that a Shardblade duel broke out,” he said, ominously. “That Kast summoned a Shardblade and fought his way free of the gathered mob, just like in those trashy Blanch novels you used to follow.”

“A Shardblade? In a Scadrian murder tale? I think you’re godmodding here. That’s way too overpowered.”

“You like Shardblade duels, as I recall. Eighty Splendid Suns was full of them.”

“Yes, and it isn’t exactly what I’d consider a prime example of Selish literature,” Wurum retorted. “Your point, being?”

Khas heaved a long-suffering sigh. “After imposing yourself on me, and demanding a story, the very least you could do is to hear me out.”

“Very well,” Wurum conceded. “Carry on with your tale, then.”

 

 

Once Obliteration had decided that Kast must be the murderer who was merely pretending to investigate the killings, other voices soon joined in. The storyteller, Variel, recalled that he’d seen Kast at the scene of the crime a few days ago. The fact that Kast was supposed to be investigating Leas Fel’s death seemed to have conveniently eluded him.

Perhaps because they’d gone entirely quackers, Lasalen joined in, insisting that if they rid themselves of Kast, there would be no investigation and therefore no more murders. One had to believe Lasalen had a weak grasp of the concept of causation—

 

 

“What are you storming doing?” Khas snapped.

Wurum had been peeling an orange, but at that point, he’d simply lobbed it straight at Khas. Fortunately, Khas’s reflexes saved him, as he snatched it out of the air before impact.

“Common decency,” Wurum said, with a shrug. “That pun was awful. Did you know that in Natanatan of old, they used to lob rotten fruit at performers who were doing a seriously sloppy job? No? Well, consider that your free fact of the day.”

“You make worse ones,” Khas sneered. “I’m confiscating your orange.”

“But what will I throw at you then, if not an orange?”

“You’ll figure something out, I’m sure,” Khas said, with a long-suffering sigh. He set down the orange, and Wurum promptly snagged it, even as Khas rescued his papers and shuffled them hurriedly into a stack before harm could come to them.

“For the last time, Wurum. Listen to the damned story or get out of my safehouse.”

“Fine. When you put it that way…”

“I most certainly do. Are you going to behave yourself?”

“Under objection and under duress, certainly.”

“Well, then.”

 

 

Nevertheless, others joined in. Roko the Basilisk, who was gazing at a photograph. No, Wurum, don’t you bloody dare. Something about the photograph told Roko that Kast was most likely the villain blighting the benighted village of Fallion’s Tears.

Illwei though, hesitated. Was there something suspicious about Obliteration’s insistence that Kast was evil? (The answer, obviously, was yes.) A random bystander joined in, and voiced suspicion of Obliteration. Who would even bear such a name? Clearly, no one with good intentions. 

Niru, the village’s resident ash watcher took his eyes off Bartholomew’s ashes and the most suspicious ‘Derrick’ who very certainly did not have literal skeletons in his closet to mention half-heartedly that he had no idea what was going on but probably Variel the Storyteller was suspicious.

No one had the faintest idea why.

As Kast tried to interject and bring some semblance of order and common sense to the mess, Wyl simply stood there and whistled. It was as though he had not a care in the world, especially for the welfare of his business partner—

 

 

“What is it now,” Khas sighed.

“I didn’t say anything,” said Wurum, serenely.

“You were thinking it. I know you were. Out with it.”

“What if I don’t want to say what I’m thinking anymore? I’m a sensitive person, and you’ve been silencing me so strenuously.”

“You expect me to take that seriously?”

“Yes?”

It was Khas who cracked first. It usually was. “Fine,” he sighed. “I’m sorry for shushing you so aggressively. Please share with the class, Wurum. What exactly is on your mind?”

“Have you tried seeing anyone for that PTSD of yours?”

Khas blinked. “I have talked with El a couple of times, but I think I’m making good progress?”

“I mean, it’s obvious to me that you’re still holding on to a great deal of repressed trauma from those riots on Kholinar, Khas. I don’t think that’s very healthy, frankly.”

“It is not trauma, it’s a healthy distrust of you and your motives!”

Wurum clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Exactly. Since when have I had anything except your best interests at heart?”

“Pretty sure shooting me with an arrow from a storming Grandbow doesn’t count,” Khas snapped. “Nor does stabbing me five times and leaving me for dead.”

“Ah, but I’m on your side now, and you’re not dead, so clearly it worked out for the better. Aren’t you happy? Didn’t I promote your best interests after all?”

“God, I hate you.”

“The retort of a man who knows he can’t argue with logic,” said Wurum.

 

 

The last straw was when Tesse Mourn, resident metallurgist, voiced her suspicions of Kast. He’d come to her store to purchase metals a few times, after all, and something about that was innately suspicious. 

The villagers advanced on Kast, and he most certainly did not pull out a Shardblade.

He attempted to defend himself, of course. He wasn’t reckless, and he wasn’t out of his mind. But his reasoned words fell on deaf ears. There was a powerful undercurrent of fear running through Fallion’s Tears, and now that they had determined that Kast was guilty, the villagers could not be dissuaded.

He fought back. But he was getting long in the tooth, and his leg had never recovered from that night on duty in Tremredare. And Wyl did not lift a hand to help him, merely watched as they beat his erstwhile partner to death with his own walking cane.

 

 

“That’s how it ends?” Wurum demanded, incredulously. 

Khas nodded. “That’s how it ends,” he confirmed.

“God, I take it back. This isn’t a bad story, it’s outright awful. Worse than the one with the falling rocks where everyone dies. There’s no sense of plot, nothing. The villagers turn on Kast, he dies, and everything ends. Fade to black. You could’ve just told me that in a single line and saved us all the effort.”

“That’s how life is sometimes, isn’t it?” Khas retorted. “Sometimes we make the wrong decision, and everything ends. We trust someone we shouldn’t have, eat the wrong orange—” Wurum’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the orange he was pulling apart. “Yesterday, one of the recruits made a bad call and was killed by an incipient Skybreaker. Panicked, of course. But these things happen.”

“Are you appealing to a tragedy in the organisation to justify your appalling storytelling skills?”

“No, I’m saying that you wanted a story, and sometimes, stories are just unsatisfying. That’s just how life is. Art reflects life, and all that. In real life, sometimes the private investigator dies rather than finding out the villain. Sometimes, the innocent are killed, or arrested. Sometimes, the emperor dies of fever rather than conquers the known world, or a famous general is thrown from his Ryshadium and cracks his skull and dies and a kingdom is saved, all entirely by the caprice of chance.” 

“Don’t you bring your philosophy into this.”

“Well, you came to me and asked for a story. If you didn’t want one that was even a little philosophical, maybe you found the wrong man.”

“You know, you’ve been insufferable ever since you earned that degree at Silverlight.”

“It’s called lifelong learning, Wurum. As I recall, you’re a proponent of it yourself.”

“Bah,” scoffed Wurum. “You have far too much time on your hands.”

“The privileges of seniority,” said Khas. “As you yourself undoubtedly are aware. So come on then. Show me how it’s done, Master Storyteller. You never did tell me about what happened on Notemos all those years ago. As I recall, we lost an entire cell in practically a week.”

Wurum’s eyes narrowed. “Notemos? That entire affair? How did you come to hear of it? You were away on Silverlight finishing up your second degree, as I recall."

Khas tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “Sources, old friend. I have my sources. Spill it.”

Wurum stretched out his legs and reached for a carafe of water. “Very well then…” he said. “So, our story begins this way:

Footsteps on the dusty floor alerted Wurum to the presence of someone else within the room…”

 

 

Books (1): Danex
Danex (1): Maili
Experience (1): Experience
Kas (5): Order, Striker, Books, Gears, Quinn
Order (2): Illwei, Randby
Striker (1): Ventyl

Kast was a Veteran Private Investigator in Khas's story! 

Unfortunately, neither the Village nor the Spiked have won this game. The only winner has turned out to be Wurum Heron/Wyrmhero, for offering Khas a thorough tongue-lashing for telling a bad story! And for letting me drag him repeatedly in/into the write-up >>

Thanks for playing LG74!  You guys have been astonishingly energetic and fun players, and I hope to GM you all sometime again. I'll post GM thoughts on the game format sometime soon, after I finish drowning my sorrows over failing as a GM again with some alcohol.... #MR7 #neverforget #neverforgive #atonement

[Lolnope get ready, don't forget your dirty secrets/skeletons, sign-ups close as announced at 2300hrs GMT+8 on Friday, and I aim to get the game up and running an hour after. See you then!]

Edited February 24, 2021 by Kasimir

[Gears]

The story crumbles to dust as the narrator laughs with an old friend. You laugh as well, your heart lighter for the simple joy of interaction. Never before had a Narrator so entertained the shenanigans of the Maskless Wanderers. Fallion's Tears lingers in the mist, but the path disappeared with the end of the Narrator's words. It might have been enjoyable to wander through those streets and drink of the cup from a tavern of metallic corvids, but this masterpiece of a comedy is an adequate substitute. Khas and Wurum banter, and you smile at the game that is both more and less than a game.

Though Khas was not a particularly incredible storyteller, the one known as Kasimir is truly a gifted shaper of words. You hope to one day capture a fragment of his gift, though you know you will never attain it. "Tell us another," you ask, your pleading tone bleeding into longing, into hunger. "Your stories are works of art. Tell us another." You wish to hear more about Fallion's Tears, about Kast Spiers and Wyl Sharpe. Perhaps the curse will be broken. Perhaps the village will fall again. You want to know. 

"Tell us another," and this time your words have taken on an edge of command, though you have no right to command a First One. You want to know. You must know. "Tell us the story of Fallion's Tears."

---

This second person piece is definitely worse than the one before, but I wanted to give our Great and Mighty Game Master a road back to the story at hand. Tell us the story of Fallion's Tears, Kasimir, brother to Wyrmhero, Philosopher-Analyst of the Inquisition, King's Wit, Good Guy Fain, Last Son of House Urbain, Keeper of King's Laws, Village Renegade, Loresinger, Namegiver, Ironborn, and Kingkiller. Regale us with your wondrous words of warm wit and wary wills.

[Ookla-son-son-Ventyl]

11 hours ago, Burnt Spaghetti said:

Ah. I see you caught me in my lie, dear friend.  After all, is not Ruin my favoured lord? Is not Ruin who I have always fought for? Murdered for? Betrayed for? Sung for? Ruin is, and by extension, you, true, not evil incarnate, as far as I am concerned. Ruin is, as you have just described, a facilitator, one who gives those who follow him the means to ruin. And you know I would do it all again if you grant me such a blessing. Grant me the tools and you know I will lay waste to those who are against me. This I swear, ancient one.

O.O

My attention has been caught.

[Shard of Reading]

What is going on here!?!!?!?

This game is going to be fun. 

[Mat]

6 minutes ago, Ventyl said:

O.O

My attention has been caught.

There's only one Ruin around here, Drash  

[Mailliw73]

Marll woke to startling news. Five of his fellow villagers had killed Kast? The investigator? What in the Lord Ruler's name had possessed them to do such a disturbing thing? Of all the people that could help the people of Fallion's Tears to find the murderer in their mist, they chose to kill the most helpful one? At least that Wyl guy was still around, but Marll had never liked him as much as Kast. What kind of storm had been brought to his home? 

[Kasimir]

1 hour ago, Shard of Reading said:

What is going on here!?!!?!?

This game is going to be fun. 

Ctrl + A is your best friend

2 minutes ago, Mailliw73 said:

Marll woke to startling news. Five of his fellow villagers had killed Kast? The investigator? What in the Lord Ruler's name had possessed them to do such a disturbing thing? Of all the people that could help the people of Fallion's Tears to find the murderer in their mist, they chose to kill the most helpful one? At least that Wyl guy was still around, but Marll had never liked him as much as Kast. What kind of storm had been brought to his home? 

I'll let him know  You all and white text, I swear...

[|TJ|]

Noooooo, I had a story all set for Fleur to follow Kast around throughout the investigation and being pesky and annoying, and the more you tried to make it a depressing noir story, the more I'd try to make it a buddy cop comedy. And then you had to go kill him -.-

I guess there's still Wyl remaining. So, where there's a Wyl, there's a way? 

(Or is it pronounced like - he's seems too evil and Wyl for me to buddy up to him?)

[Ashbringer]

... I thought that Kast dying was just his story?

[Kasimir]

7 minutes ago, TJ Shade said:

Noooooo, I had a story all set for Fleur to follow Kast around throughout the investigation and being pesky and annoying, and the more you tried to make it a depressing noir story, the more I'd try to make it a buddy cop comedy. And then you had to go kill him -.-

I guess there's still Wyl remaining. So, where there's a Wyl, there's a way? 

(Or is it pronounced like - he's seems too evil and Wyl for me to buddy up to him?)

Maybe y'all shouldn't have voted on him then, eh. Also, Ctrl + A is your best friend

3 minutes ago, Ashbringer said:

... I thought that Kast dying was just his story?

This guy gets it  

Edited February 24, 2021 by Kasimir

[Random Bystander]

1 minute ago, TJ Shade said:

Noooooo, I had a story all set for Fleur to follow Kast around throughout the investigation and being pesky and annoying, and the more you tried to make it a depressing noir story, the more I'd try to make it a buddy cop comedy. And then you had to go kill him -.-

I guess there's still Wyl remaining. So, where there's a Wyl, there's a way? 

(Or is it pronounced like - he's seems too evil and Wyl for me to buddy up to him?)

That would have been really funny. I'm kind of disappointed I won't be able to see that now. Oh well. Any way the wind blows. (Gong sounds in the background)

[Mailliw73]

4 minutes ago, Ashbringer said:

... I thought that Kast dying was just his story?

Kast (the investigator in Fallion’s Tears) died in Khas’s (a previous Rosharan character of Kas’s) story. 

[Kasimir]

1 minute ago, Mailliw73 said:

Kast (the investigator in Fallion’s Tears) died in Khas’s (a previous Rosharan character of Kas’s) story.

While Khas died in the game you first GMed me for, and thus was a character in your story  Storyception time!

[Mailliw73]

10 minutes ago, Kasimir said:

While Khas died in the game you first GMed me for, and thus was a character in your story  Storyception time!

So you’re saying I killed Kast? Now that’s not fair.

[Kasimir]

2 minutes ago, Mailliw73 said:

So you’re saying I killed Kast? Now that’s not fair.

I'm allowing you to have one more kill of me under your belt  When was the last time you murdered me, LG7? 

[Quintessential]

21 minutes ago, Kasimir said:

Also, Ctrl + A is your best friend

100% endorse this statement XD on an unrelated note, nice signature