Kasimir
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Yes. As long as there was any protection, even if there was a double-tap, it will be reflected in the write-up. Three kills aren't enough? Y'all want a double-tap? Sheesh, my dude
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Player List: Rule Clarifications:
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Day Three: Lost Stars “God, tell us the reason youth is wasted on the young It’s hunting season and the lambs are on the run Searching for meaning But are we all lost stars, trying to light up the dark?” —’Lost Stars’, Adam Levine/Keira Knightley Far as I could tell, Kast was out of it. Passed out stone dead on the old sofa. Probably could’ve had a gang fight break out in the office and he wouldn’t have noticed a thing. I thought of prodding him, but figured he could use the rest. Stubborn bastard doesn’t seem to believe in sleep, the way most normal folks do. Ain’t natural, but what can you do? I work my share of late nights, as you do in this line of work, but that’s just this life being a pain in the arse. Honestly, it might’ve been for the better. See, the way I saw it, what with the spikes and the rogue Coinshot at work, there was a lot of murkiness right now. I didn’t like that. Too many things coming up out of nowhere, as far as these cases were concerned. I knew they were connected, but it ground my gears that I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how. Felt a bit like I was poking around blindly in the dark, trying to shed even a little light. Of course, that’s what it’s like a lot of times in this line of work. You draw a few diagrams, connect a few threads, and figure out what leads to chase down and ask some questions. Or you keep your ear to the ground. You never know what’s going to be your next break in the case. And sometimes, that break never really comes, and then you’re staring at a case gone colder than the tea they served back at the precinct. God, that was some awful tea. Still sets my teeth on edge, thinking about it. Was the colour of the canal water before dredging, and tasted half as filthy, too. Used to be, we’d get one of the runners to go down to the shops and pick up a round of tea with the baywraps. Sometimes, I’d do it myself. It’s good to go have a walk, stretch your legs a bit while trying to make progress on your latest caseload. ...Don’t ask me how I know what canal water tastes like. At any rate, I could’ve used Kast working the cases as well, but a tired investigator makes mistakes. In Tremredare, we learned there are times you need to keep working even though you’re dead on your feet, because time matters, and if you’re too slow, the perp gets away, or the vic’s dead. And there are times you need to call it a day and just clock out, because you aren’t going to be doing anybody at all a lick of good by staying put and running over the same old ground, hour after hour. I reckoned this was one of those times. And—though I hated to admit it, because it’s never the case investigators work better alone, and we had a whole team back in the precinct for a reason—I felt like getting to work without Kast would do me some good. Wasn’t that I doubted him, not exactly, but the spikes and the rogue Coinshot had me worried. And with Kast dead to the world right now, I’d know that if anything went down tonight, he couldn’t have been involved. Occam’s Razor and all that. Of course, sometimes there really is a second shooter. And sometimes you cut yourself, shaving in the dark. Still, I could do with a smoke, and a think. Some of it had to do with the events of the day. I was troubled by the way Variel had died. The way that fear, that hostility, and all those other darker instincts of human nature had surged in Fallion’s Tears and had the villagers turning on him. Truth to be told, some of that was worry for us. I figured if they were stringing up strangers, or looking to do so, Kast and I would be next. Little wonder they’d have gotten to that point, if Erik and the newly-minted volunteers of the militia hadn’t intervened. Seven years is the blink of an eye, in a place like Fallion’s Tears, and I wasn’t interested in dancing the hemp fandango. Mayor Wilson talked to me, asked me if I’d be interested in joining up. I thought about it. She told me to take my time, but I figured I wasn’t the sort of guy to go back to taking orders and giving them. I don’t really handle authority and all that structure well, which is probably ironic if you think about how much of my work involves making sure the law matters. Too much time since I’d been that man, back in Tremredare, and look at how well that ended up. “Why aren’t you asking Kast?” I wanted to know. “I think if you agreed, he would too,” said the Mayor, and I suppose I couldn’t disagree with that. “And if I asked him straight up, he’d probably say no.” Which just goes to show at least one of us is pretty damned predictable, I guess. I hadn’t liked the way Variel had died either, though I supposed there was no help for it. Back in the precinct, they always warn you about the desperate ones. Corner a rat, and he’ll fight. Last thing you want is to push a suspect into a corner and make them feel desperate enough and watch them come at you with every last thing they have. Of course, we’d been talking before that, and I figured it was just a friendly interview, but in the end, I’d really rather my business partner stay alive, so that was that. Best I could figure, he was another name on the list of people I owed it to to crack this case right open. Leas Fel, Bart, Lasalen, and now Variel. I didn’t know where Niru or that bystander who got attacked fit in just yet, but I was determined to work that out. Ain’t no point in burying your head in the past, not when there’s work to be done. There’s only one way we have to go, and that’s forwards. My next best set of leads meant I needed to chase down the metallurgists in the village, see what I could get out of them. So I got my hat and my coat. I hesitated over the weighted vest. Hadn’t worn one in a long time since training, but you take what advantage you can get. Even if I was getting old. Vest went on, and I picked up the dueling cane. Wasn’t much for dueling, not the way Kast had been, but a cane is a fairly simple weapon and you can’t really mess it up much. Between that and my iron vials, I figured I was more or less set for anyone I might encounter. Then I went to have a chat with Tesse Mourn and Dayle Palladiel, see what I could turn up. Tesse Mourn was out. Wyl rapped on the store door a couple times but got no response. As far as he could see, the whole place was dark, just as the apartment above was. He frowned. Strange time to be out and about, though maybe Mourn was taking the chance to run some errands. Maybe being one of the resident metallurgists in Fallion’s Tears left her with little time, though that thought rang false. He couldn’t see how a metallurgist would be kept busy, not with the likely small number of Mistings in a quiet village like this. Someone cracked the neighbouring door open. “What’re you after?” asked a cheerful old man, with a curious glint in his eye. Wyl recognised him by reputation: Willie, one of the older residents of Fallion’s Tears, who never found any sort of business he wouldn’t poke his nose into. “Surely you ain’t thinking one of us did it, are you?” “No,” Wyl shook his head. “Just here to ask some questions.” “Looking for Tesse then? Tesse’s a good girl, just a little...odd.” “Doesn’t appear to be in.” Willie cackled. “She goes out at night, a lot. Never on the same day, and always at different timings. Always with that small satchel, or a bundle of hers.” That caught Wyl’s interest. “Huh,” he said. “She look worried, then?” “Often enough,” Willie replied. “Not really sure why—she seems to be doing good business, lately. Better than normal, even.” “Lots of customers?” “No, but you can see smoke from the shop,” said Willie. “Deliveries of ingots, too. Don’t think even a Mourn has that sort of money to throw on experimentation!” He cackled, mostly to himself. “Not like Lasalen. You know they used to hold illegal cage matches where they made ducks dance to the worst music?” It wasn’t something Wyl had known, or had really wanted to know. “Won enough money in one of them that day,” Willie continued. “Paid off Arenta for good! Ah, the ducks were kind to me that day…” “Nothing slips by you, does it? Any idea if Leas Fel ever came to her?” Wyl asked. Even if Tesse was closed-mouthed about her customers, perhaps Willie might’ve seen something. He certainly seemed to have no compunctions about sharing what he knew. Wyl fully intended to take advantage of that. Willie shook his head, and then hesitated. “Once,” he said, frowning as he tried to recall. “Wasn’t about the metals, though, I don’t think. He had a sword with him. Tesse does metalwork on the side, you know. Not just the ones the Mistings swallow. Otherwise, I’ve never seen him around.” Wyl took that in thoughtfully. Most people in Fallion’s Tears took metalwork that needed doing to Edgar, the blacksmith. But it made sense that Tesse did some metalwork on the side. You had to have some of the skills, when you spent your time refining and alloying metals to the exact degree of precision needed so that Allomancers didn’t fall sick trying to burn them. Maybe she liked it. Or maybe she needed the extra boxings. Edgar’s queue was always full up, and he was always complaining there was more work to be done than hands that could do it. Or maybe there was something else there. His instincts said the deviation mattered, which meant he really needed to talk to Tesse Mourn. “What about Bart, seen him?” “Couple times,” Willie said, with a shrug. “He gets his metals from her. Always said you can’t do better than a Mourn if you want pure metals that won’t get you sick.” Wyl nodded, contemplatively. There was at least a link between Bart and Leas Fel, then, in the person of Tesse Mourn. That was a bit better than what they had to go on, previously. “You looking for her, then?” Willie asked, as the silence stretched on out. “Like I said, I just have some questions to ask her.” “Like those you asked Variel?” There was a hint there, almost an accusation. Wyl’d killed with his metal and he expected he’d go on killing, when he had to. Sometimes, life just didn’t give you this much of a choice. He’d held against it the lists of cases cracked, lives saved. Sometimes, it weighed up. And sometimes you were just a bitter old man out in the night, trying to ask the questions that needed to be asked. “I just asked him questions,” Wyl replied. “He felt he didn’t have much choice.” “Say that a lot, do you?” “Been in a few scraps, and yeah, it starts to feel that way,” Wyl said. He didn’t invite further conversation, and after a few more inarticulate grunts, Willie got the point and withdrew into the darkness of his own lodgings. He lit his pipe, and settled in for a while. The night was young, and he could afford to wait for Tesse Mourn to return. Hours ticked past. Tesse Mourn did not return. Wyl clicked open his pocket watch and grunted irritably. It looked like getting ahold of Tesse Mourn this night was a wash. The symbol of the Tremredare Watch glinted on the battered face as he clicked it shut again and shoved it into a coat pocket. Sometimes, you just had to accept it was a dead end. He stamped about a bit to get the numbness out of his legs and headed off for Dayle Palladiel’s metallurgist shop instead. Odd woman, Palladiel. Shut herself in with her books and her metals. Wasn’t much of a conversationalist, either, though Wyl liked to think they had a decent working relationship, if only because he bought metals from her. Maybe she’d have an answer for him on the rogue Coinshot angle. He could only hope, really. He crossed the village square, keeping his eyes open. There was—some people had scribbled graffiti on the walls of the local watering hole again, and Wyl sighed with exasperation. Sure, probably wasn’t illegal. The local ordinances against graffiti in Tremredare had always been precinct-based, and seen more as nuisance laws than anything. With enough stabbings, thefts, assaults, and robberies, you just didn’t have energy to give a damn about someone’s daubings on someone else’s storefront, unless it was moneylender harassment, which always had the potential to escalate. Still, he felt bad for Sara, he supposed. Poor woman had enough on her mind, no doubt. Didn’t need the hassle of removing ever more graffiti from the walls of The Steel Crow. And that random bystander, she’d been attacked outside the Crow. Made Wyl frown, really, to think that a woman wasn’t safe in Fallion’s Tears, not even leaving the tavern. That was the state of things now, especially if they didn’t put a stop to the murders soon. There was a scream. Another scream, tearing through the night that blanketed Fallion’s Tears, and the swirling mists. Wyl cursed, and ran for it. Fool he, to go running in the direction of danger. But he was better armed, today. And it was what he did. Couldn’t live with himself if he’d done anything else, really, without seeing if he could go help. This time, he burned iron, even as he ran. Immediately, the tracery of blue lines flared to life, which was good enough for him—he yanked at a wrought-iron sign, sending himself speeding upwards and in the direction of the screaming. Moving quickly was always more difficult as a Lurcher, and as much as he hated to admit it, Wyl was starting to feel his years. Easier with Coinshots, who could often slow their fall with a dropped clip, or push off of one. Most Lurchers were clumsier—they just burned iron and pulled themselves right at things. Wyl had never liked clumsiness. He didn’t quite soar through the night, but he made good progress, Ironpulling on various metal structures. It was amazing how many nails there were in Fallion’s Tears, driven into wood and stone solidly enough that Wyl could trust them to hold up as he Lurched towards them. Coins whipped through the night, and Wyl slapped them aside with his Lurching. People often thought iron was less versatile, and it was partially true. Pulling things meant you had to be more precise. Any Coinshot could deflect coins. A Lurcher had to pull them away, preferably embed them in a wooden shield, something that it would be difficult to extricate them from. Those that headed right at him, he pulled to both sides of him, wincing as they bounced off the flagstones. He’d have been giving the rogue Coinshot more to work with, if he didn’t get rid of the coins as soon as he could. But tonight, it seemed the Coinshot had company. Unfriendly company. Another shower of coins whipped towards the Coinshot, who deflected them in all directions. Wyl dodged those that came his way and tried to take in the situation. There had been a scream, hadn’t there? He saw the prone body of Pie Roayong, lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Bent over him, as if to shield him, was Thiriel. Wyl hadn’t a good opinion of Thiriel—he knew the type: spineless social climber, the sort you found licking the Herons’s boots in Tremredare. Word was that Thiriel had been putting out feelers, trying to support both the Lord Ruler and the skaa rebellion, which was pretty smart on his part, if downright unsavoury. Thiriel hadn’t been killed by the Coinshots, though. Best as Wyl could tell, there was a blue line going right to Thiriel’s back, and unless he missed his guess, Thiriel had been knifed. Or killed by another spike, he supposed. He wasn’t wandering into a two-way steel fight just to figure it out at the moment. Lord Ruler, Wyl thought, glancing at Pie Roayong’s body. Dead only two days after his adopted father had died. What sort of screwed up world did this to a kid, really? In a kinder world, a better world, Pie Roayong wouldn’t have needed to bury his father, let alone join him in the grave. He felt the anger burn within him again, harsh and uncompromising. Wyl welcomed it. The two Coinshots were backing off. Maybe they hadn’t expected so many Mistings to be out on this particular night. He thought of calling out a caution, but hesitated. Last thing he needed was for them to team up against him without any backup. Goddamnit, this was when he missed having Kast around. Both of them together, even with Kast’s game leg, he’d have put good odds on them stopping the Coinshots. But it was just him, and Wyl knew better than to try heroics at a time like this. He kept his metal on, even as the Coinshots departed and went over to the two dead men. It would give him early warning, if either of the Coinshots decided to return for round two. There was a third body, one that Wyl hadn’t noticed earlier. Probably the fact he’d gone in the middle of a live steel fight was throwing him off. That, and the opacity of the night mists. He knelt by it. Multiple wounds, consistent with the bloodied coins that lay strewn on the ground. It was Shard, he realised. Lots of the village regarded him as the crazy kid in town, though Wyl knew it was a facade. Shard asked way too many questions and listened way too much. Question was, who was he reporting to? Had it been some kind of grudge killing? He stood up and drew in a long breath. He’d been up all night, it seemed. He was tired, and the first light was beginning to steal over Fallion’s Tears, bathing the village square in blood. All these damned killings were going to end, one way or another. Wyl didn’t care how, but he would see them stopped, or he would die trying. You didn’t just whack someone. Not without consequences. Not in Tremredare, and Wyl wasn’t about to let them start in Fallion’s Tears. The Young Pyromancer was a Regular Villager! The Young Bard was a Village Lurcher! Experience was a Village Rioter! The Day has begun and will end on 7th March at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8)! PMs remain open! The Writing on the Walls of the Crow: and
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Both of these sound delicious. I am an angsty 11PM Kas who can't have these but I do have tofu so I guess I'm just snacking on tofu. Also, the Turn is endlich closed so stoppeth thy posting and PMing, you know the drill, boarding stations!
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Reminder that this absurdly long night ends in two hours. I am also reasonably well again or at least in recovery and stand ready to do my job.
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Alright, so I've probably cleared my backlog, so here are the main clarification updates: Are there any circumstances under which a Rioter's vote does not disappear? As mentioned, if a Rioter has been Smoked, or if a Rioter failed to vote. How do you determine a Mistborn's metals for the cycle? I'm aiming to stay consistent with Meta's rulings, so as Meta did, I roll a d10 - 9 and 10 means I reroll, and if I land on any metals the Mistborn previously drew, I'll reroll once, so this slightly weights them in favour of getting new metals. Once they've gone through all 8, I repeat.
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Things a GM does not want to wake up to after going dark for a night: -Burnt offering to start a riot -Tani and TUO agreeing -Wyrm encouraging dead players, spectators, and the freaking IM to swear in my damn spec doc >> What the hell, bro...
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So, GM Announcement: I've spoken to @Elbereth due to the fact my IM is currently not available (time crunch.) The short is: I've been pulling 2-3 hour nights for 1.5 months in the lead-up to a major competition presentation to the commander. It's done today, and my team did unexpectedly well (we won actually, and my division is going bananas) even though we just really didn't want the biggest boss to be mad at us. I'm this close to passing out on the spot and I don't think I have it in me to last until 2300hrs. I've already made mistakes in processing some orders (the affected players will know.) As such, El has suggested that I kick rollover back to 2300hrs tomorrow, effectively granting everyone 24 more horus in the night, during which I will be passed out and sleeping like the gloriously triumphant dead man I am and trying to recover to the point I can at least competently GM this. tldr; tired wrung-out Kas is half-arsed Kas, y'all deserve better, 24 hours more, come back, I'm gonna sleep like the dead and recharge my drained batteries. Goodnight world.
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Final time check: you have under two hours left in this Turn. Get those orders in!
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Time-check: You have slightly under eleven and a half hours to rollover. Get those orders in and be sure to hug a buddy today! Note that I will be having a slightly busier than normal workday, so ask clarifications early, especially if your orders will depend on those.
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Player List Rule Clarifications
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Night Two: Renounce My Past “I lost, I ran I started once anew In northern grey, in drizzling rain In salted slush and bitter hail But the order as always merciless It wants to see me fail So the hunter is now the hunted Past voices call my name I renounce my past to live again.” —’A Quiet Life’, Teho Teardo ft. Blixa Bargeld Some men are like Wyl. You look at him, you know he was meant for this life. There’s a fundamental decency, right at the core of him. The same sort of decency that keeps him running back unflinching into the darkness when the rest of us’d rather tap out, stay down. Because no one else would. Because he felt some sort of calling, or some sort of inner demand to do so. Some of us were Watch because it paid, because it was better than starving. Some of us were little better than the perps we caught, really. There’s always five crooked Watch for every honest man in there, sometimes it feels like. Wyl was one of the best, the brightest. I think we all knew that, really. I think it killed him, the day they let him go. I really think it did. I remember what it was about. That one case they so badly wanted to bury. That one case. We all laid off it, as we were told. Good, dutiful Watch, right? But Wyl wouldn’t listen. Stubborn as pig-iron, that man, when he wants to be. When he’s got his teeth into something. He was skaa. Only skaa. She was a noble, an Erikell from the main line, blue blood dating all the way back to the Ascension and the founding of the Final Empire. The case was never going to go anywhere. “Drop it,” the Watch Commander ordered us. We all listened. We all knew the score. It’s only a crime if the vic’s a noble, or if vic and perp are skaa. All of us except Wyl. I sometimes wonder what happened, that day. Why he chose to dig his heels in and die on that particular hill. Maybe it was the cruelty of it all. He’d died badly, that vic. What we found was no longer recognisably human. Wyl had gone quiet; terribly, coldly quiet as we got a few runners to come around with a cart for the remains. Maybe it was the day he reached his breaking point. There’s always this one case, this one instance of human perfidy, of the darkness that lurks within each and every one of us that makes you stop dead and say, “No more, no further.” Kreon Heron had him thrown out of the Watch. Don’t think anyone expected any different, maybe not even Wyl. Sometimes, you do what you have to, damn the consequences. Nobles protect their own, and not even a bright star is immune from political fallout, not when you’re skaa. The Erikells sent an assassin. Hadn’t stinted, either. I knew him, you see. One of the best on the dark market, which seemed a little overkill for one skaa. But there were two things Gade hadn’t counted on: first, that Wyl was in fact a Misting. Hard to surprise a Lurcher when you’re carrying metal, after all. And then there was me. I’d gotten the drop on him. Gade was one of the best, but there’s always someone better. And sometimes, you just get careless. Carelessness gets even the best killed. Even bright stars fall, or are snuffed out. You can’t help but feel sorrow at the passing of a star. Maybe it’s a cold existence, just shedding light against the uncaring dark. But someone’s got to do it. And the world’s a little darker, a little colder for their absence. So I killed Gade. He didn’t go quietly. Killers of his quality don’t. He fecked my leg up, if that’s what you’re wondering. Saved Wyl’s life in the bargain, but the way I saw it, I owed him anyway. It’s seldom second chances come along in our line of work. I didn’t expect one, either. Thought I saw my own death that day, looming over me, bloodied, spiked, wearing the face of someone I thought I knew. Loved, maybe. I don’t know if I loved her, really. Maybe I loved the idea of her. Maybe that day, I was seeing her, really seeing her as she truly was for the first time. Many reasons why we left Tremredare. You don’t ice someone like Gade and expect no consequences. The Erikells had deep pockets, and longer memories. Kreon Heron had withdrawn any expectation of protection from Wyl. I showed up and turned in my commission that day. He didn’t say a word to me. Wasn’t really much to be said, see? I’d never been their bright star. Far as most of them was concerned, I was Wyl’s stray, and a crooked thing. What was it they say? ‘Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.’ Think they may’ve been right about that. Then we went into business. Been seven years, now. Can’t help but wonder sometimes where life would’ve taken me, if our paths hadn’t crossed. If Waes hadn’t been experimenting with the spikes. If Waes hadn’t talked her into going along. Maybe I liked to think of her as the one bright thread, woven through a life stained with blood. Maybe I was wrong. But no. I’d have been dead, I think. Without Wyl, without the Watch, I’d have been a dead man walking. I just hadn’t realised it yet. I know I’m not a good man. I’ve seen what a good man looks like. I’ve seen it everyday for seven years. Longer than that, really, stretching back to that day he saved my life. But sometimes, even this broken world needs bad men. We keep other bad men from the door. Kast blinked blearily at the light flooding in through the office shutters. So much for actually heading off to sleep, he thought. They’d flipped a coin for the flat under the office—Wyl’d won and had promptly moved out, claiming he’d better things to do than live so near where he worked. So it was just Kast who lodged there, now. El’s medicine had left a chalky, bitter aftertaste on his tongue, but he’d drowned it with the last of Wyl’s whisky. Probably yet another bad life decision, in a whole lengthy train of them. His leg was stiff, but as he stretched it out, the familiar aches and pains flared to life, with a litany of complaints. His cane was leaning against the battered sofa in easy reach, so Kast steeled himself and then reached over to grab it and leaned on it, hauling himself to his feet. He was so tired and the whisky haze had mostly dissipated and he badly wanted something to drink. The bronze spike still rested on the table. Kast wanted nothing to do with it, even though he was fairly sure it didn’t carry much of a charge by now. It hadn’t been a restful night. His heart ached, and he felt wrung out, after the talk with Wyl. Too many memories he’d rather stay buried. Wyl hadn’t pried too much about the killings back then, and with time, Kast thought the poison had drained from them. But just talking about it had brought it all back, in carmine clarity. The slaughterhouse that Waes and—that she had made of the safehouse. In his fitful nightmares, he hadn’t fought. Hadn’t fled. He knew that it wasn’t real, knew that it wasn’t what had happened, but he felt her tug on his emotions, Rioting the fear and the loss and the indecision, and then the spike punched through his heart in a welter of shock and agony. He didn’t want to do anything, today, but what he wanted didn’t matter. He took one deep breath, and then another, stilling himself. He accepted the pain, accepting the exhaustion and the grief, and let them rise through him and breathed them out again. He had a job to do, and even if Kast didn’t feel like he was operating at a hundred percent, eighty percent was better than thirty, hands down. He consulted the notes that they had begun to piece together yesterday. Kast had never been a fan of running a link chart at such a preliminary stage of the investigation, but Wyl was a fan of sloppy charts held together by twine and notepaper, pinned to the corkboard of the office. One of the threads had snapped; Kast shook his head, and copied the chart down with slate and chalk. The smooth sound of chalk on slate preoccupied him, and he didn’t have to think about the more unsettling aspects of the investigation. When he was done, he consulted the chart again. They’d been operating off the assumption that there was some common factor between Leas Fel’s death. It was a reasonable assumption: given that Fallion’s Tears barely saw any murders, it seemed only natural that two killings happening within a week of each other were connected, especially since the MO was the same. As far as Kast could tell though, Leas Fel hadn’t been killed by a spike. He noted that down as a discrepancy, both on the LEAS FEL box and the BART box. Chalk dust drifted down gently, as he wrote. He heard the jangling of keys and then the door to the office creaked open. “Still working over the cases?” Wyl asked. He looked just about as done as Kast felt, and Kast wondered if he should ask why. “Yeah,” he replied. “Everything else is on ice, anyway, seeing as the Mayor’s paying us to get to the bottom of this fast.” He added a few more chalked lines to each entry, consisting of what they knew about Leas Fel and Bart. Leas Fel, a middle-aged veteran from the local garrison. Kast had spoken to the man a few times, when he’d been alive, and from the wry amusement with which Leas Fel took in the various occurrences in Fallion’s Tears, Kast had the sense little slipped by him. Hard to put one over Leas Fel. He added that comment in parentheses. Bart had been gruff, but kind. Took in Pie Roayong after all, hadn’t he? The most Kast knew about Bart was that he was a Seeker, though uncovering that secret had been fairly challenging. That was an actionable he added: talk to the local moneylender to see if anyone had reason to want Bart or Leas Fel dead. With the number of gamblers in town, perhaps there was some sort of debt that Pie Roayong hadn’t known about. He’d meant to do it the other day, but the riot had set him back. Wyl grunted in acknowledgement and left his coat and hat on the rack and stepped over to take a look at the board. Kast noticed the way he drew up short, just outside of Kast’s personal space. Enough that, had he been years younger, in his prime, and without that old injury, Kast couldn’t have struck at him. Old habits died hard, perhaps. But he couldn’t shake the sense that there was a wariness about Wyl today. “Someone got whacked. Kid by the name of Niru. They haven’t found the body, just footprints in ash that disappear and the word RUIN.” “Huh,” said Kast, puzzling over that. “So, we have a stolen corpse on top of everything?” Wyl shrugged. “Beats me. Coinshot whacked him, though.” And there it was, that faint edge of suspicion in his gaze. Kast thought he understood, though it hurt a little anyway. It hadn’t been that way for years. They’d had some kind of working rhythm established, but now that there were spikes and a rogue Coinshot in Fallion’s Tears… It still hurt, Kast supposed. That the past seven years had seemed to count for nothing. But the investigator in him knew about the need to be objective, and he let go of that defensive flash of frustration as well. “Coinshot? That’s one hell of a different MO then.” He added that as a separate box on the chart—NIRU and then the connection to the Coinshot. Niru was a kid, by Wyl’s reckoning, which didn’t fit with the victimology where Leas Fel and Bart had been concerned, but Kast figured the victimology was already problematic anyway. Leas Fel had been no Misting. “Sure is,” Wyl said. “One of the strangers disappeared, too. The one singing all those tunes. Word on the street is, someone saw her getting attacked. No one did anything.” His tone made clear his distaste for the situation. “Don’t think she died but she seems to have skipped town.” “Don’t blame her,” Kast said. “Coinshot too?” “No idea, possible knife attack.” “Puts her in the same vicinity as Leas Fel, possibly,” Kast thought aloud. He tapped on the slate with his stub of chalk, absently. “No idea if the MO is the same, but for the moment, seems a safe assumption.” “Yeah.” He filled in PIE ROAYONG for Bart’s intimates, while Leas Fel’s remained threadbare. “Add the Mayor,” Wyl said, casually. “She mentioned Leas Fel came by a number of times, and I get the sense they were closer than that.” He chalked that in as well and frowned at the board. LASALEN? was yet another box, with a dotted line identifying the rogue Rioter that was no doubt on the loose. Kast didn’t think Lasalen had been the target though: the Rioter just wanted someone—or several someones—dead. Too many unknowns right now which meant they had clearly-defined actionables to start filling in the connections in the chart. “How’s the leg?” Wyl asked, all of a sudden. “Could be worse,” Kast replied. “Did it no favours, running around that day.” “Mmm,” said Wyl. But that sharpness in his gaze wasn’t going away. Variel the storyteller brushed ash and dust off his coat and cuffs as he sat on the wooden chair in the office. He was cut and bruised, but not in altogether bad shape, by the time they’d retrieved him from the mob. Douza had run to find them, and Wyl and Kast had set aside the case briefing. Neither of them had wanted to see another repeat of the riot in the village square the other day. As it turned out, a group of villagers had turned on Variel, deeming him suspicious for his constant commentary and his own thoughts on the situation in Fallion’s Tears. By the time Wyl and Kast had arrived, things had started to take a turn for the violent. Fortunately, the volunteers of the newly-minted village Watch—or militia, Kast wasn’t really sure which they were at this point in time—had arrived with Erik to extricate Variel from the crowd, and Wyl had talked them into letting them take Variel back to the office for an interview. “You can figure out what to do with him later,” Wyl said, firmly, and from the looks of it, that was a headache that Erik hadn’t wanted, anyway. So now Variel was here, sitting in their office, and as Wyl talked him through the various events of the day, all Kast could think of was that something wasn’t right. Variel had been far too calm for a man facing an imminent death at the hands of an empty mob, and he didn’t know what it was, but something was tripping red flags all over for him. Maybe it was the way he moved. Graceful, like a dancer. Or like a killer. It was the attentive way he sat, supremely confident, even though he was in their office, and really, in their power. These things never left you. Kast knew. Kast knew. They hadn’t patted him down, or conducted a quick body search. They’d been distracted, given the anger of the mob. They hadn’t checked, they’d simply assumed. Assumptions got you killed in this line of work. As did carelessness. “Let’s start again from the beginning,” Wyl said, wrapping up the interview. “You’re Variel, a storyteller.” “I am a storyteller,” said Variel. “I like stories. I like listening to them, and telling them. Do you want to hear a story?” Wyl raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” “There was once a man named Valimar,” Variel said. “He lived in a place that was very far away, where terrible storms struck the land over and over again, scouring it. The people of this land had learned to live with the storms. They praised them for their glory and majesty. Not Valimar, though. He found them distracting when he needed to work. For Valimar had very important work indeed: making sure those he needed killed were killed.” He stood up, and Kast tensed up. Simple muscle memory. The alertness never left you. He knew another killer when he saw one. “I’ll skip the rest of the story, perhaps,” Variel said, quietly. “Save that Valimar found himself in a very, very dark place, and learned to appreciate the power of a good story. And I’m certainly not interested in his story ending here, so I’m sorry for what I’ll have to do.” “Kast!” Wyl shouted. “Drop!” Kast knew that tone, even before he had finished processing it. Too many years working together. He dropped reflexively, cursing as his bad leg immediately started swearing at him for the movement. The throwing knife that had materialised from Variel’s cuff swept through the space where he would have been. Kast rolled and reached out for his cane, as the closest weapon to hand. He had to move fast, even though his body was punishing him for it; Variel had thrown with the whisper-quick speed of a practiced assassin, and the last thing Kast wanted was to fight someone like him in the shape he was now— And then Variel coughed. Blood blossomed on his coat, where a bronze spike was protruding from his chest. It had been on the office table, forgotten about, until now. Until Wyl had burned iron. Right through the heart, Kast thought, stunned. That was some accuracy right there. “You okay?” Wyl asked, turning to him and frowning. Kast struggled to his feet. Wyl didn’t offer a hand. Kast wouldn’t have accepted, if he had. He had his pride. “Yeah,” he muttered, shaken. Memories of Gade flooded his mind, shaken loose. It was the pit-trap Kast hadn’t expected. It had been too long since he’d done wetwork, and his mind and instincts had fallen asleep, gone neglected. “Thanks,” Kast muttered. “You think it was him?” Wyl shook his head. “Think he just felt there was no other option,” he said, slowly. “He didn’t react to the spike at all. Didn’t seem to have much knowledge of it. MO doesn’t fully match either, not with how he doesn’t seem to like to get personal with his killing.” He looked over Kast and shook his head. “Getting out of shape there, doesn’t this make it the tenth time I’ve saved your life?” “Ninth time,” Kast snapped. “That time in the Warrens doesn’t count, and you know it.” This time, Wyl’s smile reached his eyes. “Nine, then. Surely you can do better.” Kast let out a deep breath. “I guess,” he said, still shaken. He glanced down at the still body of Variel the storyteller, transfixed by the spike. He couldn’t help the strange, dark foreboding that stole over him, as a dark cloud on a clear afternoon. Variel’s last story stuck with him, that tale of Valimar, and how he’d found his way out through stories, just as Kast had been thrown a lifeline in the form of Wyl and the Watch. Both of them had killed and killed, until their lives had forked and changed forever. He knelt and closed Variel’s staring eyes, one by one. Tried not to feel as though he was staring into some kind of strange mirror. You kept running from your past, Kast thought, and hoped very hard it didn’t catch up with you. Old blades like them knew this. And maybe if it did, you prayed for mercy, before the end. He felt very old, and very tired, and very out of sorts. “I’ll talk to Erik,” he said, at last. He’d have to make arrangements, at least, for Variel’s repose. A subject dying in custody...this was another thing Kast hadn’t at all wanted to deal with today. He filed away those emotions too, and got back to work. StrikerEZ was interrogated! He was a Regular Villager! The Night has begun! It will end on 4th March 2021, at 2300hrs SGT (GMT+8)! PMs remain open!
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And—time, ladies and gentlespren. Please cease all illicit activity and return to your homes, citizens.
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El's spreadsheets are magic. But as they automatically build in vote manipulation, I've been trying to desist from c/ping into this thread to avoid accidentally revealing info I shouldn't >>
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Good work. This matches mine
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I am the GM and I can confirm this OTL Alas, human (i.e. Kas) error continues to be my greatest bane...
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Final time check: under two hours to rollover. Anything left, better get it done soon. @Quintessential This works, no need to do it in the same post.
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Reminder that your vote is still currently on Illwei Don't forget to retract, you lot!
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Time check: you have just under nine hours left before the Turn closes. Get those votes and orders in
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So, batch of rule clarifications for you all: Are Thug survivals and Lurcher protections distinguished in the write-up? We have actually not had a consistent policy on this that I can see across the Tyrian AGs, so I am going to rule that I will not distinguish them for you - you will get the lynched and survived note, or the attacked and survived note, depending on whether it's Day or Night. (Obviously if it's during the Day, it can't be a Lurch, but I won't clear up if the player is definitely a Thug or a Mistborn who drew Pewter.) Do Lurchers protect from all attacks at night? Lurchers only protect from one attack. If a Coinshot (I can neither confirm nor deny that there exists a Coinshot in this game) happens to target the same player as a second Coinshot, then Lurching will save the player from Coinshot #1 but not Coinshot #2. (I can also neither confirm nor deny there exists a Lurcher in this game.)
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Oh absolutely. I think Nagasawa or Pent was selling a filling syringe adapter for pens to sort of Snorkelise them, but I usually place the vial in a stand to make sure it doesn't topple. Still way easier to fill via syringe when it comes to sample vials... Oof, yeah. Getting the last of the ink without an ink syringe is difficult as hell.
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It's actually ke3 shi4. Ke3 shi4 wo1 jiang3 zhong1 wen2. 中文 is a bit eclectic in this context because it's commonly used to refer to the written language - anyway, y'all don't need me rambling about languages in this thread, I'm going to leave before further derailment occurs and then Wyrm will show up to scold me and call me a nerd (He won't, because he's law-abiding, but still.) Happy grinching, y'all!
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Du kannst mir gerne in PMs deine Befehle auf Deutsch schreiben, aber die wichtige Frage ist, ob ich deine Befehle verstehen werde But alright folks, brief reminder—I did ask y'all to go read the SE General Rules and etiquette and I see a number of people skirting it again, so I'm gonna remind you all it's not optional reading, it's on the syllabus and there will be a final exam You can't use a language to communicate in a way other players don't understand. To be fair, I do have a waiver on the code rules for Tineye messages since that's sort of the fun of being a Tineye but otherwise, please don't make me @ Wilson again. I think she's really tired of getting PMs from me Right, see you all next tutorial @Tani - It's correct. Gears is saying he speaks Chinese but he's using the traditional script, which I'm awful with "But I speak Chinese", literally translated.
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Why aren't you asking me how that makes me feel? To be clear, there are two different Tineye messages in the write-up. I can neither confirm nor deny if they came from two Tineyes, one Tineye one Mistborn, or two Mistborn. But two there are, no more, no less
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As per the rules, Coinshot and Spiked kills will be the one thing that's clearly differentiated for you in write-ups. That is to say, Coinshot kills will involve coins, and Spiked kills will test the limits of my creativity >> If there is a Spiked Coinshot, then the way the kill is depicted will depend on if they are using their Coinshot kill or the Spiked kill. Everything else in the write-ups will otherwise be about as fictional as Wyrm's claims to sociopathy.
