Kasimir

Hi guys. GM reminder to put your votes in red and bold them like this: Wyrm As stated in the rules I missed @Orlok Tsubodai's Stick vote the first time until someone in thread flagged it, and I nearly missed @xinoehp512's Stick vote - I sometimes just skim posts for votecounts so if it doesn't jump out at me, I can miss them. This is especially key for TJ voters because this guy has a really short name and TJ has been a GM nightmare to not miss. tldr; there's no point @ing me to log a changed vote if your vote is gonna be hiding better than Altair in a haystack, alright? Votes have been logged but please do note this going forwards. Thank you! Uh. What. How- In what world Why is this even a question :joy:

Poutine plans?

This guy gets it. Given that I can't always be on at the same time as the predominantly North American crowd, going to say that the best help here is self-help I can't guarantee I can respond to a vote count request in a timely manner. But since I'm taking this as an implied request, this is what I have right now: Votes not in any particular order, I don't offer vote progression analysis services this game I'm afraid Oh hey guys, sorry I signed on late, but I see you've got discussion started without me anyway! Here's my readslist right now: Light Village: Null: Null-: And that's the best I got, not sorry. But I'm sure you guys will do just fine with me putting in low effort

If you don't lynch anyone this cycle, I will kill someone. With extreme prejudice :eyes: Which is a nicer way of saying that because there is no vote minimum, if no one votes, RNGesus will pick one of you to get lynched. Or, you know, I could just ask Wyrm to pick. Same difference. Hope none of you pissed him off recently (Okay, serious talk - it'll be RNGesus. Promise.)

Will wonders never cease; Orlok thinks I have a heart? Alright, I'll stop heckling you lot, happy grinching/Fanging...

After the execution. You're welcome. What are rules guys

Bro. Elim die Fang go bye bye Fang only exists as long as: A. no Elim has yet been killed, and B. at least one Elder exists. This is neither confirmation nor denial that there are Elders in this game. Pray I gave you all at least one :eyes:

Rule Clarifications: Player List:

Cycle One: A Fell Wind The watcher came, a few months ago, with the fog. He wandered into Helgen, his broad-brimmed hat pulled down so it shaded his pale grey eyes. Of all things, he carried with him a worn ash quarterstaff with strange scratchings along the haft, and wore a notched sword-breaker at his side. The fog was unusual; it came in with the dusk, and crept through the streets of Helgen, prowling down cobblestones and tendrils of it slipped into houses with a feral curiosity. The watcher went down the street, and crossed it, and ducked under the dangling sign and entered the Tree. As he opened the door to the inn, Wyden looked up, and for a moment, all he saw was a dark figure, silhouetted in curling wisps of fog, and shivered. The moment passed, and then the traveller stepped into the inn, trailing a cloak of fog after. The conversation stilled as his regulars took in the sight. Helgen was small enough that every traveller was remarked on, even if visitors weren’t uncommon. There was a travelling peddler that came every few months, and most of Helgen looked forward to his visit, and to the news he brought from the other villages and towns. “Nasty weather,” Wyden said, cleaning spilled mead from the counter. “Wouldn’t like to be out in it.” The corner of the wanderer’s mouth canted in amusement. “I’ve seen worse,” he replied. Calm voice, that. The sort you could imagine talking to spooked horses, or telling patrons at an inn not to do anything stupid. Wyden had heard men like him before, back when—back on the Blightborder. Commanders liked men like these; liked to have at least one fellow you knew wouldn’t spook when a fell wind rose from the Blight, and things…happened. Funny how much you got off a man from how he stood, how he held himself, how he talked. He scrubbed at the counter furiously. “Looking for a drink? Room for the night?” “Just the room will do,” said the wanderer, paying up in Shienaran silver. Wasn’t Shienaran though, Wyden would’ve known the accent, and he didn’t favour the warrior’s topknot. As it was, he couldn’t place the man’s accent. “Suppose you might know where someone could stay for a time?” This time, Wyden was certain his eyebrows were about to nestle in his hair. “Stay?” he repeated, incredulously. But that was what old Gader had told him, hadn’t he? Years ago, when Wyden had wandered into Helgen himself, seeking shelter from the storm, seeking… He forced himself to count the list of things that needed to be done, the string of never-ending tasks that kept the Tree in working order, that kept Wyden moving from one step to the next, putting one foot in front of the other when the bleakness threatened to overwhelm him. Months later, Wyden had taken over the Tree, and Gader had gone to the last embrace of the mother. And the Wheel turned. And the Wheel turned. “Kaim,” said the man, with a smile that reached his almost colourless eyes, the sort that Wyden could see persuading others to lower their guard. “Thief-taker. Was retired, but you know how it is. There’s always one last hunt.” “Won’t find thieves here,” Wyden said. Did he know? Was he one of them? “Barely hear a branch break in this village without half the village knowing about it.” Kaim shrugged. “So it might be,” he agreed, peaceably. “But the quarry I’m hunting is truly dangerous. Murdered most of a garrison at the Blightborder, and then deserted. Village was overrun by Shadowspawn soon after.” Wyden looked him in the eye. “Happy hunting,” he said, evenly. Counted the number of leaks in the attic roof—he’d made a mental note of all five of them, it’d take the better part of an afternoon to patch them all but it had to be done. “There’s a hunter’s cabin. Abandoned now. Slart used to live there, but…” he shrugged. Wasn’t about to volunteer that tale to the stranger. No one knew why he’d done it. Only that it’d taken three of them to restrain Slart once the killing’d started. A fell wind, some of the elders said. Wyden wasn’t so sure. Didn’t see how winds made a man kill others in cruel ways. “If you don’t mind old ghosts and some elbow grease, should get it liveable again. Stern can show you where it is.” He nodded to the woodsman sitting alone at the table off to the side, back to the wall of the inn. Wise man. Didn’t live long, being stupid. “Ghosts don’t scare me,” Kaim nodded, his eyes flicking over to where Stern sat and ate. “Thank you.” Wyden bet. Oh, he’d bet. Took a special kind of man, didn’t it? Either the Light loved you, or there wasn’t a soul in you, if you didn’t see the ghosts of the men you’d killed and damned when you tried to sleep at night, if you didn’t hear their screams. He counted the coins that Kaim paid, and tucked them away, and moved on. Always the next task. Whispers and rumours about Gamen’s murder spread through Helgen like fire rising in dry grass. The soldier—apparently his name was Hagen Edler—had taken charge of the body, which was just as well, because Wyden felt sick with terror and guilt, as though he’d killed Gamen, even though he hadn’t, and because it was a hell of a way to die, and he’d known that. He rubbed at the scars manacling his wrists and forearms. Blood and bloody ashes. He wasn’t sure if he wanted a sword more, or if he wanted a long, hot bath. He’d taken at least ten of them a day, the first week. Felt as though he would never be clean again. Mayor Wilsa showed up to take a look at the scrawlings on the stable wall. By that point, village folk had begun to gather and whisper. Wyden found himself sitting to the side, running through lists in his head. Lists and lists. Tasks. You kept stumbling on, one foot in front of the other, always. Because you had to. Because if you didn’t, if you stopped… “Fell wind from the Blight,” spat Rambler. Far as Wyden could tell, Rambler was always angry. “What the hell else kills like that?” Gaeta, the Cairhienin scholar, was kneeling beside the body, and studying it. It. Him. Strange how easily the mind discarded the person; how he’d already begun to internalise that Gamen was dead, would never pay his tab, was nothing more than meat for the ravens now. Food for the worms. Wyden shivered at that thought. “I wouldn’t say that,” she said, in that clipped accent. “What then?” Rambler demanded. “Helgen is too far from the Blight,” Gaeta said, simply. “It would be…strange for the corruption or the taint to be felt here.” Wyden glanced at her sharply. He didn’t like the way she spoke; the way it sounded almost knowing, as though there was something Gaeta wasn’t saying. But then, there was a connection between her and Edler. He’d known that at the time. He’d seen it from how acutely conscious of each other they were, and yet how they’d taken great pains to seem unconnected. Sometimes you tried too hard. He’d always been good at watching people. None of his business, but they’d killed one of his regulars, and vandalised his stables and suddenly, everything felt like it was his business. “Fell things happening lately,” Lorum Ipsum spoke up. He was so quiet, you didn’t always know he was there. “Zelphia tended to some of Tema’s flock last night. One of her goats sickened and died. Daian’s garden was blighted. I saw it myself. It’s an ill wind from the Blight, and it bodes nothing good, mark my words.” “Kaim heard ravens calling at dusk.” That was Alain Stern, who ranged far into the woods, and watched his words as though they were coin. “Light,” muttered Stieg. “Light shelter us.” Everything seemed out of joint, out of place, as though someone had borrowed the world and put it back all crooked, without bothering to tidy up after them. He’d heard the raven, too. Had seen it. Seemed preposterous in the light of day, now, but Wyden knew it as surely as he knew his sword forms. “Darkfriends,” Mayor Wilsa pronounced. “They call the Dark One the ‘Great Lord’, don’t they? Gamen’s death was some sort of depraved sacrifice.” She looked at all the folk of Helgen, gathered to gawk and mutter at the spectacle of one of their own, impossibly slain. “I think,” Edler said, gravely, “The Shadow has turned its gaze on Helgen.” “The Dark One and all of the Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul, beyond the Great Blight, bound by the Creator at the moment of Creation, bound until the end of time,” Stieg said, glaring daggers at Edler, reciting the old catechism, the phrases you learned as a child, when the ravens called, when the shadows gathered. “The hand of the Creator shelters the world, and the Light shines on us all." “Does it?” Edler asked, his voice like the quiet Watered Silk, the unexpected riposte to a Boar Rushes Down The Mountain. “Winds don’t kill people. Men do. Men who have sworn their souls to the Shadow.” “Killings began after you came,” Rambler spat. “You and that scholar. Funny isn’t it?” Edler met his furious gaze with eyes of ice. He pulled back his cloak, the colours of it fading and seeming to shift with each movement, to reveal a sword sheathed at his side. “I fought on the Blightborder,” he said, each word coming with quiet assurance. “If I kill, I kill with the sword. I have no need of the O—of tricks.” Rambler stood his ground. “Haven’t been killings like this. Until you and that scholar of yours came!” Funny how he’d completely ignored Kaim, Wyden found himself thinking. A few months later, and Kaim hadn’t seemed to have found his murderer, had settled into the backdrop of Helgen with little further comment. How did he do that? “Try me,” Edler replied. “Or you can ask that innkeeper of yours. He knows his sword forms as well as I do.” Which was absolutely the last thing Wyden wanted or needed, right here and right now, as over a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him, searchingly, and in the case of Eaton Strikk, looking distinctly murderous. “Enough!” This was Mayor Wilsa, shouting, and Wyden felt an absurd sense of relief and gratitude to her for the save. “We are not going to do anything foolish. There were words daubed on Wyden’s stables. This means it was deliberate.” This was the Mayor whose impassioned words had restored calm, those months ago when Slart had killed that family. “This means that there are some in Helgen who serve the Shadow. Darkfriends.” Shouting. No one could believe it. Not in Helgen. Not somewhere quiet, not where you knew everyone, had grown up in Helgen all your life. Not Wyden, though. For all they’d accepted him, he was the stranger who’d taken over Gader’s inn. Maybe they would turn on him, in the end. Mayor Wilsa was shouting over the clamour, appealing for calm, for cooler heads to prevail. Wyden wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around to hear all of it. Sick to his stomach, he stood up. He needed a walk. Clear his head. Maybe he wouldn’t itch with the need to take a bath. Maybe he’d stop worrying at the scars. Could work them open again, even after all those years. He left. He didn’t know where he was going, in particular. But he was putting one foot in front of the other, which meant he was carrying on. That was something. That had to be enough. You walked, and you kept walking. Sometimes it cleared your head. But you had to go back, eventually, and then you found that your troubles hadn’t gone away, that the piper was waiting to be paid, that the ravens were still perched on your rafters. Wyden felt anger tight in his throat as he returned to find the Dragon’s Fang scrawled on the door of the Tree. Anger, mingled with shame and betrayal. They’d eaten his food, drunk his mead, he’d helped them sometimes, pitching in with the odd repairs, had laughed with them, joked with them, and when the cards were dealt and the dice came clattering to a halt, he wasn’t one of them after all. The Dragon’s Fang leered at him, both condemnation and threat at once. It was Gader’s inn, the Tree, but it’d been a labour of love, and over the long passage of the slow years, Wyden had come to love her as though she was his own. The Fang, scrawled with hatred, was like the cold shock of a sudden sharp knife to the back. Or five. “Need a hand?” Wyden started, and turned about, belatedly realising that if he’d still carried a sword, his body remembered, had begun to position itself for a swift Apple Blossoms In The Wind. The body kept the score. The body remembered. It always did. Kaim raised an eyebrow. “Jumpy?” He gazed at the Dragon’s Fang on the inn door and shook his head. “Ah. I’d heard.” “That I killed Gamen?” The thief-taker’s stern eyes flicked to him, searchingly. Sort of eyes that made you feel as though he was peering into your soul, weighing the stains on it. He’d carried enough misdeeds that sometimes it felt as though they were stones against his chest. Even after all these years. “Did you?” Wyden shook his head tiredly. “Of course not,” he snapped. “Light, I can’t kill a man—” “—thorns through his skin,” finished Kaim. “I’d heard. Nasty business, that.” Wyden was certain that Kaim saw him rubbing at his wrists again. “Aes Sedai work, though I’d hate to see the one who’d whip that out lightly.” “You’ve seen this?” Wyden demanded, and hoped to the Light that Kaim hadn’t noticed his voice crack. The thief-taker shrugged. “I’ve seen many things,” he said simply. “In this line of work, nothing surprises you, after a while. Suspicion, greed, hatred, betrayal…all the darker sides of human nature, when we allow our worst tendencies to shape how we act, how we treat others. Business partners murdering each other, childkillers, thieves, torturers…” His eyes were distant, now. “Yes,” he said, after a pause. “I’ve seen this used by an Aes Sedai. I believe she called it the Embrace of Pain.” His mouth pressed into a tight, unhappy line. “A terrible thing, torture. The man died soon after. I think he considered it a mercy.” Wyden was certain that Kaim had seen him rubbing at his arms, and he focused on the thought of the stables, on the rage he’d felt on seeing the Dragon’s Fang starkly scrawled on the door to the Tree. Anything but the hooked memory of thorns. Still sharp, even now, sharp enough to cut. Sharp enough to dig in under his skin. “It takes a strong man,” Kaim said. “To hold out under that sort of torture. Don’t you agree?” Wyden looked away. He didn’t want to remember. “Come,” Kaim said. “Let me help you get that off your inn door. And you should go and make a cup of tea. You look at the edge of your rope.” “Why?” Wyden croaked. It was the only thing he could seem to ask. Unexpected kindness unsought after, it seemed, was as staggering as sudden betrayal. Kaim studied him impassively. “Everyone has bad days,” he said, eventually. “And I don’t believe you killed Gamen.” “Then who did?” Hadn’t meant to say that. Wyden supposed that once he wouldn’t have cared. But now that he was taking the blame for it, it felt personal. It felt as though it mattered. Kaim shrugged. “We’ll find out, I suppose. One thing at a time. Hunting down a murderer requires both patience and the ability to ask the right questions.” One step after another. Wyden supposed he could agree with that. The cycle has begun and will end on Monday, 28th March 2022 at 0100hrs SGT (GMT+8)! All role PMs should be sent by now. Please alert me if you have not received your role PMs. Please be reminded that PMs are open and to include the GM and IM in all PMs! At this point in time, the current threshold required for a successful Fang is seven players! P.S. For players who haven't been GMed by me before, please don't post until I've reserved the second post in this thread for the player list and rule clarifications. Thank you!

Under an hour left to the close of sign-ups! Will edit the final cut-off to not triple-post Edited to add: And sign-ups are closed! Thread will be up by 0100hrs, and you should expect to receive role PMs by then.

Silmarillion or outside, then? Honestly, they still take the top place for me even including the entire corpus, though I did enjoy Beorn when he showed up for a bit. God, yes, I get the whole "Let's make Faramir relatable" urge but I disagree it was the right decision for his character. They both get it :eyes:

Used to be Aragorn when I was a kid; these days I like Faramir and Sam. For Faramir: I like Faramir's strong sense of integrity, and duty. For Sam, that guy could be BFFs with Taln.

Low key tempted to nominate Wilson even though she hasn't been on the active play roster in a while. But I shall cease and desist. Because some kels want to watch the world burn and mad watcher is hilarious

Sorry, I haven't GMed in quite a few months and the rust shows To anyone who is still on the fence: you have until 0030hrs (GMT+8) on Saturday, 26th March to make up your mind The game will start at 0100hrs, as promptly as I can manage this, with future rollovers to take place at 0100hrs as well. I have just remembered that unlike Wyrm'alor, I am not a god and thus cannot deal with a sign-up at 0059hrs and somehow still get the game up and running at 0100hrs, RIP me >>

Brockmannstraße at Sunset Underfoot the stream stills. Only a trickle remains, dirt mostly damp. Above, rough gravel carves a stretch through the long grass as far as the blackbird flies. Hazy violet, ochre-tips gold-streaked in the last light. Today, the lone tree, untouched in the undulating grasses. Here it stands. Noch. Today.

Reminder: Under two days to kick-off! The game starts at 0100hrs (GMT+8) on Saturday, 26th March!

M'Hael and I worked on SE signatures back in the day when signatures contained stats - this was before it got canned for a number of reasons, including how the subforum related to main 17S, as well as competitiveness worries. The sig I currently use dates back to those days, just trimmed down to handle the new sig restrictions. I got bored and needed to vent some case stress and apparently I do so creatively: Stats are personal and chosen for a laugh; probably going to decline to do it for anyone else in order not to run afoul of anything

I am going to say this for as many times as it takes for you to internalise this, even if it means threadbrawling you publicly: A. I don't bloody care. B. There is no reason for guilt (even as I understand that reason is the servant of the passions, and can pretend to no higher office than to serve them.) You did not let me down, bro. RL comes first. Always has, always will. I would quite honestly think less of you if you did not make the same decision again in a heartbeat. If a man's principles and values do not direct him to act to care for what truly matters most, what is the point of you - of that? A game is a game. Our loved ones are irreplaceable. I will fight any player who puts the integrity of the game over something of that nature. These things are always unplanned. We do not know that they will happen, until they do happen. Lightning out of a clear blue sky. You did not let me down. It was my honour to stand and hold the line, to repay you for my failure in LG20, and remain perfectly catchable until you did the needful. You offered to be replaced by a pinch-hitter, but chose to return to the fight anyway to catch up and relieve me. There is nothing owed, and nothing failed. My breaking was on me, and no one else, and you cannot have my pain or my choice. I will not claim you acted perfectly as I don't think I have that power, nor that right to cast this judgement. But it would take a harder man than me to claim that you let me down, or that you should reasonably feel guilt for it, and I will fight you if you challenge this.

Speaking as Village Kas here, which is basically my default SE mode after seven years, I would strongly disagree. The C1 vote was suspicious as all hell. In any other world, with any other player, this could easily have led to C2 pressure and a potential early lynch. It's just that it didn't suit Evil Kas to call Orlok out loudly for it, so I downplayed it. I can really see two options here: A. Village Kas punishes Evil Orlok for it. Because it was a suspicious vote, simpliciter. It was a last minute vote on Striker in a cycle where we expected Striker to have been bussed and the bus decision to have been made very late in the cycle, from a player who typically does not rush to vote and often holds back rather than cast a poorly-informed vote. In a decent second cycle, there is no way in hell Orlok doesn't attract at least some pressure for it. Would the pressure have stuck? I don't know. But here's the counterfactual: suppose that another player (e.g. Jain, Ashiok - to use names of players no longer active and thus who can't be hurt by the comparison) stuck that vote. Would you have considered it suspicious? I sure would have! And that's my point - that if in any other world, when that vote was committed by any other player, you'd vote them for it and find it sus as all hell, then you really should too, even if it's Orlok. Even if it's Aman. (This was essentially the reasoning behind my D4 push on Hyena in AG8 - it didn't matter to me whether or not Aman intended to argue further IKYK layers; it looked sus, it would be sus in any other game with any other player, I'm not in the game to play for silly logic games and earn silly logic prizes, it demands a flip to collapse the IKYK.) Even if it's Wilson. The one point that Village Kas always sticks to is that no one is indispensible. Not even himself. Each subsequent softclear on a member of the Striker pool (particularly the late voters) only adds more suspicion onto Orlok. I do personally think the vote was a misplay from Orlok. If we had been on opposite teams, I would have punished him more aggressively for it. Sorry, Orlok. B. Village Kas lets Evil Orlok go - for a bit. Aman came around to a pretty solid conclusion that Orlok was Evil C2/C3, just let the matter slide because Orlok wasn't around to defend himself. Inactivity aside (and I note that I never want SE players to feel compelled to ignore RL pressures just to play, no matter their alignment) - there's a strong chance Village Kas would have let Orlok off. Because Village Kas has one weakness that's often poorly-signalled: I give players that I like playing with, or seldom get to play with (inclusive-or) more of a pass than I should. (I don't know why Evil Kas doesn't have this issue, but I'm not really here to psychoanalyse myself, just to pathwalk.) Your team benefited strongly from this in LG83. It was a simple thing - a moment of hesitation on Araris in a cycle (D5) where the Village could not afford to divide the vote, where logic told me that implication was stronger from E!Araris to E!Bip, no matter my insistence that the entailment ran the other way. When we were already shooting blindly in the dark when it came to Karn because we didn't have much material to go off. I hesitated. I didn't take the shot. Because I like watching Araris in trolling action. Because I like playing with him. And that moment of sentimentality, of weakness, persuaded me to go onto Karn instead as a consensus candidate. What sort of world would we have been in if I had just set emotion aside, said - no, hang on, we need this lynch, and pushed Araris with Drake and everyone else? I note that I think I saw a glimpse of Orlok's tell in action as well, though I was willing to write it off as TMI on my part, rather than a genuine detection. Ash was more or less sold on Evil Orlok by C5, though I think realistically, sentiment could only have restrained Village Kas for so long. I'd have to have pushed Orlok latest by C4 anyway. Speak for yourself Edited to add: I don't consider this a top-tier player thing. I'm aware that I'm realistically a mid-tier player. I do punch above my weight class due to putting time and effort in, but I never expect to 1v1 certain players who shall remain unnamed I think the vote pattern was pretty damning, and it doesn't take being some sort of SE god to see it. Orlok not being around to extensively defend his vote, in my view, makes it worse for him, because it's easier for the train to take off as long as you have a player who can keep the will for the lynch strong. And in my view, it's doable due to the compelling prima facie case.

This cosmetic role is accepted Bring your RP game on!

Juggling part-time studies with work. I'm required to pass in order to not get yelled at by HR. Dealing with an entirely different area, trying to play Sanderson Elimination, keep up with my studies, and work has been a nightmare at times But I am proud to announce I have apparently managed to hang on to my A+!

GM Announcement: Due to certain recent events in my RL, rollovers will now be moved to 0100hrs SGT (GMT+8.) This should be slightly less insanely early for the Americans, and for anyone in the GMT zone, this should be 5PM for you lot (you can thank Wyrm for making me proficient with that maths) until BST happens, at which point it becomes 6PM. This entails that sign-ups will also close on 26th March 2022, at 0100hrs instead. Thank you for your understanding. I will now proceed to edit this into the sign-up post.

The Metropolitans are really good - I'm glad you found your favourite utility pen! Pelikan M205s are where it's at for me. No matter what, I keep going back to them so I completely get it. Good on you for spreading the fountain pen love!

I'm honestly going to say I'm not sure the limit method will work for me, though I'm willing to give it a shot. I really need to screenshot and frame this post though, because you're absolutely right on the goal. I still think I got closer to that point than I expected with Thief play, because I really did not do or care about analysis any more than I wanted to and it was so damned liberating, but we'll see. I'll work out how to get there anyway. Because that's the crux of it: I keep feeling like I have to do more than I reasonably can, and that the failure to do so is failing my team (both Village and Evil.) And then because I can't, I feel guilt, and then push myself harder, then... Well, what a mess I think you misspelled 'bus' or 'gambit' :eyes: