Kasimir
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Another batch of rule clarifications! Man, suddenly y'all care about the rules again Can a Seeker Seek during the Day? No. Only at Night. How are Rioters and Soothers required to put in orders? I will accept any elocution that clearly conveys what the player intends to do with their role ability. The standard form tends to be something like: "Riot Kas from Wyrm to Kas," or "Soothe Ren." I have been asked a bunch of Rioter questions, but as all of these have been previously asked and already exist in the rule clarifications, I'm not re-adding them again Reminder! You have a little under seven and a half hours left in the cycle! Get those orders in!
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Oh, congrats! What did you get? I'll have to remember to wish you tomorrow Some of the others might! I'm not CONUS so that tends to give people big nightmares when I do pen swaps and the like.
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It did not. So help me God I swear I will feckin' fight ya on this Wyrmimir >:(
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I was Kassien Estvaril, unlamented AG2 Village Smoker, and I approve this message Half the Village was riding me hard that game for actually having Smoked >> The one Seeker didn't even object! @Wyrmhero- Don't you bloody dare. You do not get to stick your oar into this one. The guy who roleclaimed Tineye to me and I think Maili N-freaking-0 does not get to have an opinion about this >>
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Does the GM PC count? I can promise hand-to-heart that Kast is completely innocent and 100% Village Also, pre-emptive GM clarification as I notice some confusion here and among the Spiked: Technically, the Spiked wincon is to outnumber the Village, while the Village wincon is to eliminate all the Spiked. At this point however, I will call the game the moment the Village no longer has a chance to vote out the Spiked at the lynch and otherwise remove them from the game.
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GM Announcement: I may have broken the spreadsheet. The magical, beautiful work of art that El gave unto me to test run. I've gone back to check other vcs as a result, and I have noticed there are two corrections I need to issue. This fortunately does not break the results of either day. Day Three: Day Five: Sorry El. I loved this spreadsheet but I think I'm gonna have to do a lot of manual now. Thankfully you guys are helping me out with the number of dead players Apologies to you guys as well for any confusion caused.
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Not by the rules, no. He didn't retract from TJ.
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Player List: Rule Clarifications:
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Night Five: Through Dark and Light “Through dark and light I fight to be So close Shadows and lies mask you from me So close Bathe my skin, the darkness within So close The war of our lives no one can win,” —’So Close’, Ólafur Arnalds Sometimes, it’s easy to drown in your own darkness. Your own bitterness, your own cynicism. Sometimes I think this job kills us all, in the end. Some of us, it takes faster. Not everyone’s cut out for burning away their youth running down perps, and all the drek you see, it eats at you, deep down somewhere, if you’ve even a shred of decency. Or maybe I like to tell myself that because I think that’s how Wyl would’ve thought about these things. Watch burn out all the time. You see that back in Tremredare. Sometimes, it’s a bad case or a bad series of cases that does it. Sometimes, it’s just the final straw, the final crack in the wall. Man stops showing up for work, or sometimes you head over to make a check on them, ‘cause the sergeant asks, and ‘cause Watch looks out for each other, and then, well. You’ve got to learn to file away the feelings, and I guess I was always better at that than most. Hard to run with a crew in Tremredare, if I hadn’t. Maybe that makes me a natural. Or maybe I’m just enough of a bastard. Fine by me, really. World needs its bastards, too. Guess what I’m saying is that I’m used to seeing the signs in others. But Wyl seemed fine, just figured he was working himself hard, but since when didn’t we? I knew I was feeling tired. Worn down, I suppose. Like it was harder to care. I hadn’t felt that way in years, really. Since that Kendricks case in Tremredare. God, I hated the Kendricks case. We worked it for over a year, on and off in teams. How does a kid go missing for so long? Normally, kid who goes missing that long is dead. That’s the way of it. But when we found her… Like I said, even in the Red Knives, we had lines we wouldn’t cross. I think I spent the rest of the month in some kind of strange haze. Was like the mists had settled inside of me, and I wasn’t me. I was just doing everything the way I was supposed to but I wasn’t feeling anything. I think that was the moment I started to think of myself as Watch, not just Wyl’s charity case. Not that I was in there just because someone had to look out for Wyl, or because I felt like I had to repay him, somehow. He’d scoff at that, of course. But I felt I owed him anyway, for saving my life. Watch work was still work, and each case, each day, took me further away from the blood soaking into the walls and floors of our safehouse. From what had become of Waes. From what had become of her. Sometimes, you don’t even realise you’re burning out, until you’re drowning beneath two hundred metric tonnes of apathy and seawater and you can’t breathe. The more I sat at the desk in our office and tried to put together the information we had from witnesses and the scene, the more I felt like it wasn’t doing much good. I kept thinking about what it had felt like to torch Erik’s fields. It had felt bad. I liked Erik. But it had felt good, too, moving in like a younger man, and burning it down the way I’d used to, back in the Knives. And the part of me that maybe spent too long in the company of Wyl whispers, “And what happens to Erik then, Speirs? Think he’s got someone he needs to feed?” I told myself it didn’t matter; Erik was aging, childless. But Wyl’s voice was no less sharp. No less damning. If there’s something worse than having gotten a conscience, it’s having that conscience speak to you in the voice of your business partner. Trust me on that. I shoved aside the papers and told myself I was going to take a walk. And that’s how I found him, dumped on my doorstep like trash. I hurried Wyl in, and cut the ropes about his hands and yanked the burlap sack off his head. He was still groggy, so I sat him down on the hard chair, told him to focus on his breathing, and went about to get our medicine kit and put the kettle on for some tea. I knew, of course, what was going on. It was a threat, both directed at Wyl, and me. I was a Red Knife. I knew that language. I spoke it too fluently, really. To Wyl, our killers were telling him that they could kill him, but had chosen not to. To me, they were saying they knew where I lived and worked. That they could get to me any time they liked. I wasn’t that impressed, though. Still have some surprises left, and in a village like Fallion’s Tears, I’d be more astonished if someone didn’t know where we worked. Wyl had begun to stir by the time I returned with hot tea, and I shoved the mug into his hands. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t suffering from any life-threatening injury. He’d just been beaten up, and he was still pale and unsteady. Tea slopped a little over the edge of the mug, but we’d gotten worse things on the floor so many times I think even Arenta had given up on us. “Look at what the dog dragged in,” I said, ironically. “Got to hand it to you, you still take a beating like a champ.” “You know how it is,” Wyl said. “You learn the trick a couple of times dockside, you never lose the knack for it.” He winced as he touched the side of his head. “God, that’s too much light out there.” I pulled the shutters closed, and all of a sudden, the office got just that much darker and gloomier. I unhooded the desk lamp, watched the wavering, flickering shadows we cast on the far wall. He’d worked open the medicine kit and found one of El’s herbal powders and made a face. “I remember this. It tastes awful.” “Toss it in your tea, then.” “And waste good tea?” Wyl sighed. “There’s more where that came from,” I pointed out. “And you don’t want to be fighting the mother of all headaches right around now.” He sighed again, as though El’s blends had personally inconvenienced him, but dumped it all in his tea and drank without further complaint. “So,” I said. “What happened?” Wyl looked over at me. For no reason I could tell, there was this instant where his gaze became much more guarded. I didn’t remember him being that way, not since the Red Knives had been slaughtered. Maybe even before that. It was the sort of look you give to a suspect, or something you’re trying to wrangle more information out of, and I didn’t like that it’d been turned on me now. “Was trying to talk to Philico,” he said, at last. “Magician, right? The one who vanished?” There were all sorts of rumours going around the village: that Philico had disappeared, that he’d exploded into a bunch of insects and slalomed his way out of the village, that he’d been iced… I couldn’t for the life of me make sense of them, except that Philico was gone. “Yeah,” Wyl said. “We talked. He was in the vicinity of the Crow the night it went up in flames, so I figured maybe he knew something. He tried to warn me but whoever it was, they got the drop on me.” He frowned and gestured. “Probably about yea high, and they were pretty trained. Classic academy nap tap.” He used the slang for the baton to the head trick they teach you for when you badly, badly need to subdue someone. “And quiet too. I didn’t realise they were there until it was too late.” Well, drek. No wonder Wyl was staring at me like that. “You know if it were me, I’d have just iced you,” I said, lightly. “Sure,” said Wyl. He eyed his tea with the distaste you reserve for tavern duty and sewer duty, back in the Watch. Back in Tremredare. “Why’d you think they left you alive?” “Hmm?” “Anyone who got the drop on you like this,” I clarified. “They could’ve iced you. Instead, they went for the non-lethal approach. Why?” Wyl shrugged. “Hell if I know,” he said. “Guess I’m just that hard to kill.” Which wasn’t much of an answer, but I figured it had to do with my thoughts on his being dumped on our doorstep being a threat directed at both of us. But why did you threaten people? You threatened them so they would do what you wanted. And you threatened them so— “At least we can do a line-up,” Wyl said. “They definitely weren’t reaching up to hit me, and I didn’t get the sense they were looming over me either. So we have that to go on.” I supposed so, though it wasn’t much. It did rule out Erik and a couple others, but unfortunately for me, it left me very much in the picture, and that wasn’t good. I don’t know how long we sat there, tense, staring at each other, as if hoping one of us would break down and talk about it. Or tell the truth, maybe. Sometimes, people get nervous. A lot of people aren’t comfortable with silence, and an investigator who says little and listens and glares can carefully work more out of people than they’d intended to say. But we were both comfortable with silence, and so the silence stretched out, on and on, between the two of us. Damnit. I remembered the Kendricks case again. I guess it was because we’d been sleep-deprived, and more or less at each others’ throats. I think the whole team was on edge, really. A combination of the pressure, the other cases we were tackling, and the fact that this one was connected to a series of other cases, all involving missing children. I remember that night. Few weeks before we had our large break, the one that cracked the case wide open. Woman coming to us, telling us she’d heard what sounded like the cries of a child coming from a tool shed. God, if she hadn’t come forward, if she’d doubted, if she hadn’t been concerned… But that night. The stars were out, and shining brightly. We were both knocking it off for the day, and trudging back to our homes. I don’t remember what we were talking about. Work stuff, maybe. Other stuff, possibly. Sometimes you just want to reach out in the dark and know that someone else is there. Someone who isn’t part of all the horrors that we can inflict on each other. “Used to make all sorts of stories about those stars,” I said. Wyl looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You all right there?” “Back in the Red Knives. Or before, really. Sometimes I told stories to the street kids,” I said. “Usually about the stars, because they’re the first bloody thing you see when you look up, and everyone’s tired of hearing about the mistwraiths.” “Stories, you say.” “Yeah. Stories. Know what’s the most basic story of all?” He canted his shoulders in a shrug and waited. “Light against dark.” Wyl looked at the shadows that surrounded us, at the darkness of the night, and maybe it was a gesture that was just as much about how damned tired we were, how damned done and heartsore we were about not being about to crack that Kendricks case, and the thousand and fifty other cases that had fallen on our desk, about how much the well of human sorrows and suffering never seemed to run dry, not in Tremredare, and he said, “Well. Guess the dark’s doing pretty well for itself, eh?” “Yeah,” I said. “I guess it is.” Kast headed out. He needed the walk, just to clear his head. He was running around in circles on the cases, and a staredown with Wyl wasn’t appealing. All of which pointed to the fact he needed a break. Wyl was laid up on the sofa, just trying to rest up. There was already an angry mob in the village square. Kast wondered how it had come to this, how anger, and excitement, and fear had so thoroughly poisoned Fallion’s Tears, over a matter of days. Did he get to judge? He was so thoroughly worn down, just trying to work out what had happened. If it were Tremredare, they’d have gone around and knocked on every door and asked for an interview. But here, despite Mayor Wilson’s backing, she hadn’t bothered to support them in eliciting information from all the villagers in Fallion’s Tears. And then they were at an impasse: only the Mayor had the authority, or at least the respect to demand cooperation. And not all the villagers were willing to be thoroughly interviewed about their whereabouts, though it would’ve helped immensely with constructing a timetable of who could’ve possibly iced Leas Fel, or Bart, or Sara, or attacked Wyl. Kast frowned. Something about that still bothered him. But he knew better than to get wound up about it, so he filed the thought away and let it steep like tea. No sense in bemoaning what they couldn't have, after all. Erik was trying to separate a cluster of arguing villagers, and Kast stepped over to take a look. One of them, Derrick, was arguing that they were in trouble if they didn’t find the killers soon. The village acupuncturist, Illwei, had agreed with Derrick, urging the villagers of Fallion’s Tears to locate the killers among them. Lord Ruler help them, Kast thought. He’d seen vigilante justice too many times, and he was of the opinion it was messy and often didn’t get the job done right. He did his best to hide his distaste. As far as he could tell, Illwei’s clinic involved sticking needles into people and hoping for the best. Kast had always declined, despite Illwei’s insistence it might help his bad leg. Something about promoting circulation. He didn’t trust needles anymore. Not since the slaughter of the Red Knives. It always went back to your past, and the ghosts that haunted you, didn’t it? Despite having been all but out for Marll’s blood a couple of days ago, most of the gathered villagers seemed to have accepted that the gambling cobbler was not going to be dead anytime soon. Personally, Kast had seen how Marll had fared in that brawl against Roko, and supposed it was impressive enough. Instead, a few of the villagers, including the reclusive painter Roseanna Ghetti, and the traveling author Hael had decided that Arenta was suspicious. Kast wasn’t sure about that; some of the anger and suspicion directed against Arenta seemed to be driven by grudges relating to the inflexibility with which she demanded tenants pay their rents, rather than anything she had actually done. Arenta had been a fixture of the village, insisted Dayle Palladiel, who was sounding surprisingly lucid for once. Kast supposed the shock of the killings had gotten even Palladiel to arrive from her metallurgist’s workshop. They exchanged nods, acknowledging each other. Another group, including Palladiel, cast suspicion on the alchemist Sonnah Cojic instead. They, too, had been a relative newcomer to the village, and Palladiel pointed out that with the smoke and explosions emerging from Cojic’s workshop at the outskirts of Fallion’s Tears, who was to say Cojic didn’t have the know-how to set the Crow ablaze? “It’s simple arson,” Kast pointed out, exasperated, but no one seemed interested in listening to him. They’d made up their minds, and the mood in the village square seemed to grow only darker with each passing argument. A few times, Erik beseeched the villagers of Fallion’s Tears to keep their calm, but to no avail. At Derrick’s urging, the villagers were pressing Erik to take either Arenta or Cojic into custody. “I can’t just lock someone up because you don’t like them!” Erik exploded, unhappily. “Might be for the best,” Kast said, quietly. “Look at the crowd now. They might be safer with the militia, and you really want another village square riot on your hands? Because that’s exactly how you get another riot. Crowd as agitated as this…” Erik saw the sense in it, and he was preparing to take both Cojic and Arenta into custody, when everything went to hell in a handbasket. Smoothly, as if they had planned it, and surely they must have planned it, because nothing fecking made sense anymore, some of the villagers turned on the others. Arenta pulled out a rolling pin out of what Kast swore was bloody nowhere at all and bashed Erik with it, forcing him to stagger. In that same moment, Smirkai and Marll drew knives and advanced. Kast didn’t even want to know what Illwei had in mind with her needles. Iste Confessor had a dueling cane in hand and was advancing on the newcomer, Connie. A shower of coins sprayed out in a broad arc. Connie was the other Coinshot. Kast swore to himself and did something he had not properly done in a very long time. He burned Steel and pushed back. Deflecting the coins was harder than he’d expected. Firing with the villagers gathered was reckless, and it was all Kast could to push the coins harmlessly away, towards the ground, and to hope for the best. Times like this, he wished Wyl was here instead, but he did his best with what he had. Iste Confessor had reached Connie and swung. The sharp crack of the dueling cane shattered resounded through the square. “You don’t want to do this,” Connie said, quietly. “I tried to save you all. I’m sorry.” Pewter, Kast realised, stunned. Connie was Mistborn. It was always all or nothing, where Allomancy was concerned. He was outnumbered again, and Kast hated this, hated this so much. The cold part of him that excelled as a Red Knife knew about tactical retreat, and he supposed even the Watch had drummed into him the importance of not getting into fights he couldn’t win. He didn’t like how the six had turned on Connie like this, didn’t like how the square had erupted into chaos, didn’t like any of this, but most of all, he hated how he was just one man with a bad leg, who kept ending up in situations he couldn’t do anything about. He hated it. There was a loud crash, and a sudden bang! Thick smoke erupted across the village square, and Kast was driven back, coughing, even as his eyes streamed tears. Cojic, he realised. They’d forgotten about Cojic, and Cojic was an alchemist. He kept burning steel, but the movement of the blue lines told him only a little about what was going on. By the time the smoke cleared, the square was empty: most of the village having fled to safety. Erik scowled down at the still body of the Mistborn. Kast wondered how he’d managed to resist the effects of Cojic’s chemical bombs. “Lord Ruler,” Erik said. “This is a complete and utter disaster.” “You don’t say,” Kast said. He was holding desperately to black humour as a way of coping with how six villagers had apparently, in a pre-meditated act, murdered a fecking Mistborn in the open. Wyl was never going to let him live this down. Truth is, I remember the night after we cracked the Kendricks case as well. The night the whole team cracked beers and celebrated. Maybe it was harsh, after what the kids had suffered. And we were all so damned tired and beaten down. I think it felt unreal. Like we all couldn’t believe it was finally over. But it felt a bit like a victory. A bit like we’d made a difference, stopping some evil, sick bastard from hurting another kid. And all for the woman who’d come forward. She’d been the big break in the case. Sometimes, there are people in this world that watch out for others. And they aren’t even your guard or Watch. Just ordinary people. Neighbours. I don't know, I guess I was feeling pretty good that night, even though the emptiness was still there. It’d only withdrawn for a little bit. “You know what you were saying,” Wyl said, as we headed back home. I blinked and tried to figure out what he was referring to. “About stories. About light versus dark.” “Yeah?” “I think you’re looking at it the wrong way,” he said. “‘Cause from the way I see it, at some point, there must’ve been a great big nothing. Once, there was only ever dark. You ask me, the light’s winning.” A small, broken victory at a time, maybe. I’d take it. Connie was murdered in broad daylight! She was a Village Mistborn! PMs remain open! The Night has begun and will end on 14th March 2021 at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8)! True Detective and Broadchurch references here utterly intentional
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And the Day has ended. But have you chosen wisely?
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I trusted Wyrm You who I called brother How is it you could betray me so Is this what you wanted?
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Fair And this is an M Pineider, I take it? A friend won one in a local pen meet session, and now it's become the 'community pen' or loaned out to most of the group I've tried it and the wetness is fantastic!
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Probably one of the oddest time-checks because I was trying to handle some fires on my end (valar dohaeris, OT time!), but let this serve as your reminder that you have eighteen more hours to rollover, thereabout.
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Nice pen and colour! Good match Is it a complete discontinuation? Heard something about it being in NA and shifting to their Four Seasons line?
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I'll allow it
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Player List: Rule Clarifications:
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Day Five: Still The Raven Knows “Hvem skal synge meg i daudsvevna slynge meg når eg på Helvegen går og dei spora eg trår er kalda, så kalda Årle ell i dagars hell enn veit ravnen om eg fell” —’Helvegen’, Wardruna People expect investigations to be fast. Mayor Wilson called me in to chat about our progress. I got the sense she was nervous, from the way she was looking out the window at the slightest noise. Guess I’d be jumpy too, if people were whacking other people and getting away with it, in my village. To say nothing about the rumours of koloss, which I’d filed away in my mind keep under ‘Things That Are Not My Problem.’ Figured it was the new militia’s problem, see? Only it was hard for everyone to put the koloss out of mind completely when the militia were erecting barricades and drilling in the village square. It’s like the old saying: tell someone not to think about a mistwraith, and you bloody well bet that’s the first thing that pops up in their head. People’s minds work in strange ways. “Look,” I said, trying to be as honest and blunt as I could. I didn’t want to let her down in such a harsh way, but sometimes people expect the impossible for us. I didn’t want it. It felt like she had the expectation I could read a scene, and mystically tell her who the murderer was, and who the militia had to go nick. I didn’t want that at all. Thing is, if you have unrealistic expectations of how an investigation works, you’re bound to be pretty bloody disappointed. Sure, she was paying Kast and me to go look through the cases, try to crack them. But we owed her honesty, I felt. And if she didn’t want to retain our services, that was fine too. Kast’d get grouchy about it, but I don’t like it when clients pay us and expect something different. Wastes a lot of my time trying to talk them down, feels like. And there’s something about it that feels a little dishonest, a little like we’re no better than some of the shysters and frauds we used to rustle back in the precinct. So I usually give ‘em the talk about moderating their expectations and how we work at the start, but I figure Wilson had a lot on her mind, maybe it slipped her braincase. “Investigating takes time, Wilson. And it takes a lot of work, a lot of asking questions, a lot of probing dead ends. I’ve told you about this, before you hired us to look into Leas Fel’s death, and then the other cases that popped up along the way. We’re decently sure they’re all connected and there’s a criminal group—” I left out the bit about how Kast and I’d been referring to them as the Spiked, didn’t want to get her over-excited, now, much less to derail things with talk of Hemalurgy and all that sort of stuff. Kast was the one you wanted for that, really. “—a sort of cult that commits ritualistic murders with spikes. Tesse Mourn confessed to providing them with spikes, but—” “And you didn’t bring her in?” demanded Wilson, incredulously. I stared flatly at her. “Mourn was used, and as likely to be whacked to silence her,” I told her. We’d both been dead certain about this, or we wouldn’t have let her off. “If making spikes for money were illegal because the spikes were used by a bunch of cultists to go whack other people, then a lot of knife-makers and what-have-yous in the region are going to find themselves under arrest.” Mayor Wilson could see the sense in that, I suppose, because she let the point go, however reluctantly. Wish I could’ve said the same for some of the Watch I’ve worked with. I outlined our main conclusions for her. The targeted killings were the cleanest, in my eyes. Common MO, and almost all the dead had some connection to Tesse Mourn’s shop, according to her ledger. They got their metals from her on the quiet, or they’d put in some recent job with her. All of which, in my eyes, pointed to the fact that either our killers had wanted to set Tesse Mourn up, or they’d kept her store under tight surveillance when looking for vics. Made some sense too, when I thought about it. If you want to whack Mistings for your spikes, what better way to identify your vics than to stake out a metallurgist’s shop? It interested me if any of the others had gone to Dayle Palladiel, or why they’d set their sights on Tesse Mourn instead, but I supposed it wasn’t illogical either. Palladiel can be...intense, if you’re not used to how she works. And they’d already established contact with Tesse Mourn. Why wouldn’t they kill two birds with one stone and keep her under surveillance? I’d do that, if I were them. At any rate, the cases that weren’t consistent with what we knew were Tomas, Niru, Pie Roayong, and Shard. I still hadn’t figured out whether Sara had whacked Pie Roayong or Shard, though I figured the other mysterious Coinshot must’ve done for the other one. And then our killers had seen to Thiriel, because it was that same bloody MO all over again. Sara was the other odd case. Our evidence wasn’t good, given the whole Crow had caught fire. I didn’t like that at all. Kast was stubbornly digging in his heels and claiming it was arson, which made me side-eye him. Maybe he’d gone back to the wreckage because when he came back, there was a hint of smoke about him, and he’d clammed up on me. I don’t know what was eating at him, I just didn’t like it one bit. My thoughts ran in the opposite direction: I figured someone had tried to whack Sara and then laid the fire to cover the evidence. And cover the evidence it had. Dr. Aliker hadn’t given us much to work with, except to note that she probably hadn’t died from a chest wound. Which I didn’t think was very helpful, but maybe it was just me. This did chalk her death down to a completely different MO though, so that left us back in Who-Sodding-Knows-Anyway? without much of a clue. And then there was the Rioter. The firebug. As I said, I guess it’s possible the Rioter could’ve also whacked Sara, or whacked Leas Fel and all those connected cases. Hell, I guess that would be the logical answer, but I dunno. Said before, but it don’t feel right to me. I didn’t tell the Mayor of my uncertainties, of course. Sometimes, the politicians, they misunderstand these things. So I just outlined what our current thoughts were, and what leads were were following. I knew Kast had gone to talk to Clanal, and at least we knew now that it hadn’t been someone whacking Sara out of an old grudge. We could also sweep most of the Coinshot cases off our active case desk for the moment, which I considered helpful. Thing about investigating is, you want to keep your options open, but you don’t want to drown in information overload. Being able to say that the Coinshot cases didn’t seem related to the main cluster of cases was helpful: it let us throw out dead ends and focus on what really mattered to our Spiked killings here. “Know if Leas Fel got jumpy in his last days?” I asked her, after I’d reassured her that we were doing the best we could on the murders. Wonder if that’s the drek the captain dealt with, back in Tremredare. Couldn’t have paid me enough to take that insignia, that’s for sure. Too much public talking, too much time riding a desk, and not enough solving, in my opinion. She frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked. Too quickly? “Come on now,” I said. “Easy question, don’t you think? Guy retires from garrison life, goes back to rural life in village. Only about a week before he dies, he shows up to Edgar’s—” I was grateful I’d checked this, “—and then Tesse Mourn’s shops to get his sword fixed up. You don’t do that unless you’ve got reason to think someone’s about to whack you.” I was getting to her. I could feel it. Her eyes darted to the side; a little unobtrusive panel in the wall, and then back at me. I pretended I didn’t notice, though. “Maybe he’d gotten into something deep,” Wilson said. “There’s a lot of gambling in Fallion’s Tears, and Leas Fel liked his gambits.” I thought she might even have been telling me the truth, there. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Call it investigator’s instincts, but I didn’t like the way Wilson was acting shifty everytime I brought Leas Fel up. Meant she was most likely connected to the cases, somehow. Thing is, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what her angle was. But I figured I wasn’t going to get more out of her this interview. So I thanked her, and headed off to go pay a visit to another of my suspects. Maybe it was overdoing it a little, to call Philico a suspect. But the magician had a way of showing up around the village, and Wyl figured it was good to interview him, to see if he had seen anything that might’ve been overlooked. According to Kast’s list, Philico had been lurking in the vicinity of the Steel Crow the night of the fire, which meant that he was immediately in the pool of persons of interest. He found Philico standing by himself at a side-street. Took him a couple of hours wandering the streets of Fallion’s Tears, but there you had it. Wyl had learned the value of persistence from years in Tremredare, and eventually, he saw the familiar silhouette of the magician, distorted eerily by the gathering night mists. “Waiting for someone?” Wyl asked. Sometimes, it was best to just get directly into things. Philico started. It seemed he had in fact been waiting for someone, and the disappointment faded from his features and was replaced almost immediately by wariness and then polite interest. “Ah. The investigator.” “Sharpe. Wyl Sharpe. I don’t think we’ve yet met.” “Not directly, no. I’m Philico, a magician. Greatest traveling show this side of the river, you may have heard of me.” Which meant, in Wyl’s book, he was several steps and a little bit of ethics removed from the shysters and frauds and pickpockets that worked festivals and fairs in Tremredare. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, no.” “Ah. Unfortunate.” Wyl took the initiative. “I’ve been meaning to ask you some questions, actually. I’ve been looking into the recent string of murders in this village.” “And you think it might be me?” Philico spread his hands out, and a card materialised between the fingers of his left hand. He flicked it up in the air, and suddenly plucked it out from behind his ear. “I’m a magician. I’ve stopped in your village for a time, and I’m not interested in your intrigues or murders.” “What’ve you been looking for, then?” Philico looked at him severely. “As any good entertainer does, a good audience. I must say you’re not the coldest crowd I’ve had to work, at least.” “Probably not,” Wyl said. “Did a bit of stage magic in my misspent youth, actually.” It was a story he didn’t really want to go into, though looking at Philico was almost as though he was looking into a distorted mirror, bringing about a sudden, intense wave of deja vu. Now Philico’s smile turned a fraction warmer. “Ah, a fellow entertainer.” He made the card and a ball disappear. “No harder audience than performing to one of our profession, really.” “It was a misspent youth,” Wyl said. “I’m just a busybody now. I stick my nose into things and ask all sorts of questions.” “I’ve answered them, I think.” “So you have,” Wyl agreed. “What were you doing in the vicinity of the Steel Crow last night?” Philico answered, without hesitation, “I told a child a story, and he was supposed to come back tonight to listen to it. You know the old trick?” “What is it?” “The best stories,” Philico said, “Never have an ending. You make your own ending. That’s how you make the story live and sing and dance in the listener’s heart.” “Right,” said Wyl, “And the child was out that late?” Philico stiffened, turning tense. “Look out!” he shouted. Wyl was already turning so the blow fell on his shoulder instead. Reflexively, he turned, seeking to throw his attacker, but something heavy went down on his head. Textbook nap tap, he thought, the way they taught you to deliver it at the academy in Tremredare. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, and the world was blurring. Maybe that was why nothing Wyl was looking at in the next few heartbeats made any sense. Philico was dissolving. Wyl didn’t know how to describe it. One moment, Philico was there, and the next moment, his form wavered and broke apart as a wave of critters scattered all over the street, heading for—Wyl didn’t even bloody know. Something dropped over his head. It was rough, perhaps, and blocked out most of the light. Burlap sack, maybe. The world went dark. Wyrm was attacked and survived! Matrim's Dice has fled! He was a Village Smoker! PMs remain open! The Day has begun and will end on 13th March 2021 at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8)! The Writing on the Walls of the Crow: and
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Well, I guess no takers. Stick has my favour though, at any rate. And any of y'all who put in kill orders on me at Wyrm's request are definitely on my naughty list, and I'm Satan >> Turn's over, no more falling over yourselves to post. Who lives and who dies in this latest episode of CSI: Fallion's Tears? Stay tuned, and find out after the commercial break! Edit: You know, I actually meant Santa... Santa Kas .___.
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So, anyone down to hammer Wyrm with me before the Turn ends Just askin'.
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Timecheck: You have slightly over an hour and a half. Get those orders and votes in.
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I recognise this is terribly obnoxious given there's no rule clarification at all, but I am, unfortunately, still in the land of the awake. Thought you might like to know, King
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Player List: Rule Clarifications:
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Night Four: The Gambler, He Broke Even “Every gambler knows that the secret to survivin’ Is knowin’ what to throw away and knowin’ what to keep ‘Cause every hand’s a winner and every hand’s a loser And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.” —’The Gambler’, Kenny Rogers I’ve never been much of a gambler. Thing about wetwork is, you don’t want to leave things up to chance. Of course there’s always a chancy element to these things. As much as Wyl talks about how people are predictable, how our behaviour follows patterns, there’s always the element of randomness. That thin sliver of a chance that sends a die up snake’s eye rather than stacked sheaves, that has your mark decide to go to the ball at the Ostlin manor that night, rather than attending the party at the Jerzy’s. Little things like that, which can badly feck your plans up, if you’d been scoping out the Jerzy grounds, and preparing to sneak in and ice the mark there and then. You want to be good at wetwork, you need to develop contingency plans. All improvisation and adaptation is built on a solid base of having done your intelligence work. Having scouted out the locations, and your mark’s schedule, habits and tendencies, understanding them intimately… You want that. Need that, even. Putting yourself in your mark’s shoes is what allows you to anticipate what they’ll do. This helps you craft plans that might survive first contact with the enemy. Wyl, though. I won’t say he’s reckless—he’s a more meticulous and canny planner than some in the wetwork business I’ve known—but there’s a streak in him that’s more comfortable with outright audacious gambles than I’ve ever worked myself up to. Guess a guy who talks a rusher into joining up with the Watch has got to have enough of a gambler in him, if you think about it. The burning of the Steel Crow wasn’t how I’d have done it, and I’ve torched a few buildings in my time with the Red Knives. Not going to make any excuses for it, really. In this world, everyone’s out for themselves, in the end. Torching a building’s a better way to get the point across than icing someone, or breaking a couple bones. We had our lines, though. Never kids. There’s a special place in hell for those as lay a hand on kids, in my book. Maybe only Wyl would care, even if the Watch weren’t paid. I’ve seen him refuse to take so much as a clip from some of our clients before. If you don’t know Wyl enough, you think he’s a hard-arse, like a walnut. But there’s the decency in there, too, and if you’re very, very lucky, you’ll catch a glimpse of it. Do I feel bad about my past? I don’t know. I wonder sometimes, about what my younger self would make of the person I’ve become today. Maybe he’d reckon I’ve gone weak. That I’d betrayed my crew to run with the enemy. Work for the enemy. That I’ve become the enemy, really. Maybe he wouldn’t be wrong, either. In skaa thieving crews, trust is a hard commodity, but in good crews, you had each other’s backs. That means something, in my view. More than looking out for the thousands of people in your precinct. Sure, you feel a little bad, but really, world’s a hard place. You’ve got to be hard to stay alive in it, and there’s no use wringing your hands about it. That’s my younger self talking, I suppose. I’m older now, with years in the Watch on my shoulders. And sometimes, people need help, and sometimes, you’re all they’ve got. Sometimes, people are lost or afraid, and I guess if I’m there, why not? World’s a dark enough place as it is. Maybe Wyl got to me, more than I expected. I talked to Clanal, when trying to figure out what had gone down with the Crow. First thought was that it was Arenta, maybe. It’s what we did in the Red Knives when there were stubborn coves and mots holding out on their protection fees. But no, Arenta hadn’t reacted like this before when people were late on their payments. She just got a rusher and had ‘em thrown out onto the streets. Stone cold, bleeds boxings if you cut her, that’s Arenta. Clanal. As I said, Clanal’s the village moneylender. What a lot of people don’t know is that Clanal deals in something quite a bit more valuable than just boxings. He deals in secrets. Clanal is an information-broker, and he’s very good at what he does. To borrow any decent-sized sum from him, Clanal requires collateral. Among other things, he requires information from you. A secret. If he approves of it, you scribble it on a slip of paper, and he locks it away. And if you fail to repay him, whatever you set down as collateral is his. And your secret is his to do with, as he pleases. Clanal had been shaken by the fires at the Crow. I figured that was maybe my in with him. “Know anything about anyone who might’ve wanted to torch the Crow?” I asked him. Clanal eyed me warily. “Isn’t good business if I give information away for free, Speirs,” he said. “If you want it, you have to deal with me, same way the rest of my clients do.” “Come on, now,” I said. “Way I see it, they nearly got you too.” “If they’d wanted to get me, they’d have torched the Crow earlier, Speirs. Isn’t going to work on me.” I wished I had Wyl’s way with words, with coaxing trust out of people. All I had going for me was one formidable right hook, the sort of jaw you could break fists on, and a lifetime of brawls. “Right,” I said. I handed him a couple boxings, just to start the conversation. “What are you looking for?” Clanal smiled. “If it’s information you’re after, you know how this works, Speirs.” I did know. Bastard kept my boxings anyway. “And in trade?” Clanal considered it. “What can you give me that’d be worth Sara’s past, Speirs? Or even Tomas’s?” “I know that Tomas has claimed to be some kind of god,” I said. “Obliteration, something like that.” I guess my scepticism must’ve been clear because Clanal laughed. “Just talk, really. He’s kept his head down, enough that I haven’t crossed paths with him.” “Then here’s a free one for you: someone in Fallion’s Tears or the surrounding villages has often claimed to be that god,” Clanal said. “Just not at the same time.” “Some kind of cult?” Clanal shrugged. “You’re the fancy Tremredare detective. You tell me.” “Haven’t been one in years. You of all people should know.” He did. Of course he did. “How about telling me something about Sharpe,” Clanal said. There was a curious glint in his eyes. “You work together. You must know something. He’s about the only man I don’t have anything at all about in this village.” Because of that bad run of months. We’d needed to pay Arenta, and I wasn’t about to put any more pressure on Wyl than he was already feeling, having generously told another widow that we weren’t going to accept a clip for looking into her husband’s murder. I’d borrowed from Clanal, but I’d made good, but Clanal knew, of course. I didn’t know how many others in Fallion’s Tears knew I’d been a rusher, once. Maybe Clanal hadn’t traded that off. But if he hadn’t, why not? “No,” I said, and I meant it. Wyl’s probably the only good man I know. Be damned if I’d just sell him out like that. “No deal, Clanal. I’ll find the information myself.” “Suit yourself.” I strode off, feeling the pain of each step as it stabbed into my leg and my knee. Wasn’t about to rat Wyl out, even with the little I knew. I mean, we were partners. We worked together. He saved my life nine times. That time in the Warrens didn’t count. Never did. I saved his life, that night in Tremredare, when everything fell apart. When Gade came for him. The night Gade messed my leg up bad. Didn’t mean I really knew him, see? People think we’re friends, and maybe we are, I don’t know. Way I see it, we work together and are in business together, and that means a certain level of professionalism. “Wait!” Clanal called after me. I hesitated, and then cursed myself. Didn’t want to seem desperate, and all that, but. “Interesting,” said Clanal. “That you’re so fiercely protective of his secrets.” I don’t have a good poker face, but I do have a good killing face. I fixed that stare on Clanal and watched him pale. “Business is between us, Clanal. Told you that the first time I came to you. Isn’t right to get my partner involved, understand?” He narrowed his eyes. “Proposition for you.” “What?” “I have a job that needs doing,” said Clanal. “And you happen to be a rusher. I have information you want. Way I see it, it’s interesting how we can help each other, isn’t it?” I felt my hands curling into fists. I hadn’t been a rusher, hadn’t done rusher work in years. I didn’t like this, and all I could think was: what was Wyl going to think if he knew? He wasn’t going to know, obviously, but all the same, I hated the idea that I was failing his standards, somehow, even if I knew Wyl’s own standards weren’t the one any normal person would want to live up to. Bastard’s a pain like that, really. And secrets have an inconvenient way of coming out at the worst possible time. “Icing someone?” I finally asked. Hated myself for not stepping away. I told myself we needed Clanal’s information. Clanal was often good for his word. But it felt like I was taking a step away from whatever we were doing, back into the murky world of skaa thieving crews. Part of me liked it. It felt like waking up again, after years of muddling through, years of having fallen asleep. And I hated that, so much. Clanal considered it for longer than I felt comfortable. “No,” he said, thoughtfully. “Dead men don’t pay up, Speirs. You know this as well as I do. Or knew this, I suppose. I want you to send him a very clear message.” I knew about clear messages. Maybe that was where Clanal and I spoke the same language. I didn’t like it one bit, but I liked the idea of selling Wyl out less. And the truth was, Clanal had me by the short ones, there. Finding the information I wanted, fast? Harder than you’d expect, with so much of the Crow in ruins at the moment. And I didn’t even want to think about how the hell I was going to figure out what was up with Tomas getting iced by our renegade Coinshot, who just so happened to be Sara. Sometimes, you have to choose which of your principles to break. Today was shaping up to be a day of personal discoveries. “Sara killed before,” Clanal said. “It’s why she had no hesitation going after those kills your partner attributed to her.” I understood. The first kill is always the hardest. After a while, killing becomes a job, or an action. Like cleaning up, like shaving. And for some, like making love. I wasn’t that sort of messed up, though. Didn’t think Sara was, either. I wish I knew her reasons, but the best I could make out was that either she’d snapped over some dispute, or she’d figured she was going to take it in her own hands to stop our killers. Far as I could tell, all those she’d tagged with her coins were people she or someone in Fallion’s Tears had suspected. “Got more details on that?” I asked. Family and friends of a vic were often prime suspects for vengeance, and maybe one of them had set fire to the Crow. “Little,” Clanal admitted. “It’s hushed up, and from nearly a decade ago, but she moved over from Gamsbrook with her uncle, after killing someone with her metal. He died of his injuries a few days later. You don’t want to know the details.” I frowned. Who in Fallion’s Tears would act out a feud from nearly a bloody decade ago? Maybe that was the sign, though. If it wasn’t a feud, then maybe it wasn’t personal. Maybe I was looking at the arson all wrong. Maybe it was sabotage. “And she never borrowed from you?” “She made good,” Clanal said. Which was probably why I was only hearing about this secret of Sara’s right around now. “And Tomas, then?” “Left a trail of bodies in his wake,” Clanal said, with wry amusement. “Skipped out of Bainsvale about half an hour before the Watch there put together a posse and went after him. Changed his name, skipped across half the Western Dominance, and put down roots in Fallion’s Tears, and all was forgotten. Surprising, isn’t it? Lots of people seem to come here to hide from their past, or their killings.” I didn’t like that part. And it was the same issue with Tomas as with Sara, except we knew Sara had iced Tomas, so there wasn’t so much worry there about whether anyone from his past had come hunting him. And that was even without the preposterousness of his claims to be some kind of god. Sometimes, I thought he’d bring the wrath of the Steel Inquisition down on us all. Wouldn’t that be a thing to get hauled in for. “What is it then? Who do you want reminded?” I asked, reluctantly. I’d given my word, and I wasn’t going to go back on it now. Maybe that was why Clanal wanted a trade, too. Clanal’s grin grew a little wider, and I had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be good. “Torch one or two of Erik’s fields for me, would you? Stop at two, mind. It’s not about doing him in. It’s about sending a message.” Someone’d cleaned up the Crow, painted a new sign on the outside and scratched out the word Steel. It was The Rusty Crow now, and they’d put up hoarding and canvas flaps overhead to substitute for the missing roof. The rubble had been cleared fairly quickly, and Kast wasn’t sure if it was a testament to human ingenuity or just how powerfully most of Fallion’s Tears wanted to get drunk. It was broad daylight, but it was a nervous crowd. Slart and Rowan hadn’t returned, and somehow, word that the hunters had been sent out to scout for koloss was setting everyone on edge. The militia moved among the patrons, a solid presence of steel, but Kast knew better. People nursed their drinks nervously. There’d been too many deaths in Fallion’s Tears over the past days, and with Tesse Mourn having fled for the safety of Tremredare, fear had begun to creep into the village, eating it away from the inside like woodrot did for a sturdy table-leg. Kast nursed his warm beer with some distaste and just listened, trying to take the pulse of the village. All he could hear was fear. Whispers. Rumours. Distrust. They hadn’t turned on him or on Wyl yet, but sometimes, Kast wondered if that was only a matter of time. Some of the villagers still talked about Variel, but they had been a little reassured by Tesse Mourn’s departure. Kast wished her well. He and Wyl were still going over her ledgers, trying to track down Wyl’s elusive firebug, though they hadn’t much luck. Most of Mourn’s sales were to those outside of Fallion’s Tears, and though Wyl had been right about the Bart and Leas Fel connection, it seemed that Leas Fel really had had a sword repaired by Mourn. Had he been expecting trouble, then? And why? He had to talk to Palladiel, but the last Kast heard, she’d locked herself in her shop again, which meant he wasn’t going to get much out of her this day. So here he was in the burned-out Crow instead, sipping his beer, listening, trying to work out his next move. Marll, Joe, and Roko were rolling dice at the table on the far end of the tavern, and Kast was only half-paying attention to them but he sensed the moment the arguments took a darker edge and turned deadly. Rioting? He didn’t know. It was an argument over whether the dice were loaded, and had expanded to accusations of Marll cheating at cards, with Marll almost wrecking the table and insisting that it’d been Roko instead, who’d cheated. In a tavern, with frightened, nervous people all doing their best to get drunk. Kast sighed. How the bloody hell did he always end up in these sorts of situations? And how was he ever going to explain this one to Wyl? Within seconds, the tavern exploded in violence. It was why Kast hated tavern duty, really. They’d lost more men to tavern brawls than just about any other part of the precinct. And back in the Red Knives, he’d figured those brawls were a waste of his time. Chaos was like a ladder, and it spread like the fire in Erik’s fields through the remnants of the Crow. Someone hit someone else, that was always how it worked, whether by accident, or simply because they were drunk, or too amped up. The gaming table was splintered and broken, and Marll had Roko by the throat. Kast thought about intervening, and thought the better of it. One man alone in a tavern brawl. You died, easily, that way. Wouldn’t have chanced it, even if Wyl had his back. Someone grabbed a beer stein and swung hard at Marll’s head, but the cobbler reacted swiftly, turning about so the metal smashed into Roko instead. Kast winced. That was going to hurt, but Roko somehow shrugged it off, and fluidly twisted about, so Marll was forced to let go, or risk injury. Roko landed, and then knives were in his hands, and one of them was pressed to Maili’s throat. Said Roko, in a voice that cut through the shouting and the sounds of splintering wood and broken glass, “One of us dies today then, I suppose.” Marll eyed him, coolly. “You feeling this violent over a game of cards or dice?” Joe was nowhere to be seen. Kast wondered where he’d gotten off to. Perhaps he was hiding, like a sensible person would. “Everyone’s all worked up now,” Roko said, with a shrug. “Takes more brass than I have to calm everyone down, and really, why bother? It’s rather hard to save people who are actively trying to kill you. Take that from someone who knows.” Marll said, “Why, you—” Someone smashed a glass bottle over Roko’s head, and then another. “Don’t let him Soothe you!” It was Willie, his face grim but set. “We heard, didn’t we? Was one of those manipulating Mistings that set up the riots in the square that day.” Roko blinked. The others joined in, beating Roko up as the knife drew a thin line of blood across Marll’s throat, but Marll had dodged, trusting that he would beat Roko’s reflexive reaction, and Kast supposed the gamble had paid off, this time. Soddit. He had to go, now. The Watch had to know. One man alone could not do anything here. But he could create a chance for intervention, before things got worse. Kast skidded out from under the table. His leg protested, but he let it. Being trapped there, watching Roko die… It wasn’t on the list of things he intended to do today. He caught a glass bottle that was flying right at him, and struck out with it, smashing it into the face of someone who was trying to hit him. Cordwainer. Kast recognised him. For good measure, he punched the man twice in the gut, dropping him. Something rolled out of Roko’s pocket. It hit the floor, bounced, and skittered right in front of Kast. It reminded him of a strange, metal orb, and yet. Chains of glowing letters filled the air in a small slice above the orb. Kast had no idea what they were, or what that sort of contraption was. In the span of moments, a figure appeared, composed of the letters. “What?” Kast managed. “I applied my heart to know wisdom,” the man said. “And to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also was a chasing at the wind. For in much wisdom is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.” Kast said, “Who are you?” There was no answer, and the light fuzzed out again and there were only strings of disconnected letters, shapes maybe. There was no time. Kast left. Gears was the victim of a tavern brawl! He was a Village Soother! The Night has begun and will end on 11th March 2021, at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8)! PMs remain open! P.S. If anyone reads this, vote for Wyrm in the Night.
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Now and then I think of when we played together So back in LG12 we ended up Dula I told myself maybe you were Village But couldn't really trust you completely Still, we were young and undisputed kings of trolling You've become addicted to both trolling and backstabbing Like when you stabbed me in the back in MR1 So when we've been on the same team since then And I guess that we've both become friends But I'll admit that I still can't really trust you But you didn't have to cut me down Act like we were never brothers and our jokes meant nothing And I wasn't even a threat But you put in all those kills on me, it feels so rough No, you didn't have to stoop so low Have five players try to kill me and then take my PM I guess that I was dying though Now you're just some Dulabro I used to know Now you're just some Dulabro I used to know Now you're just some Dulabro I used to know Now and then I think of those two games you screwed me over Coming out of nowhere with that Grandbow and then Kholinar But paranoia's now my way Reading into every word you say I thought that I could let these go But I guess I'm still scarred by these betrayals from seven years ago But you didn't have to crash my game Taking over as the GM and then all that trolling Guess I could really use your help But you came in like a highstorm and you trolled them hard No, you didn't have to wreak havoc Claiming GM black for yourself and then taking over I guess that I did miss you bro Now you're just the Shardtwin that I used to know
