Kasimir
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Tofu is good, cases are bad I don't know who died tho How about u? Also, my dad likes this song, so here you all go as I've had to listen to it too often as a kid and associate it with my GCEs:
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TBH 150k+ cases and counting just fell onto my desk and I've been told to Taln them all and produce results ASAP so this is just Reason 150k + 1 that the write-up won't be pre-written
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Next batch of rule clarifications: Can a Tineye message be blocked? No. Even if the Tineye is killed that same Night, their message will still be posted.
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Time-check: You have a little under 24 hours left in the cycle.
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The GM Announcement you were waiting for since rollover: @Condensation has kindly agreed to replace @Tani. Please be welcoming To clarify, the pinch-hitters aren't going in completely blind as they've been briefed. But don't expect them to know some secret codeword you put on p.73 of your PM with their original. I can neither confirm nor deny if someone might have done that...
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In. What. World
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Conferred with Wilson and that's the idea, yeah. The ruling is you make your own PM.
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Please make your own
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@Elbereth @little wilson GM Announcement: Our first pinch-hitter has entered the game. Please welcome @Haelbarde, PR Agent to the Brightness Ascendant, Lord Parodium, the M'Hael, lately known as Ambition and Scorp to the game. He will be replacing @Daisy, which is technically a violation of my existing inactives policy, but Wilson and El have ruled that either way is fine. Just to be clear, Wilson's ruling for how pinch-hitters are going to takeover: they get a fresh new GM PM that copies the GM PM that the OG received. They will be told what PMs the inactive had and how much went down there, but they will not be automatically added to existing PMs, so if you want to talk to them, you have to make your own. I have two requests for a pinch-hitter existing, including Tani's, and I am currently sorting out which of the existing pinch-hitters will be taking over whom.
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Not game-relevant, which is what saves you here, but you're nicked, sonny. Back to the lands of the dead with you. Remember lads and lasses: this ain't Nalthis. Dead don't Return here And be glad it's me doing the arrest here, as my co-GM comes down on people like the hammer of God himself.
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Player List: Rule Clarifications:
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Day Four: A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall “I met a young woman, her body was burning I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow I met one man who was wounded in love I met another man who was wounded in hatred And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard It’s a hard rain’s a-going to fall.” —’A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’, Bob Dylan I went to a fancy dinner in Tremredare, once. Long story there, and it isn’t particularly interesting. Kreon Heron was taking some of the more decorated men in the Watch to something fancy. Can’t say I liked it, but that’s Watch life for you. There’s a time to tell your superiors where to stick orders, and sometimes it’s an evening of smiling through gritted teeth as the upper crust sneer at common skaa like you with dirt in their veins. Honestly, the dislike’s mutual. Maybe Kreon Heron was all right as nobles went, but that wasn’t saying much at all. He had his hang-ups. Most of them do. Plenty of reasons I split, in the end, that’s what I’m saying. Sometimes the only thing you can do for the vic is to refuse to look away. Maybe I’m just soft like that, but it didn’t seem right to me to bury that case, the way we’d buried so many of its ilk. Sometimes there’s only so much looking away you can do before something deep inside you cries out at the injustice. Call it basic integrity, maybe. Or just having a conscience. So we rubbed elbows with the nobles and the merchants and all the movers and shakers, tried to be on our best manners. We stuck together, though. We were Watch, and we stuck out like a sore thumb. I remember what one of the nobles was telling another. Heron, by the looks of him. There was a certain resemblance there. Never caught a name, though. Likes of me have no reason to be making nice with the likes of him, at any rate. “There is one rule for industrialists and that is: make the best quality of goods possible, at the lowest cost possible, paying the highest wages possible.” Figured him for a liar, right there. Anyone with a pair of working eyes can see the nobles squeeze us all tight, for every boxing, every clip. There’s a line there as divides those of us born into wealth and metal, and those of us born skaa, who got to work for barely a living wage. They hold the coin in their fists and the rest of us fight and step on our brothers for the clips they scatter. Sometimes, Kast tells me I get downright philosophical. Doesn’t take a fancy education, or any of those books he reads. You don’t get to work Watch for years and not become a keen observer of human behaviour, of human nature. Of the basic inequalities and faultlines that run through this society of ours. I ain’t a skaa rebellion sympathiser. Law matters too much to me to take it into my own hands, even now. We can’t burn it all down to ashes and rebuild. What’d be left? Without law, we’d cut each other up, make no mistake about that. Maybe the law is wretched, sometimes. Can’t say I like seeing Inquisitors go after skaa Mistings, being one myself. It’s a secret I’ve worked hard to keep, as one does, if you’re partial to staying alive. And sometimes, it’s hard, clapping the hobbles on a gixie who stole to keep her kids alive. Maybe I’m a soft touch, but there’s one hell of a big gap between those who kill their fellows for casual cruelty and because some people are messed up inside like that, and those who steal to keep body and soul together for another hard day. Law’s the law, but you understand, I suppose, even as you hobble them and take them back to the wagon. Without it, we’d be right fecked. But I can’t help but think they’ve got a point. Go ask a Watchman, if you ever wonder about how fair life—or the law, really—is. We know better than anyone else. Wyl dreamed of thunder. Then it wasn’t thunder, just pounding on his front door. Blearily, he got off the sofa and padded over to the door. He picked up the dueling cane on the umbrella stand, and hesitated over the weighted vest but left it be. Life in the Watch had left him wary. You made no shortage of enemies when you took criminals down, after all. Even after seven years in Fallion’s Tears, the habit had never left him. The tracery of blue lines flared to life as he burned iron. He ignored the familiar lines in his flat, and focused on the ones he didn’t know, the ones that led outside the door. Wasn’t that much metal outside his door, and Wyl relaxed a tad. It was either very good, or very bad. Usually, it meant trouble, but if it was who Wyl thought it was, it was a good sort of trouble, unless it portended ill. “Wyl,” said Kast, exasperatedly, “If you don’t open that fecking door, I’m going to kick it down. I’m not that far into my retirement that I can’t wreck your home, old man.” Wyl opened the door and stared, unamused. “Leave the door alone, it’s not done anything to you yet.” “Dubious,” said Kast. He had his coat on, and as far as Wyl figured, he’d probably been out for a good chunk of the night. Stubborn bastard, hadn’t quite figured out how sleep worked yet. Wyl supposed that it was a bit optimistic, hoping that seven years in Fallion’s Tears had taught Kast the importance of getting some shut-eye. Strange, the way they’d ended up in business together. Time was, he’d have thought them enemies, operating on either side of the law. Kast had been a rusher, working with the Red Knives. Small crew, but audacious. Waes had never set his sights low. And Wyl had been Watch to the bone. They’d worked out a small truce between them, the way plenty of Watch and criminals did, because sometimes you let the minnows get away, traded information and wary respect. He’d worked the precinct enough to value having several ears to the ground, even if they didn’t see eye to eye on matters of what was right, but he’d always imagined that one day it’d end with him bleeding his life out, or Kast in hobbles. And then Kast was bleeding his life out in the gutter because his crew’d gone utterly bonkers, and Wyl had, for reasons he supposed were altogether rather daft, had offered him an out. Offered them an out, really. Putting Kast in hobbles wasn’t exactly on the top of his to do list, and one way or another, Wyl supposed he’d just rather avoid the annoyance and inconvenience entirely. Wasn’t like Kast was the sort to go down without a fight, he didn’t think. And now it had been seven years with a business partner, after they both left the Watch. Imagine that. "You missing that beauty sleep or something?” Kast raised an eyebrow. Soot and ash streaked his face, and Wyl wondered if there had been an ashfall this night. “‘Cause this one’s big, and I’ve spoken to Mayor Wilson but I’m pretty sure you’ll want to see this, but not if you’re dead on your feet.” “I may need a cuppa first,” Wyl admitted. He was bone-tired, and if Kast was saying he had to see it, it was probably pretty damned big, and that was stoking his curiosity, at the very least. Especially if it’d gotten Kast to talk to the Mayor. “Well,” Kast said, leaning against the doorframe. “Steel Crow’s gone. Burned down to ashes, but I reckon Hadra or one of the others could still keep the drinks flowing, at any rate. Cellar was entirely untouched, so that’s something. We’ve got a firebug in the village, all right. Neighbours mentioned hearing a lot of noises in the night.” He held out something in a soot-stained hand and Wyl peered at it. A melted clip. “Steel Crow’s a tavern,” he pointed out. “Handles coin everyday.” “Dented, though,” Kast pointed out the mark. “And there’s been a body in the alley behind the Crow. Don’t think he was dumped. I think he died there. Wounds consistent with multiple projectiles, so coins. The madman, the one who claimed to be some sort of god called Obliteration? Who’d want to kill him?” Wyl narrowed his eyes. “Tea first,” he said, resignedly. “Then let’s go out there and have a look.” Smoke curled upwards from the ruined hulk of The Steel Crow, even as the thick mists swept across the streets of Fallion’s Tears. Wyl sucked in a deep breath. He’d been called to the remains of a glassworks in Tremredare before, after a great fire, and the stench of soot and charred flesh returned to him across the passage of the years, almost in the same instant, when he stepped forward to assess the damage. Embers glowed balefully in the remnants of the Crow. The militia were already flooding the scene, and part of Wyl, the part that had worked his precinct for years in Tremredare, felt resentful at the strangers on his scene, even as they hauled buckets of water to put out the last of the blaze. It wasn’t his scene, Wyl told himself, taking in one deep breath and then another. Lord Ruler’s bones, the smouldering remnants of the Crow were still warm. He felt the heat against his skin. As he crossed the entrance, he noticed that a fresh layer of graffiti had been scrawled on the stone walls. These had remained mostly untouched, and Wyl supposed they would continue to be. But there would be no one to restore the walls, with care, or it would no longer be the same, for Sara, the quiet tavern-owner, who listened and hated to meet the eyes of the villagers, who poured pints and fidgeted with the smooth countertop at the bar—Sara was dead now. If she wasn't, she would've been among those at the scene. The inside of the Crow was largely gone. The support pillars had been made of wood, and the roof of clay tiles. The tiling had cracked, and shattered as the support pillars went up in flames, as had most of the Crow’s interior. “Witnesses?” Wyl asked, aloud. “One patron,” Kast said. “Clanal was there, having a drink just before closing hour.” He named the village’s moneylender, and Wyl was certain his own distaste showed. “Said Sara had excused herself and left out the back, so Ishak was going to lock up after her. She didn’t come back until Clanal was gone, though.” He gestured at the remnants of the Crow. “Don’t head in too far. Whole thing’s pretty damned unstable.” Wyl grunted. “Still need to see, though.” He picked his way carefully across the treacherous length of charred wood. He heard the steady tap of Kast’s cane and sighed. “If you put your knee out again trying to scramble across the rubble, I’m not going to say I bloody told you so.” “Noted,” said Kast, “And ignored.” Wyl rolled his eyes. “As expected. How many dead?” “Sara, obviously,” Kast counted them off. “Ishak’s missing—we suspect he’s somewhere under the rubble.” He named the washerboy who did odd jobs for Sara in the Crow’s kitchen, and one or two others that helped out with the tasks that needed doing in an establishment like the Crow. “Clanal got out around half an hour before things went up, by my reckoning.” “Ah, and how do you know this?” “Place was fine when Clanal left. Was in flames when I’d headed out for a walk. I saw the fire and raised the alarm. Figured the militia would do a spot more good than I could, so I went right for Erik, and they came and set up a bucket line.” “Right,” said Wyl. “Instead of sleeping like any decent person would?” “Given your own recent ventures into insomnia, I don’t see you holding very defensible ground there, no.” Wyl grunted and looked at the scorched detritus. “Don’t think it was our firebug anyway. The Rioter,” he clarified, at Kast’s quizzical glance. “Rioting a crowd is reckless. If they wanted to start a fire and didn’t care about collateral damage, they’d have started one at a more crowded time.” “You think this was set, then?” “Obviously,” said Wyl. “Look at the scorch patterns.” He’d noticed them, coming in, but they were more obvious now that they were down amongst the rubble and the ashes. “More focused on the inside than the outside. Longest in the fire.” “Could be a kitchen fire. Cooking’s dangerous, you know.” Wyl raised an eyebrow. “You know better.” Kast sighed, and relented. No reason for a cookfire to be burning, that late at night, especially once the tavern had closed. “Burn patterns should be more intense around the source.” He frowned, trying to lay it all out in his mind. Some of the Watch in Tremredare had sworn by something to organise their thoughts that they called a mind keep. Wyl wasn’t so sure about that, but in his head, he stepped into the Crow, and then— “Kitchen’s that way. Where did you say Sara was found?” “I didn’t,” Kast said. “But it was near the kitchen.” “Back door?” “Yeah. It’s the biggest security vulnerability, really, if you want to get in or out of a place. Opens to the alley behind the Crow, where the trash goes.” Wyl pictured that: Sara, entering from the alley. Perhaps someone had surprised her, in the night. Perhaps she had fought back. But she’d died, in the kitchen of her own tavern. And then someone had set fire to the Crow, possibly to cover up. And Ishak and the others? Loose ends, perhaps. He felt the anger, and let himself be angry, at the callousness and the cruelty of it all. But they’d still struck after the Crow was closed. Perhaps they hadn’t wanted witnesses. Still, it felt like a different sort of MO from their Rioter. It was cruel, but it wasn’t reckless. “Fire was worst in the kitchen,” Kast added. “Think there were jars of pressed oil there, or something. Hell of an accelerant. Hell of a way to go. Poor Sara.” Wyl frowned. “She would’ve fought, or tried to escape the fire.” It was Kast’s turn to frown. “You suspect foul play? I didn’t think so. I figured she was making for the exit and then was overcome by the smoke before she could get out and save herself.” “Yeah, and the fire was worst in the kitchen, you said. Why would she head towards the fire? Walls were mostly unscorched. She’d every reason to go out the front door, not the back.” “Maybe someone knocked her out,” Kast suggested. “Or maybe she went back for something. Dr. Aliker’s taking a look at the body, trying to get us something we can use” Times like this, Wyl sometimes forgot how nonchalant Kast was about these things. How nonchalant they were, really. Easy enough to reduce a person to just another body, just another case. Just another ghost haunting your nightmares. “And there’s something in the kitchens worth dying for?” Wyl wanted to know. “Bunch of clips, all melted,” Kast said. “And this.” He tossed it to Wyl, overhand. Wyl fumbled for a moment, surprised, but caught it. It had cracked from the intense heat, but he recognised the shape of it. And the specks of once-molten metal inside. “She was our vigilante Coinshot?” “Yeah. Looks like she kept some of her supplies in the kitchen, too. Must’ve gotten her metals from Palladiel, because I sure as hell don’t remember seeing sales to Sara in Mourn’s ledger.” Wyl hadn’t either. He said as much. “Metals ain’t worth a life.” “Maybe she was expecting to Steelpush her way out. Maybe she was tapped out.” “Bah,” Wyl was exasperated now. “That’s speculation, and you know it.” “Yeah,” Kast admitted. “But why burn down the Crow if you just wanted to ice Sara? That’s noisy and that takes time and attracts attention. And then our killer had to ice Ishak and the others as well. That’s plain messy and unprofessional.” Wyl narrowed his eyes but let Kast carry on. He had been the first on the scene, hadn’t he? “I’d normally associate that kind of excessive MO with vengeance, so maybe if Sara had enemies. Or if she was surprised by someone, but then we’re looking at yet another case, with an arsonist on the loose. And all of a sudden, Fallion’s Tears sees more crime than we’ve seen here in a couple years.” “But you think it’s arson anyway, first.” “Yeah, I do.” “Coinshot like Sara, if she’s the one I encountered, I don’t think a simple arsonist would do her in. And she’d see metal coming.” “Not every Coinshot burns all the time, you know,” Kast said, quietly. “Or reflexively enough, at any rate. You only get that way if your life depends on it. Coinshots aren’t immortal.” He nudged at a chunk of splintered, blackened wood with his foot. He was favouring his left leg. He always was, these days. Wyl took the point. Still, Kast was being oddly stubborn about the fire, he thought. Even despite admitting that there were gaps in his hypothesis. He wondered why. People changed, he thought. In their younger days, Wyl’d never have guessed he’d be drummed out the Watch in disgrace for refusing to drop a case, much less that Kast would turn out Watch after all. He wondered, though. Back in the Watch, there was a saying about how the past predicted the present. Not all those who were criminals were doomed to continue being criminals. But a lot of the men and women they put in hobbles, Wyl knew and recognised. And they’d continue to make the same mistakes and use the same MOs after release. The Red Knives had burned down a bakery before, when the owner hadn’t paid the protection money in time. Did time change a man? Sometimes, Wyl wondered if all he’d done was to set the wolf among the sheep. Yet, it’d been years in the Watch and another seven after that. Didn’t that deserve fair consideration, too? “Boxing for your thoughts?” Wyl grunted. “A whole boxing? Rich.” Maybe call it intuition, then. But it didn’t make logical or visceral sense, that the tavern had been torched, and that Sara had just gotten in the way. It felt wrong, like it was putting the pieces together in the wrong order or something. If Sara had been their Coinshot, he’d faced her down. And the only way Wyl could see this night’s events falling out was if someone’d whacked her, and then set fire to the place. “A couple clips, then.” “Nothing much,” said Wyl. “Just the sense that this is more messed up than we thought it was.” “You were right. Couple of clips is too generous, even.” Wyl scoffed at that. “Not my problem if you’re too profligate.” He gazed back at the smouldering wreckage as they picked their way out across the uneven ground and made a silent promise to Sara. He didn’t approve of vigilante justice. As far as he was concerned, people taking the law into their own hands was a bad idea, and Sara’d done that repeatedly. But she deserved justice, no more, no less than the other dead of Fallion’s Tears. And Wyl would see to it that she got it, even if he had to turn the screws on his own partner to figure out what the bloody hell was going on. The Unknown Order was shot! They were a Village Smoker! Biplet was killed! She was a Village Coinshot! The Day has begun and will end at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8) on 10th March 2021! PMs remain open! The Writing on the Walls: and GM Announcement: @Tani has requested replacement by a pinch-hitter. While I'd prefer to have done this at the start of the Day Turn, i.e. at rollover, due to timezones being wonderful, I'll need to wait on three of the pinch-hitters on my list to get back to me. In the meanwhile, I have asked Tani to stop posting and PMing as in theory, that pinch-hitter will be starting in her place this Turn. Thank you. Original write-up:
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Why are you like this >> I did not return with intense SAN loss from crunching through 500 cases with 1.3k left to suffer through to see you suddenly decide Gricean implicature is for n00bs, Mr Philosopher >> Could be better I guess. Was having some hangups over my ex again but some friends and my bro were there so I'm grateful. Would've been nice if he'd actually been more supportive, like not funneling two attacks through my chokepoint, but nobody's perfect and he's a good bro
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Reminder you have seven hours more to the end of the Turn. Get those orders and actions in! This public service announcement is brought to you by Heron IndustriesTM
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Bro, just wanna put it out there that exposing me to the thread like this is not cool
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Player List: Rule Clarifications:
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Night Three: Mourning Has Broken “‘Twas in another lifetime One of toil and blood Where blackness was a virtue The road was full of mud I came in from the wilderness A creature void of form “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give ya Shelter from the storm.” —’Shelter From The Storm’, Bob Dylan Everyone has a breaking point. Ever found yourself working a case you didn’t really want to? I’ve had those days. Sometimes you get up in the morning and you don’t feel anything, just empty. Sometimes the thought of going back to that tiny grey box they called an office in the precinct, drinking a cup of cold tea that barely tastes like dried leaves in thick canal water and staring at those case files just makes you feel empty and hollow and flat. It’s the same old story, each time. Another stabbing, another assault, another robbery. Same old sad human tragedies writing themselves again and again across different lives. You’d think we’d learn. And how do you really explain to the distraught ma that her daughter floating face-down in the canal isn’t anything to write home about? People ice each other all the time, and you see enough of them it becomes routine. It’s easy to sink into complacency. Just another face. Just another name. Compartmentalisation, the sergeant called it, back in the precinct. You do what you have to, because you can’t feel the weight of each stabbing, each assault, each theft. Carrying it all with you will feck you up. And if I had a clip for each sob story that hits my desk, I’d be the wealthiest man in Tremredare. I didn’t have that luxury in Fallion’s Tears. Village that small, everyone knows everyone, more or less. Each person iced was someone with a name, a face and a history I knew, even if in passing. You can’t afford personal, though. Not when icing someone, and not when trying to figure out who iced them. Wyl was pretty dead on his feet though. Walked right into our office and collapsed on that old sofa right away. Dark circles around his eyes, so he’d probably stayed up all night. I figured he was pushing himself hard. Probably too hard, but I made some good strong tea and he revived a little. Enough to drink it and get back into gear for the day. Couldn’t last, but sometimes you just do what you can. I knew the killings were eating at him. That’s Wyl for you. Ice cold bastard as far as the precinct’s concerned, but work with him long enough and you’ll see that flash of decency at his core. He didn’t like it that the bodies were starting to pile up, and I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t like it myself, either. I wasn’t feeling this set of cases, but I wasn’t going to tell Wyl that. I didn’t want him to be disappointed, I suppose. I just felt tired, and wrung out. Like the thin grey mist that came in through the shutters at night, a little before dawn. I guess I was staying in today because it felt important. It felt like duty. It felt like what Wyl would do, and what a good man would do. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I tried to find the focus I needed to go over the case details all over again, and work over the information that had come in. “Hey,” I said. “Be a pity if you drowned in the tea, you know.” “Yeah,” Wyl said. And then, “Three more last night.” I stared at him, aghast. Three more? That was one hell of an escalation, if our killers were taking down this many. “I think there’s two Coinshots in this village,” Wyl added, frowning down at his tea. He was on his third mug by this point. “Came across them last night.” “Three Coinshots?” I demanded. I set the mug down first, at least. I didn’t really want to be replacing yet another one, though the tea slopped over the edge a little. Nobody’s perfect, and I sure wasn’t nobody. “Three in a godforsaken village in the arse-end of the Western Dominance?” You couldn’t even throw a stone and hit that many in the noble district in Tremredare. Wyl cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.” “Right,” I said. “So you were patrolling and you ran into two Coinshots, just like that?” “Yeah,” said Wyl. “One of them killed Shard, I think. Other one went for Pie Roayong.” I winced. Shard was suspicious, yeah. Clearly on the take from someone—I hadn’t figured out who. Roayong though? That was rough, especially when the kid had just lost his father. Maybe someone had a grudge against that family? I thought again about Roayong’s strangely flat emotional responses. Maybe he was processing it. He’d been hanging out around the baker’s though. Or maybe he wasn’t a fan of his father, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen a kid put on a brave face and insist they really cared, even though their parent’s death meant nothing to them. “Thiriel though was knifed. Same MO as before. Coinshots were fighting it out, so I didn’t get between them.” Wise decision, as far as I was concerned. Sure, if you ran into a bunch of dockworkers brawling it out in the slums with rusty pipes and broken bottles, it wasn’t strictly-speaking legal, but telling them as much was suicide and I liked my skull uncracked and my blood and my guts right where they were. Better to make a note of them and come back, or get support if it was the sort of thing likely to boil over. “Goddamnit,” I said. He looked at me oddly, as though sensing something was off. Bloody bastard’s usually been too perceptive for his own good. I didn’t feel it, right now. I felt tired, I guess. Maybe it had been personal but I’d hit the point I couldn’t make myself care less. I did it because it was what I did. What I’d been doing, ever since Wyl Speirs found me bleeding out into the gutter that day and dragged me into that Watch of his. Everyone has a breaking point. The trick is not to push yourself until you stumble into it. And if you do? You just hang tough, try to muddle along the best you can. You show up to that tiny grey cubicle, or that same old office you’ve rented out for seven years, and stare at the cases again, even if your heart isn’t in it. Because the world doesn’t care about how you feel. And neither do perps. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is just getting up in the morning. Kast had wanted to talk to the village moneylender, see if there was anything Clanal knew about either Bart or Leas Fel, or any of their latest vics, but Wyl was set on talking to one of the two resident metallurgists in Fallion’s Tears, Tesse Mourn. Sometimes, Clanal unsettled Kast. He supposed it was the power Clanal held over the lives of everyone in the village. People confessed things to their bartender and their moneylender. A loan from Clanal made the difference between starving from a bad harvest, or failing to pay off Arenta in time. Failing to pay off Arenta in time was never a good thing. Privately, Kast admitted he thought Arenta could relax her strictness on payments sometimes. They’d struggled to pay the rent some months when the cases were thin. Though things had been less dire these couple years, he still remembered those months they’d thought they’d be evicted onto the street. Wyl’d had his views on landlords, and the way they put the squeeze on the working man. They’d talked about it sometime on patrol, and Kast supposed he could see it, though he’d never really thought about it that way. The docks of Tremredare were stained with ash and soot, hulking structures of steel and timber as dockworkers loaded and unloaded the barges that came in, carrying trade goods from Fadrex and the other cities along the canals. Some of them would proceed further up the Mir, towards the formidable mountain ranges on the border of the Western Dominance. But the docks. It was where you saw incredible wealth entering Tremredare, and the tired, beaten-down expressions of the skaa in rough workman’s clothes who unloaded those barges. It was why he’d never settled for a life working the docks. Why he’d fallen in instead with Waes and the others. Why he’d met her. He hadn’t wanted to settle for mediocrity and poverty. Even in Fallion’s Tears, you knew when the houses became more worn down, the streets more poorly-maintained. And Arenta kept her ledgers and accounts meticulously. Something Kast’d have expected from landlords in Tremredare, rather than in Fallion’s Tears. How much stayed the same, the more things changed. Now they were looking into the matter of a bunch of deaders again, same as any grey day in the precinct in Tremredare. He shoved the thoughts away before they could feed the tired hollow in his chest and focused on where they were going. Pain stabbed into his leg with each step as he limped down the streets towards Mourn’s metallurgist shop. Tesse Mourn. Kast’d never really crossed paths with her. Hadn’t reason to, really. He wondered idly what sort of business a metallurgist made in a small village like Fallion’s Tears. He imagined she’d need some kind of hustle, just to stay afloat. Mistings weren’t all that common, and even in a village full of secrets as Fallion’s Tears, Kast had often wondered how she and Dayle Palladiel managed to stay out of the red. “Clip for your thoughts?” Kast asked, lightly. “Hope she’s in,” Wyl said. “Getting too old to stand around all day and wait for someone to show up.” “Getting too tired to do basic investigative work? Old man, I never thought I’d hear you admit you need to retir—oh, feck.” A crowd was beginning to form outside of the shop. Kast drew to a halt and swore quietly. As far as he could tell, a mob was surrounding Marll the cobbler, accusing him of being behind the recent killings. Decent man, Kast supposed, if a little too fond of gambling. Had a past though. Didn’t they all? Kast wasn’t really about to cast stones, here. Others were beginning to talk about Tesse Mourn. Willie’d seen her disappearing a lot in the past months, as he was telling the others, carrying boxes and bundles. And always, always careful to not be watched. Lord Ruler save them from inquisitive and gossiping neighbours, for he certainly had not saved Tesse Mourn. Some of the volunteer militia were already there, milling about and looking confused. Wyl was talking to them, gesturing at the crowd. Basic crowd control work, Kast supposed, though of course the militia wasn’t used to it. Some of them he knew to be ex-garrison, but garrison work was completely different from Watch work, and it showed in how they held themselves, how they nervously tried to ignore the swords at their sides. Erik, at least, seemed more at ease despite the responsibility that had been thrust upon him. Kast shoved his way through the crowd of muttering villagers and headed right for the door to the shop. There was a flat right above it, but he figured that the fact a crowd of upset villagers were on her doorstep hadn’t escaped Mourn. He hammered on the door. No response. Kast hadn’t really expected one. He saw the shadow shift beneath the crack where door met doorframe. “I know you’re in there,” Kast called out. “Honestly, I’d much rather just ask you some questions. And as long as you aren’t about to knife me, I can’t see a reason why we can’t just have a chat, and then Wyl and I can leave, while the crowd finds something better to do with their time.” There was a sigh. Finally, he heard the sound of bolts slipping back and the door opened a crack. Tesse Mourn looked wary, haunted, and stressed, perhaps that was the best way to describe it. He didn’t blame her. Hard to keep her cool with a mob on their door, and bad memories of the riot in the village square. “We’re closed for the day,” she said, briskly. “You want to have this conversation out here?” Kast asked her, bluntly. “‘Cause Wyl came by last night to talk to you and you weren’t in. And Willie says you’ve been out a lot, many a night. Irregular times, too. And being very careful to try to avoid being followed. Guess Willie sees everything, though.” He saw the flicker in her expression. Uncertainty, perhaps. That crease between her brows suggested a level of concern Kast found strange. Maybe it was because it was directed at him, rather than the mob outside. What made her more concerned about him? “My only interest right now is finding out who’s behind the killings,” he told her. “Everyone has secrets in this village, it seems, and I’m not interested in looking for anything that isn’t related to the Spiked.” She flinched at that word. Kast picked up on that. It was a term he and Wyl had started to use to refer to the killers, if only because Kast didn’t see how you went about making or trying to make a Hemalurgic spike if you didn’t know what you were doing. Intent was extremely important. And then you probably had a couple of spikes yourself. “You know something about them, don’t you?” “Detective,” she began. “Ain’t been one in years,” said Kast. “I’ve laid my cards on the table, as it were. I have no quarrel with you, unless you’re one of them. The Spiked. And if you aren’t the one that’s been icing people in Fallion’s Tears, or helping people do it, then I think we can help each other, seeing as there’s an angry mob on your door.” He almost had her. He knew it. But something in what he said had struck a nerve, and that hint of cooperation nearly vanished entirely, like a wisp of smoke in the night air. “You’re reaching,” she said, coldly. Kast shrugged, in a ‘you-tell-me’ gesture. It’d been years since he’d forced a door, but he wasn’t interested in doing so again, if he didn’t have to. His leg hated him, these days. “Here’s something for you to think about, then. Suppose you’ve helped them, in some way. Ain’t saying you did, but I reckon that explains why you’re so jumpy, why you’re this close to locking me out entirely. How long d’you reckon you can barricade yourself in there before they decide to cut off all loose ends before you can rat them out?” “I wouldn’t!” Mourn cried out, and then clapped a hand to her mouth. “Thought so,” said Kast, quietly. “You want to let me in? I think we can talk about this.” Gleaming spikes lay on a soft woolen cloth on the kitchen table, all of them well-crafted, all of them lethal. She’d used various metals too, Kast noticed. As far as he could work out, she’d made steel and bronze spikes, and even the elusive gold. Must’ve cost a fortune, which of course likely meant that whoever Mourn’s clients were, they were also paying her a fortune. Mourn sat at the kitchen table, her face buried in her arms. “I was so stupid,” she groaned, quietly. “Dunno about that,” said Wyl. “I’ve seen worse. You at least haven’t been helping them put the spikes in others, have you?” Kast caught the sharpness in the last question. Mourn sat bolt upright, as though he’d rammed one of the spikes through her instead. “Don’t you dare suggest it,” she snapped back, and Kast found himself mildly impressed by the steel in her. “I took the boxings for a job well done. I’m no murderer.” “Job well done that’s helping them whack other villagers,” pressed Wyl. “You aren’t the saint here, miss.” “And you think your hands are clean, Detective? The whole of Fallion’s Tears has heard about what you did to Variel!” “Died trying to kill me,” Kast said. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather stay alive. Would’ve been better not to ice him, but far as I’m concerned, better him than me. Never claimed to be a good man, neither.” "Why did you do it?” Wyl demanded. “Why take their money? Why craft the spikes?” Mourn looked down at her hands and sighed. “How much do you think being a metallurgist pays, Detective?” “Probably not so good, unless most of Fallion’s Tears are secretly Mistings,” Kast said. It was something he’d thought about, more than once. “Especially with Palladiel in town too. I bet you take orders from some of the surrounding villages, maybe even Tremredare.” Mourn nodded. “The Mourns have had a metallurgist’s shop in Fallion’s Tears for ages, but we’ve always had bad months, and what with Arenta’s latest demands…” she shook her head. “But that’s getting ahead of myself. They offered boxings. And I needed the money, and making spikes didn’t seem all that hard, and I didn’t know they were going to kill people with them.” “What did you think the spikes were for?” Wyl demanded. “I didn’t ask,” Mourn said. “I didn’t want to know.” “That’s why you didn’t know,” Kast said. “Hard to do much with a spike that doesn’t involve killing someone first.” He wrenched his mind free of the bloodied safehouse, focused on the worn grain of the kitchen table. “You didn’t want to know.” He said it simply. He understood that sentiment, except now they knew that Tesse Mourn had been supplying their killers with spikes. Wyl simply looked both appalled and weary. “Why’d you need the boxings?” “What do you know about the Eleventh Metal?” “Legend, if it’s even true,” Kast replied, at once. “Every metallurgist in any large city will claim to have rediscovered the Eleventh Metal.” Mourn’s eyes burned and she thrust her jaw out. “There’s lots of talk about it. I was working to find it. Countless nights and afternoons, just blending various metals to try to find a workable alloy. The hardest part is testing it, but I know a patron who knows a willing Mistborn.” Kast blinked. “Are you saying—” “Yes. I am.” “Huh,” said Kast, taken aback. There had always been rumours of the elusive Eleventh Metal. He’d never paid them much heed, although she and Waes had spent a decent amount of time trying to break down that wall. In any case, he was no Mistborn, and though he understood a little of the appeal behind the quest for that metal, he didn’t really feel particularly impressed. But this metallurgist. Tesse Mourn. She was claiming to have done something that metallurgists had, by repute, been cracking their heads over for ages. “That’s all you have to say about it?” “It’s impressive. If it’s real.” “It’s stable,” said Tesse. “It acts like a metal, at the very least. It’s the first time I’ve had such a good result in forever. And I’m hoping word will come from Tremredare about the results.” “The killers,” Wyl prodded again. “How did you begin supplying them with spikes?” “One of them approached me,” Tess said. “Hooded, so no, I don’t know who they were. They told me about their specifications. I thought they were joking. Good boxings for spikes? Dropping them off at various points across the village? I had easy access to metals anyway. I’d have been a fool not to take it.” “And now, here you are,” Kast pointed out, quietly. “So I am,” Tesse said. Hard not to miss the resentment in her eyes. “Here to judge me more, Detective?” “Not my job,” Kast said. “You’ll probably want to get your things. Take only what you absolutely must. Hide your boxings. And give us directions to where you make the drops.” “What?” Tesse exclaimed. “What?” Wyl snapped. Kast looked at both of them. “You’re fools if you don’t think they were coming for her anyway,” he said, simply. “Any criminal group worth their steel will think she’s broken, ratted them out. She was finished the moment the mob showed up at her door, if they aren’t egging them on. Maybe our Rioter is out there.” Tesse had indicated she didn’t know of any Rioter who purchased zinc from her, and had grudgingly allowed Wyl a copy of her transaction ledgers. “We can’t keep her safe. We’re not bodyguards, and last thing you want or I want or she wants is for her to end up iced and dumped somewhere. She’s better off leaving yesterday.” To Tesse, he said, “You have friends in Tremredare, you mentioned. Find a bolthole, stay there for a while. Either we’ll sort this out here, or well.” “Well?” “You hope that they’re happy enough with having whacked most Fallion’s Tears,” Wyl said, grimly. “And if they just want to keep you from talking, maybe you leaving the village ain’t a bad idea. Kast has some daft ones but this isn’t half bad. If they don’t want loose ends on general principle, maybe you get used to looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life.” “This isn’t fair. My shop, my entire life, all my work is right here.” “Yeah,” said Wyl, “Well, that’s life, innit?” Quintessential was interrogated and has left Fallion's Tears! She was a Village Soother! PMs remain open. The Night has begun and will end at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8), on 8th March 2021! To make things clear, @Wyrmhero has been conscripted into serving as my co-GM, in the hopes that this will channel his tendency towards thread and doc chaos towards more constructive outlets. Please do not spam him with questions or PMs, they still go to me. He'll occasionally show up to troll me assist with such things as closing the cycle or handling y'all in my absence. Original write-up:
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Once I called you brother Once I thought the chance To make you laugh Was all I ever wanted [He called the cycle half-way mark He sent the Kas votes raining down] And even now I wish that MR1 Had chose another Serving as your foe on that dark day Was the last thing that I wanted [I answer all the questions asked In every PM and in thread] This was my game All this trolling and confusion How it tortures me inside All the players who must suffer From our feud that never dies You who I called brother How could you again betray me so? Is this what you wanted? [I stop the posts, I end the Turn] Now let all the votes be counted No matter where this cycle's voting goes This will still be so I will never let those five kills go.
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I am hoping that by acknowledging his claim to be Shadow GM of this game and pressganging him into service, he will remember that he is a responsible, mature adult, the serious and responsible and fun-promoting GM side of him will emerge, and he will stop wreaking havoc in thread and in my docs, yeah :| Also y'all acclaimed him co-GM so I guess I don't really get a say in this either >>.
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Ti̧͔̝̗̓̿͠͠m̊͜e̥̣̭͑̀̎-̭͍͕̞̆̋̅̾che̛͜ck͙̭̆͛:͙͎͗̂ ̞̺̾͘t̪͒w͗͢ǫ͞ ̢͔̣͕̾̇̈́̾h͉̺̲̋́̕o͙̽u̩̖̪̔͒̕ȓ̖͔̫͒͆s̟͋ ț͆o̝̝̬̔͝͞͞ͅ ̧͎̠̺̩̇̃͂̓͝ț̢̩̭͒̽́͡h̦̙͊̃ę͈̪̃͑͘ ̭͕͈̘̉͊͋̐e͎̤̫̱̽̄̂̋̽͜n̝͚̲̏̎̍̕ͅd̨̔ ̡̠̪̋̎́͒͟ ͙̀ H̱̭͙̑̆͑é͙ḁ̙̾́̕͢d̆͢s͕̀-̨̧̦͉́͌̓̊͜͝ǘ̗̳͉͓̈̉̏p͉͔̣̬̈́́̀͝ ̗̹̹͗̇̕ţ̣̮͆͑̈́há̧͔̃t̘̽ ̢̞̲͚̇͊̽̅W͕͑͒͢y͙̓r̲̈m̧͉͉̖͔̎̎̿̐͘ ̩̾ha̟̺̣͔̿̓͊͡ş͍͂̎ ͎̪̮̌̔̄b̳̻͡͞e͖͔̮̔͂̕eñ̡̦̻̂͞ c̱͊o̞͖̟͐̔̕ṋ̺̿͆s͕̕c̰͡ŗ̨̱̀̽̚ỉ̞̠̜̳̆̀̈́͜p̹̲̭̾͑̏t̟̝̖̱̜̏̉̓̔̋è̡͓̫̔͘ď̨̤͓̪̎͝͝ ̩͔̔̂a̼̒n̺͓̙̟̂̒́̆d̲̝̎̍ d͉̞͊͞e͇͡p͔̹̲̞̈̑͛͛ų̣͖̆̉͂t̪̭̗̓̕͠ĩ̖s̹̲͓̬̦̆̓̊̎͞e̡͙̖̿́͒̈́͜d͎̤͚̐̌͋ ͈̘̒͒ã̠̲͔̓́̚ͅs̳̱̦͐̃͑ ̢̛͈͇̮̎̊̌ć̺̭̥̺̿̿̈́ǫ̙͔̳̓̐͊͗-̖̜̑́͊͢G̡͠M͔͚͎̞͍͗̋͑̾͑.͕̠̗̒̓̚ ̝̳͎̂̓̀Ỉ̡͍́̾ͅn̞̭̽͗t͕̾͆͟ę̙͙̻̌̽̕͘r̛̟̘͉̥̀͆̀͘͟j̡̗̘̦̈̍̓̊̄͜e̗͈͖̺͂̒̓͝c̖̉t̞̭̅̓i̤̊o̫͚̙̊̆̕n͙̦̣̯̆̑̽̕͢͡ ̡̼̅͘i͉̯͈̾̿̓͊ͅṇ̨̭̿̉̍͠ͅ ͈̏t͘ͅḫ̪̤̔͌͑͘ͅre̞̣͇̞̎́̇̈́a͚̪̤̿͒͗d ̱̌̀͢is̨̻̞̈́̽̾́ͅ ͓͊pë̤̻̎r͙̗̳͓͐̏͊̉̾͜m̠͊̏ͅi̐͜s͕̘̆͂s͉̔į͋̓͟ḅ̹̲͔̪̌͐̈́́̕l̙̿ę̢͕̬̤͋̑̒̋͛ ̢̦̣̩͒̃͒͌͡ͅwit̨̤̟̽̇̃͆͢h͇̪̥̏̐͡iň̪̭̪̪̝͑͐̿̌ ̡̜̫̊͘͝s̱͍̬̅̀͝ti͈̊p͓̆ů̮̌͜l͙̿̇͟ạ̭̟̐̈͋t̡͚͔͑̈́͌e̩̔d̛͚̝̬̳̈́́͐ ̥͡p̫͍̠̩͎̌͂́͋͞ö̥w͎̐e̡̠̙͊̚͜͝͠ȑ͇̖̮͛̀s̲̹̻̈́̈́͘.̨͌ ̗̜͈̫͍̌͛͆̕͞A̱͊b̧̳̠͆͊̓s̩̔o̱̕l͇̬̝̜͊͒͘͡uţ̳̼̍́͒e̺̯̣͚͋̆͝͝lý̢̻̹̼̭̉͘͠͠ ǹ̰o̼͚̻̤̎̓̐̍th̛̛͔̫̼͆́͟ȋ̘n̨͆g̫̥̹͔̔̑̅̕ ̭̘̫͌͛̔s̲͚̹͎̻̃͗̀̾̿t̰͉͎̊̽̍r͈̥̎̇͊̍͜ͅa̡̠̅̅̚͢nǵ̳e͎̿͢͡ ̛̼̙͓̞̲̏͂̈̄ģ̞͆̆͟͝ō̲͈̅i͈̯̠͔̍͂̆͡n̲̅ģ͙̜͚̙́͋̄̀̕ ̞̅o͖̦̓̕ň̜̟̉̿͜ ̤̤̏̄ḧ̡̟́è̼̤̫̭̽̏́rę̭̪͕͓͂̈́̔͌͡.̬̬̓͒ ̨̟̤̪̌̽͛̿C͎̖͓̙͆̃̿̕a͈͍̘̩̔̀͑͘rr̺̟̻̆̈͊ỳ͖̪̪̇̆ ̢̟͋͛o̧̭̔͂̓̕͢͟ṇ͍͒̍̍͢,̧̲̤͒̓̒ ̹͒c͍̤̉̊ĩ̧̺͙͌̎́͢t͈̞̺̏̌̒í͓̯̻̆̈ẑ͓ẹ̌n̨̛̼͔̠̗̑͌͒̈s̮̍.̡̘͍͇̓̒͑͝
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Pewter use is passive, yes. And it's not really removed, just weighted against. Assuming a Mistborn has drawn Pewter previously, without running through all eight metals, if RNGesus gives me Pewter subsequently, I will reroll once. If they keep getting Pewter, I scold the dice and ask Wyrm to perform an exorcism because asking Wilson for help gets me repeat Steel rolls just shrug and assume Lady Fortuna has demanded it. This clarification should be taken neither as confirmation that Tani's Mistborn claim is accurate, nor that the claim that a Mistborn drew Pewter C1 is true, nor as confirmation that I even gave you one or more Mistborn to begin with. This should cover all bases.
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>:( Just so we're clear, this is a glare. A GM glare, promising wrath and ruin. Not this again...
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Get the hell out of my thread before I smite you for being naughty, sir >> Edit: El, can I please smite him now. Please stop asking me to hold back my anger...
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How do you think I feel, when I wandered out of the cyber-wilderness and my SE exile last year and encountered this generation in QF46 and then LG68? >> I got burnt badly by Wyrm, AMA. (Actually please don't, don't derail the thread...) #MR1 #neverforget #youweremybroWyrm #itrustedyou #andyoubetrayedme #neveragain #KastheParanoid #theparanoidisthetrue #scars #whatthehellbro #stabbedmefivetimes
