Kasimir

Heads-Up: I am fighting off a migraine. If the pain gets unbearable, I will take my strong painkillers, but these have a tendency to knock me out quite a bit. I'll set a bunch of alarms but there is no guarantee I'll wake up in time to do rollover. This is what is going to happen: Devo has placed a lock on the thread. (Thank you!) I ask all of you to please respect the lock and stop posting past rollover (0100hrs SGT / GMT+8.) In the best possible world, my migraine either goes away, or I wake up in time to do rollover. Everything proceeds as normal, and everything and everyone is fine. (Moderately high credence this will happen.) In the worst possible world, the painkillers knock me out and I wake up at around 0230hrs SGT or later, which I judge eats a bit too far into the proper cycle for comfort. If this is the case, I will ask Devo to unlock the thread and go for an extended rollover. In the extended rollover, I will allow RP and memes but absolutely nothing game relevant. No further orders or votes will be accepted, you will not be allowed to use PMs, and game discussion cannot happen. The next cycle will then be posted at the correct timing the next day. Pray the migraine dissolves or I wake up on time because that's easiest for everyone. :eyes:

This just in: Mat and Orlok are now my Rules Bros. This is ironic given how much Mat made me read the rules to him C1 but nevertheless, my appreciation :|

For my own sanity: Bort from Orlok - log this.

Thank you, I try, despite my Dulabro having left SE more-or-less for good. I soldier on bravely for his memory. K so I said this to Aman and Orlok and TJ in various contexts: if y'all working on a longpost, ctrl+a, ctrl+c before you hit post. Sometimes if you work too long on a post (not just even refresh), hitting post loses all your content. So it's good to work on it on a separate doc or build the habit of ctrl+a/ctrl+c right before you post. It reduces the chance of suffering when you hit post. Source: LG83 Kas, screaming in frustration when he lost his D1-D2 vote analysis... :|

ilu too Shuffle Squat Bro <3 Is it GM interference if I say nothing but radiate Supportive Bro Energy? Asking for a bro.

The thread is dead. But I'll see what I can do.

GM Announcement: I have a player who has requested a pinch-hitter. If you're reading this and not currently playing MR57 (or having died in that game), and would like to volunteer as tribute, please drop me a PM and I'll see to making the swap. Thank you!

Thanks for the reminder. Truly my GMing skills have grown rusty :| I have posted a reminder that TUN is now on inactivity notice. A failure to post for this cycle will get him executed or replaced on the next cycle. Thank you.

I forgot to add it >> Sent her the dead doc too, whoops.

Rule Clarifications: Player List:

Cycle Two: In The Woods Somewhere The loud cry of the goat, abruptly cut off, seemed to reverberate through the empty streets of Helgen. Not the one that had sickened and died. Tema knew how to dispose of those. There were three others that Zelphia had deemed beyond saving, and Munin had done what was needful, as he always had. Last thing they needed was the sickness spreading through Helgen. Munin wiped his hands on his apron as the blood from the cuts he’d made pooled on the stone. He’d learned the trade from his father, and his father from his aunt. Sometimes he thought about taking on an apprentice, but not everyone was cut out for the work of the knife. Sometimes, you had to harm. You just did it in the most efficient way, and minimised suffering while you were at it. He knew how to set bones, how to splint fractures. And when old Mellar’s leg took the woundrot, and even Dagr’s poultices couldn’t save him, it was Munin who got the saw out and did what had to be done. Maybe there was some kind of metaphor there. But Munin wasn’t the man for it. He looked over at Zelphia and Tema, both of whom were watching with grim acceptance. “Thank you,” said Zelphia. “Payment in the usual manner.” Munin grunted. He picked up his knife, and cleaned it with a rag. Blood stained his hands but he’d get the worst of it later. He left. Kaim at least had been good for his word. Wyden didn’t know how it made him feel, looking at the drying paint on the front door to the Tree. He’d scraped the graffiti off and given the entire door a fresh coat of paint. But it didn’t change the knowledge they’d scrawled the Dragon’s Fang on his inn. It didn’t change the fact that people muttered; not just at him, or at Kaim, but at the travellers staying at his inn. Mayor Wilsa had taken him aside and asked him to keep an eye on them. “You don’t think they did it?” Wyden asked, alarmed. Mayor Wilsa sighed, and pursed her lips. “I don’t want to,” she said, at last. “But you have to see how it looks, Wyden.” You have to see how it looks, Wyden. He realised that his arms were itching again, and he didn’t dare to touch them, didn’t dare—started counting the knots in the wood of the wall behind the mayor, because anything was better than the memory of thorns digging hooks back into him. Anything. “The murder happened shortly after they entered Helgen. And Darkfriends…” she hesitated. “Who among us could be Darkfriends? Munin? Dagr? Tema? Kai?” Kai, Wyden thought. There was another one, always running, ever running. Maybe all you ever did was to run away until your ghosts chased you down in the dark and you died. But there was the bitter realisation again, that the line between ‘us’ and ‘them’ had always been thin where he was concerned. That to old-timers like Munin, or Wilsa, or maybe even Rambler, Wyden was still a stranger, nevermind that he’d lost that accent, smoothed it out over time and buried it in the way Helgen talked. And yesterday, someone’d tried to pin the blame for Gamen’s death on him for it. Or something like that. He felt tired, and sick to the stomach. “Yeah,” Wyden said, because fighting it took more energy than he could see himself burning up. “Okay.” “Good man,” said Mayor Wilsa. “I knew we could count on you. Make sure they don’t leave Helgen.” Wyden eyed her warily. “And if they do? You seen the way Edler moves?” “Call for backup,” Mayor Wilsa said, which wasn’t the least reassuring, but Wyden supposed that it was all too understandable from someone who’d never held a sword before in her life. “Lan’s good with a blade, and Strikk’s handy. Stern’s not the sort to lose his head over a fight, either.” She hesitated. “That thief-taker. Kaim. If he’s used to taking someone in…” He didn’t know how to explain it. Something about Kaim set him off. Sometimes, Wyden wondered if he was the only one who saw, the only one who saw clearly. “It’s Lin,” Wyden corrected her, instead. “Lin Mindrigurin.” Old, served on the Blightborder, but that didn’t make him the uncrowned king of lost Malkier. Far as he knew, Lin could handle a sword, but Wyden knew that Lin’s glory days were long past him. Face it, he thought. Yours are, too. He’d been…something, once. Then the Embrace of Pain had broken him, and he’d run and kept running and all these years later, time hadn’t so much healed the wounds as turned them into scars and made him brittle in all the wrong places. And someone was using the Embrace in Helgen, which meant work of the Shadow. Which meant Aes Sedai. And wasn’t that a comfortable thought. “Lan,” Mayor Wilsa repeated. “Enough of you, and you should be able to stop them from leaving.” Which in Wyden’s judgement, was overly-optimistic, but what was the point in fighting it? He counted the tasks yet to be done, the tasks that remained until he was done, and merely nodded until the mayor thanked him, and went to see to something else. The scholar and the soldier descended the stairs to the tap room below. Wyden could hear them, heard the way the second step from the top creaked beneath the soldier’s weight. He’d always meant to fix it, but then hadn’t gotten around to it. In a way, the squeaky step comforted him. He felt safer knowing he could hear when someone was coming, if only a little. Locks, creaky steps, a remote mountain village. All the little lies you told yourself, so you could believe you were safe in this world, so you could believe that the Light loved you, and that there weren’t fell things of the Shadow swarming out there in the darkness, ready to tear your guts out. Maybe they’d given up the pretence of separation. They were too aware of each other; the way the soldier paused when the scholar stumbled, offering her his arm. The way he kept his sword arm free to draw, the way she stood on his non-dominant side, allowing him to draw fast if necessary. It was clear to him, written into the world like patterns of frost on the glass of a windowpane and he didn’t know why he saw these things, why no one else seemed to. He knew what they were, and that knowledge terrified him, chilled him to the bone. Thorns pricking his skin, crawling about his wrists like loops of barbed manacles. What do you think will happen, said the Aes Sedai, coldly, if they reach your eyes? There was a loud crash. Wyden realised he’d dropped the entire tray of dishes on the floor, though at least the Light was merciful and wooden plates clattered and spun on the ground. Another task, another task, always another task. He fumbled for the plates, and froze as another person grabbed the plate he was reaching for. “Allow me,” Edler said, quietly. They stared at each other warily. You knew another swordsman from their walk, from the calluses, from the scars. Years of hiding as an innkeeper couldn’t bury that. And Edler was a sharpened sword, and had never hidden that. Wyden looked away first. “Thanks,” he said, roughly, and stuffed the plate into his bucket. He’d have to scrub down the whole lot again, but what was work? Work kept him honest. Work kept him together, when the Aes Sedai had taken him apart. Work kept him alive. Even if sometimes, Wyden didn’t know why he still bothered. They stacked the plates back into the bucket, one by one. One of the plates was damaged, and a long crack ran through the middle. Wyden tossed it into the bucket anyway. Some tar and resin and maybe it could be mended. Maybe. There was an art to fixing broken things, to pressing them back into use. To be of some small service to the Light and the world, even if they were only diminished shadows of what they once were. “Why did you come?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Edler hesitated. “How many deaths?” he wanted to know. Wyden blinked. “What?” “You’re a stranger to Helgen. The whole village talks about it.” “Haven’t been for years,” Wyden said, stung. Remembered the Fang, the scrawled accusation on his door. Wished he hadn’t—in that moment, he ached so much, and he didn’t know what for. For home, perhaps. But home was the garrison, and well. You betrayed them all, whispered that dark voice in his head. Face it, Wyden. You get exactly what you deserve. Maybe he ached for the man he’d been, the one that Commander Bralor had loved as his own son. He stared blankly at the bucket of dishes, and no matter how he ran through the tasks in his head, they didn’t seem enough, didn’t seem like reasons to keep together or hold on. And part of him was so, so very tired. The bucket smacked into his knee and Wyden bit back a curse. Edler had nudged it with a kick. “Innkeeper. The deaths?” “Stern finds them,” he found himself saying. “Always does.” “How?” Two years ago, it’d been Alain Stern who’d found Mailu deep in the woods. Someone’d strung him up from an ancient yew, but that hadn’t killed him. “Drowned,” said Dagr, flatly, when they’d cut him down. “On dry land?” Locke asked, sceptically. “If there was a creek, I’d understand, but how exactly does a man drown on dry land?” “Water in his lungs,” Dagr said, clinically. He pressed down on Mailu’s chest; hard, firm, compression strokes. Mailu was pale and dead, his lips faintly blued. “See?” “The point remains,” said Locke, evidently unimpressed. “Beats the hell out of me,” said Eaton Strikk. He glared at Mailu’s body, as though Mailu had personally offended him. It was just Strikk, Wyden thought. He had a way with people. “Man doesn’t drown in a creek, and then appear up in a tree. Was murdered.” “Murder? Here in Helgen? Out in the woods?” Lorum Ipsum said. “There hasn’t been a murder in Helgen in years.” But there were bodies. There were always bodies. Travellers who got lost in the woods. Mailu, who’d wandered far and somehow managed to drown on dry land. They’d found the one who did it, of course. A wandering minstrel, clearly a Darkfriend. They drowned him in the creek, Lin Mindrigurin holding him under the water as Mayor Wilsa presided over the execution. But Helgen was safe. Helgen was far enough from the Blightborder, and the Shadow did not reach Helgen, did not touch Helgen. Tema’s goats were fat and plentiful, and Daian’s garden flourished, and the trees whispered secrets no one could hear. Except, perhaps, Alain Stern. Sometimes a villager went missing. Poor Lukal, who wandered deep into the woods and was found at the foot of Brosca’s Point. Everyone knew better than to attempt the climb in the lashing rain and the dark. Stern found her, dead on the rocks below. It was Stern who had the stomach to bring her back for burial, where the others might have flinched. Perhaps Munin would have done it, but he did not often wander far from Helgen proper. Said that his wandering days were far behind him and he had work enough to satisfy him. The woods kept their secrets, but sometimes, they only yielded more questions. They came for Stieg at the falling of dusk. The elderly villager was sitting out on his porch, taking in the evening air. “What’s this now?” Stieg snapped, as the crowd gathered out in front of his house. “You truck with the Shadow,” Jóhannsson said, grimly. There was no sign of the cheerful composer now, or the man who made such beautiful music on the harp and flute. Only a cold purpose in those eyes. “You’ve been pointing fingers at the various villagers of Helgen, Stieg. As though you long to see them strung up yourself, wouldn’t you?” “I served with the Children of the Light!” Stieg retorted, glaring at the gathered villagers. All the faces he’d known for so long, had grown up with, and had returned to, after a sojourn with the Children of the Light. Part of him wondered if he should have retired, should have returned to Helgen. But his bones had ached after long enough on the road, and the homesickness had welled up in his heart. It was the sort of thing you could drown in, and in a moment of weakness, he’d given up and returned to Helgen. “I can still wield an axe as well as any man,” he warned, eyes narrowed. “You, Xin. I helped you rebuild your shed when the tree smashed it down. Do you really think me a Darkfriend? What about you, Bortington? Do you think my commitment to the Light is any less unwavering?” “I don’t trust your words,” Jóhannsson called out. “Pretty words, from a man who claims to have served the Light! But we all know where such inquisitions lead, don’t we?” “You accuse me of working for the Hand of the Light?” Stieg asked, incredulously. He rose to his feet. “Do you think me damned, Jóhannsson? Have those songs of yours driven you mad? The Hand of the Light is—prone to extremes. I served and fought for the Children and bled out in campaigns your songs will never sing of! I nearly died for the cause of the Light thrice over, and I will be damned if I sit here and listen to your accusations any further!” “Um,” said Buffy. “Even the ranks of the Children have known Darkfriends,” Jóhannsson said, ominously. “Or there would be no need for the Questioners, would there?” Buffy said, loudly, “Where is Stern? And where is Wei?” Jóhannsson and Stieg both stared at him, uncomprehending. Buffy said, “They’re missing. Almost the whole of Helgen is here. Someone saw Lin Mindrigurin, said he’d fallen asleep on a hammock. Wyden is repairing half the Tree. So where is Wei? And where is Stern?” “Maybe they’re Darkfriends,” Stieg said, thunderously. “Maybe they’re off killing, or scheming to murder us in our homes!” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jóhannsson said, wearily. “Should at least check,” said Rambler. “Last we want is a nest of ‘em. Beneath our bloody noses. Light burn them! If this is true.” They found Wei and Alain Stern. Or rather, they found Alain Stern, his hands wrapped around Wei’s throat, calmly holding her beneath the surface of the creek, an eerie echo of how the minstrel had been executed those years ago. You never knew, Wyden thought, although his mind was strangely calm. You never knew who the Darkfriends were. Alain Stern had been perfectly accommodating and polite to him, and he’d paid well. As far as Wyden was concerned, he’d have liked more customers like the woodsman. But Alain Stern had found a lot of bodies. So many deaths, Edler said, and for some reason, Wyden couldn’t let go of those words. It was as though a veil had been rent before his eyes, as though something he’d just accepted as a fact of life in Helgen had been revealed to be a sham before his eyes. So very many deaths, and so many bodies that Alain Stern had found. Who would have thought? Why hadn’t he questioned it? Why hadn’t anyone? The woods kept their secrets. Sometimes, the secretive, quiet woodsman leaving to range deep into the woods was a secret unto himself. Edler’s blade whistled out in a sharp, final arc. Arc of the Moon, Wyden thought, executed perfectly, with a master swordsman’s grace and control. “May the last embrace of the mother welcome you home,” he said. “He was a Darkfriend,” Rambler spat. “Even one such as him,” said Edler. Folding the Fan flicked the drops of blood from the edge of his blade, and he sheathed the sword with Furled Blossoms. Unusual, part of Wyden was thinking. He hadn’t seen that form used on the Blightborder—men preferred it in the south. “Everyone chooses how to face death. Even a Darkfriend.” Even one with the dead stacked like stones against his soul, Wyden thought, and tried to look away from Stern’s staring eyes. He didn’t know if he was thinking of Stern or himself. Araris Valerian/Alain Stern was executed! He was a Darkfriend Elder! The Dragon's Fang mechanic has been deactivated! (Am I prophetic, or what?) Illwei/Wei was killed! She was a Villager! The cycle has begun, and will end on 30th March, 0100hrs SGT (GMT+8)! Please be reminded not to post in this thread until I've reserved the second post for the player list and rule clarifications, thank you! Edited to add: @The Unknown Novel has failed to post for one cycle. Please be reminded that failure to post for this subsequent cycle will get you filter-killed or replaced.

Cycle has ended. No more talking or I will drown you in the write-up, Light help me >>

IT'S OKAY I MADE A MISTAKE XINO IS ON THAID PLEASE THANK YOU

This is my current votecount. If I've missed someone, @ me and let me know who you voted for because I am trying to re-pre-write a write-up >> God, why do I even GM you psychopaths... >> Tbh I'm kind of going kayana here just trying to track y'all >> IF I HAVE MISSED ANYONE'S VOTE @ ME. THIS IS TO PREVENT AVERTABLE TRAGEDY IN UNDER FIFTY MINUTES. THANK YOU. Edit: @xinoehp512's vote has been edited in, no need to @ me over him thank you.

Kas: "Okay, I prewrote the write-up, we're golden." Kas: "Think I overdid the character development but we're fine, metaplot is going just fine-" Kas: >reads Striker's post Kas: >chokes J/k you do what you have to, I'm used to y'all sending in votes and orders at the last bloody second >> #MR7 #BridgeBoy #neverforget

Oh, that's delicious! Two options - the one my dad and grandfather swear by is to go Hakka-style, which is steamed and stuffed with minced pork and salted fish. But since preparing the salted fish can be more effort than required, we just use fish sauce but have to be careful because that's insanely salty, but adds the umami. Other one is to do mapo tofu - you don't really fry the tofu so much as simmer it in the sauce, but if you love spicy, it really has that kick, and it tastes delicious with the minced meat and scallions and on rice. (Note that my grandfather used to consider it a failure if you didn't run from the table screaming your mouth was on fire :| ) In theory I have the recipe somewhere but I'm enough of a heretic to just buy the sauce right from the supermarket and then use it

Imma judge both of you if you don't RP flashy posing this game. Sometimes you just gotta...take a stand when you see these things :eyes:

How can it be? Everyone knows that every single player in AG8 was a Thug, except for that one unfortunate Elim :eyes:

This explains a great deal as my soul is Brown Ajah Village :|

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ summoned by szeth for no purpose i shall now return to the void

Kesan Acheris thumbed through the dossier. The empire was as prepared as it could be for the negotiations, yet he was aware of how much depended on this. The dossier contained known negotiating positions, along with intelligence on what the other empires' diplomats might advocate for. He ran over the information again and again, even knowing that he'd internalised them—he'd always had a good memory, sharp enough to cut himself on that edge. "Still studying?" Kesan blinked owlishly and looked up. Wuhern stood at the door. "You're not?" he countered. Wuhern shrugged carelessly. "I figure that we're as prepared as we're going to be. Staring at the paperwork for a couple more hours won't make much of a difference. If the spies were awful, we wouldn't keep them. The intel is good. We just need to stick to our guns and try to achieve our goals with regard to Articles Three and Seven of the treaty." Easy for Wuhern to say, Kesan thought. But a lot rode on the outcome of the negotiations. And when your social position was what it was... He'd worked long and hard to achieve a posting as one of the empire's minor diplomats. Even then, he'd been surprised that they'd nominated him for the team, that he'd been entrusted with a negotiation as painstaking, as difficult, and—likely—as legendary as this one would be. "Eh," he said, aloud. "I think I'll take a look at the summation of the positions once again, see if we can get them to budge a little on Article Seven." "Your loss," Wuhern shrugged, as he turned to leave. Signing up as Kesan Acheris, minor diplomat and overachiever. I'll be able to fill in his background more when I know which empire he's part of I'm going to be trying for a quiet, chill, RPful game, with little excitement or high-octane analysis. I know this is what I always say and what always never happens but I really need this >> I'm going to also be trying a playstyle experiment, but...you'll see.

Reminder! You have 24 hours remaining in the cycle! Go forth and hunt down the Shadow! May the Light prevail!

Am I not allowed to? Do you see a rule that prevents me from doing so? :eyes: (1. I'm joking, and I'm a troll; if you check the reads, they're basically on everyone in the spec doc and so aren't game relevant, 2. Orlok and Xino have been giving me some grief with regard to being able to pick up on their votes, so I've been reminding everyone on vote formatting so I don't go more kayana trying to identify if I've missed anyone's votes - Wyrm isn't playing this game, or I sure hope he isn't! So he's a useful way of demonstrating how the vote should be formatted so I can catch it easily.)

Awesome! And no, but my ex was Canadian and she kept going on about poutine Poutining your cheese curds once they pass muster sounds great I'm Asian so I'm the guy you want when it comes to the hundred secret techniques of cooking delectable tofu

If you're interested, I can set you up with the spec doc, yeah. You in? Considering signing up for Ash's game but I have three RP characters and don't know which one to use. Does it really matter if I'm not gonna RP though :| Since when have I had a quiet, chill, RPful game :| Edited to add: Right, sorry, saw your PM! Spec doc link sent!