Kasimir

Shadowh@x, cousin of Shadowfax, Lord of Horses, whinnied and rolled over on the Council floor... Just kidding How about Trotter, hobbit with wooden shoes, Ranger, and Heir of Isildur? Kavan listened to Elrond's speech, though they did little to allay the misgivings in his heart. "A messenger has come, to Erebor and to Dale," he said, concurring with the dwarf from the Lonely Mountain. "The Enemy offers us friendship, but at the same time, his forces array against us, gathering beyond the Carnen. King Brand of Dale distrusts the Enemy: he offers honeyed words and poisoned gifts beneath the chalice of embassy. I was sent first to the Elvenking in Mirkwood, for the elves have been friends to us in the past. But there was little aid forthcoming from the Elvenking - instead, he counseled that my road lay further, towards the Last Homely House. I understand a little more clearly, now, and the counsel of Elrond Half-elven is of no small renown, even in Dale. Yet it is not talk of Rings and deceased Kings that Dale needs. My King sent me to seek aid, and I know not now if we will find it here." He fell silent. Sorry guys RP is hard. I also got ninja-ed by Fifth on responding to Elrond, but was too lazy to rewrite. Anyway. I want to continue my new playstyle change from QF29. I want to use a minimum of OOC text to explain my positions, and to make my points as clearly as possible through RP. I probably won't keep up with Tolkien's particular style, though, that's a bit too hard tldr; don't expect too much from me. Kavan, messenger from King Brand in Dale, signing up. He's probably taken more detours than Odysseus at this point!

Urgh. This week's kind of a rush for me so I'm just gonna throw something down with little thought. No guarantee I can make changes in time, either. Thoughts on write-up: I like Firesoul a lot. And the plot thickens! [X] Visit Lawmaker the Honest I feel like we haven't visited her yet, and besides sounding her out about the proposal, I wonder if she's the right person to approach about our thief? Just in case we need a stick. I'm not really sure what we'd want to do with the thief. To be fair, we only know that the thief was a trespasser - we don't know if they were really a thief. (SB's priests say probable thief.) I imagine we'd want to question them but I just can't think of anything concrete to say so I'm going to leave it for someone else.

This the one you were looking for?

Okay, that's pretty excellent. Glad it ended well!

I promise that although the text beneath my avatar says "Most Ancient", I am conversant in Harry Potter memes and quotes

Always.

You have no idea how much pain this brings me in the form of LG15b flashbacks I had a full character arc planned out for Sonder! And then I got iced in the first? second? cycle (probably second, since it's me) and then I was so furious it never got to see the light >> I can also attest to the fact it definitely increased my enjoyment as the GM reading the RPs Fun characters all around, but Joon and Ellira did stand out for me!

OB spoilers:

Only if Striker Kalebane, Gamebreaker, Terror of GMs, the Shield of the Lynch doesn't play j/k You want a part c? cries in 11 reports and 3 presentations and 1 folder of logistics assignments >> Actually, I do have a third game planned - this was always meant to be a loose trilogy of TES SE games. Which made plot beats a bit easy, as Gamman was always meant to reach Maximum Despot/Authoritarian status (or appear to be reaching it) here, before the actual wrap-up game. It won't be Avalon mechanics though, I'm toying with something involving faction swapping (i.e. swapping powers) though not wincons. I've learned my lesson from MR7 Since I'm a stickler for tradition, and this game took place 4-5 RL years after MR7, stay tuned for the LG to come in about 4-5 years! j/k

I’m dead tired and work is threatening to drown me, so this may be less coherent than usual: We were fortunate in having an extremely helpful IM, @Fifth Scholar. Much appreciation for his dealing with flailing, mistakes, and panicking, especially during the Strikergate incident of the first iteration. I will admit to some disappointment, although this is a QF, that both Striker Kalebane and Alvron were up for death early, just as they were in the past iteration. It is also somewhat sad that Wilson got shanked early, and this is from the perspective of returning players, rather than the issue of the Reform Spy. Getting killed early is often a point of frustration for players, particularly when they are killed repeatedly for reasons they are powerless to influence (or so they perceive.) We can do better. The Eliminator distribution was somewhat unusual: ultimately, we decided on a four Eliminator team. This was pushing the upper end of the safe Eliminator % boundary, at 26.6% of the player group. The mitigating factors, in our view, were as follows: first, we anticipated at least one early Eliminator casualty, due to Spy action. We therefore built the expectation that the Eliminators would be one member down from the start/early on into the team size. Second, we wanted some cover for the Embedded Operative. To this end, we knew we needed at least one Survivor in the game. We also expected the Spy to be able to mobilise a stronger voting coalition, due to the ‘ludicrous amount of arbiters.’ We did not anticipate a high arbiter mortality rate. Finally, in our view, giving the Eliminator team a Survivor rather than a fourth member had the advantage of providing them with the expected four bodies, but putting them at a vote disadvantage (they had four bodies but commanded three votes.) The Embedded Operative, as usual, remains tricky to balance for, and potentially swingy as a force for either side/faction. On the one hand, to some extent, the Embedded Operative should be swingy: as a role, they have the capacity to add more firepower to whichever Faction they declare for. We also deemed it more critical for Factions to be able to function in the absence of the Embedded Operative. In particular, Factions could take a variety of strategies towards the Embedded Operative: they could decide to try to enter a bidding war for the Operative, or to try to sway them to their side. They could decide to eliminate the Operative (especially as a non C3 Operative will be fragile), though this would potentially drive the Operative to Team Disco. Ultimately, I am divided about whether the C3!Disco Operative should get to know who Disco is. The lack of communication and imperfect information might help as a further check on the Operative’s abilities, by making them more cautious about killing, for fear of (un)friendly fire. In the first two cycles of the game, I experimented with sending players an RP prompt that could be generic, or customised to the RP they had already produced. The aim was to encourage more player activity, even in the form of a few lines of RP, and to produce more setting immersion. I later mostly abandoned it as work began to drown me, but I also think that it was in general a good idea but poorly-targeted. First, RP prompts should be around drabble-length. Second, this game has not been marketed as a RP-centric game. I think RP prompts are best integrated with games that have been indicated to have a significant amount of RP, and thus would hopefully appeal to such players. There is some doubt about whether 24 hour cycles are sufficient. Ultimately, as I prefer games to be more fast-paced, I think it was fine as a QF, though the Avalon format could also lend itself to 48 hour cycles. I also would tie this with how lynches turned out less useful than expected for the Village. I think the Village spent more time focusing on those who were thought to be evil, at the cost of informational lynches. As a result, when the lynch target turned out to be neither evil, nor informative, the Village was at a loss. Elandera, for instance, would have proven a good target for an informational lynch, in part because of how she became the ‘big agenda item’ of more than one cycle. The Reform Spy and the Assassination Cycle ended up being balanced well enough. Ultimately, I don’t think I can say much about whether the Reform Spy works well, as the Reform Spies in both iterations have had very short life expectancies. That being said, I like the Assassination Cycle solution better than the Assassination mechanic, and think it gives players both a chance to have some light-hearted fun, and to mess back with the Eliminators. It also restrains how obvious the Spy can be about identifying Eliminators, and creates a strategic trade-off on the part of the Eliminators: killing suspected Spies early removes the informational advantage the Village might enjoy, but at the cost of the Eliminators going fairly blind into an Assassination Cycle, should the game turn against them later anyway. I think the Embedded Operative is another decent check on the Reform Spy, but might consider employing more complex Avalon characters in future games, e.g. Mordred (is Evil, but is invisible to Merlin/Spy), and Morgana (is Evil but appears to be Merlin/Spy to Percival/Handler.) These might serve as better balances to the Spy and has the advantage of removing the Operative-associated considerations from game balance. That’s about it from me. Thanks to M’Hael for being an excellent co-GM, though we were both dead tired and out of it near the end as work took a significant toll on us. Thanks for playing, guys, and hope y’all had fun! Cheers and catch you all around sometime!

Aftermath Aphelion Kavela drifted through the small, self-contained world of the Frozen Moon like a ghost. Conversation was a constant murmur about her ears, but she could not quite bring herself to intrude. She hesitated, a hand going to the unmarked skin of her throat. Nothing at all. How was this possible? Things had seemed eerily familiar before: Asterion running out into the dark, Asterion’s body turning up in the pavillion, and she couldn’t remember seeing Joon or Wai ZhierSen, and yet they were here all the same, their presence indubitable. She brushed past a MaiPon server, and for a moment, saw him carrying both a large metallic sword balanced on a shoulder as if it weighed no more than a feather, and a repeating crossbow in the other hand. It felt so real. All of it. The hunger and the thirst. The Strikers waiting for them outside, in the dark. The terror, the long, slow death. Joon pressing the strangler’s wire into her throat, leaning into the movement with practised ease. His hands had brushed past her at some point, and they were callused and Kavela could not remember when he’d acquired those calluses. They should be soft, she found herself thinking. A spoiled pretty-boy’s hands. She could still leave now, couldn’t she? She flung open the door and strode out into the courtyard, with the peach tree. She’d climbed it, days ago. It felt like it had been forever. The MaiPon man was there, still, scratching at the fallen leaves with his broom. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Kavela saw him, curled up on the ground, blood oozing from a crossbow bolt that had punctured his thigh. Could she do this? Could any of them be saved? Impulsively, Kavela said, “Gamman’s coming. You must leave, get out of here, go somewhere safe.” “I know,” said Shi KwaiRan. ㄢㄋㄌ Ableah watched as Arbiter Urskevan left, ostensibly to search for more of the Frozen Moon’s excellent buns, and waited. No one noticed as first Marzia, then Somi, and then finally, Asterion himself, made various excuses and left after the arbiter of the Glory Faction. He felt his hands clench into fists by his side. No. He had no love for the Glory Faction, not when Arbiter Urskevan had championed mercilessly hunting Ableah Edr and his fellow scholars of the Discovery Faction down, five years ago in the Succession Riots. Meeting Asterion again had been a shock, the sudden jolt of thin ice giving way beneath his feet. He thought they were all dead. The Strikers had left him for dead, shooting him full of crossbow bolts after he’d killed enough of them with his halberd. Discord had been a good weapon, if chatty. Ableah wondered what had happened to it now. Without particularly appearing to do so, Ableah trailed the hidden members of the Discovery Faction, scooping up an empty platter so he looked appropriately busy. He might have felt something, once: relief, or a sense of kinship, almost. He owed Discovery nothing now. They had not come for him when he lay among the dead, and he would not come to heel now. Ableah reached for the repeating crossbow hidden within his armoured jacket, and felt the cracks in his soul and mind widen, just a little. ㄢㄋㄌ “Surrender in the name of the Emperor!” Joon Banyung smiled, and reached for his bowl of powdered tea. He’d asked for it to be shaken, not stirred, so there was a pleasant layer of froth at the very top of the drink. Actions and consequences, or if you preferred: action, and then reaction. It was eminently foreseeable that Gamman might lash out at those who had gathered to plot against him. There were several questions to be asked: how Gamman had realised this, and what Gamman’s plans were, and how the Discovery Faction had been involved in the first place. When Joon had seen the recall phrase scrawled on a tiny slip of rice paper and concealed in a jar of tea leaves, he had barely believed it. Had eaten the paper, out of sheer force of habit, even as he tried to work out the situation. It had been five years. He was certain they’d forgotten about him. Evidently, not any more. Ellira shivered. She was good, Joon Banyung thought, even as she let him put his arm around her to comfort her. She was slight, but packed with wiry muscle, and he thought he felt at least three knives and a slender garotte hidden about on her. Then there was that hairpin, which was very likely poisoned. He thought he noticed that the ornamental fan tucked into her sash was a little too heavy, which pointed to steel ribbing, perhaps. Even more concealed blades. That was part of the fun, wasn’t it? Flirting with danger. It had been five years. Joon Banyung deserved to live a little. He raised his tea bowl in an ironic salute to Gamman, and drank deep. ㄢㄋㄌ It began with a Striker’s shouted command in the cool night air. Ellira shivered, allowed her expression to show fear, and blinked until her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered, rolling her eyes inwardly as Joon whispered sweet nothings to her. She was trying to work out what she should do next. Strikers meant a picket line with crossbows, and Ellira could take a Striker in a fight but she didn’t fancy her chances against several bolts from a repeating crossbow. Watch and report, her Master had told her. She did not know if this was what Arbiter Raishin had in mind. For all Arbiter Raishin was of the Reform Faction and Ellira worked for him, managing one or two agents in the Reform Faction’s eyes and ears, he had started putting her out into the field more and more. Ellira didn’t mind. There was a sharp mind beneath the soft-spoken exterior, and for all people spoke disparagingly of Arbiter Raishin, Ellira simply laughed. They were both playing a role, and if others could not see that, then they were fools. She did not know what game Raishin played. It did not matter to her. Last week, she’d killed a soybean merchant on his orders. The week before that, she’d infiltrated a local gang leader’s home and stolen his ledger. That kill had been hers, because it amused her. She’d forced his head down beneath the surface as they shared a heated bath with fragrant oils. There was still a whiff of jasmine on her wrists, and she had felt it, the moment he stopped thrashing about and became dead weight in the water. He hadn’t expected her to be so strong. Most men did not, especially if you’d honed smiles and tears into weapons. Raishin, at least, allowed her the occasional diversion. He did not brook disobedience but he enjoyed giving assets the creativity to interpret and follow his orders as he saw fit, and Ellira in turn would have chafed at a tight leash. She wanted, so badly, to lead Joon on a merry chase. He thought she was simple, falling for pretty words and a lovely smile, but Ellira hadn’t gotten to where she was by fluttering her lashes and falling hard the moment a pretty boy turned on the charm. Two could play at this game, but her orders were clear: watch and report. Joon would live. For now. Somi ignored the jar of dream honey and focused on the third object on the shelf: a jar of dried tea leaves. The scrawled label indicated it was Duck Vomit Oolong, aged for at least ten years. Somi raised an eyebrow. “Duck Vomit?” she wondered aloud, both impressed and taken aback. She scrabbled through the jar of tea leaves until she found a tiny slip of rice paper, which she unfolded. The message had been written in an unfamiliar hand, and displayed one or two smudges and blotches, as though the writer was not well-versed in the codes commonly employed by the agents of the Discovery Faction. Cover away, it read. Gamman spy here, which Somi supposed meant that their cover had been blown. The writer had probably swapped the code words around on accident. Kan had made no mention of a spy, though the MaiPon who had contacted them had once worked in such a capacity for the Reform Faction. But she trusted Kan. It was fair to say they all did. It was Shuos KanSeun who had brought the Discovery Faction to prominence during his brief tenure as arbiter. It was Shuos KanSeun who had led to that first fall from grace, the beginning of the gradual decline that had become an abrupt descent during the Succession Riots, five years ago. Even in failure, he was still the paragon; the proof that even the smallest of Factions could produce greatness. A chance to strike at Gamman. She thought of Urskevan. Had they thrown away this chance by leaving him to die? But how could they continue as though nothing had happened while Urskevan plotted with the conspirators? I don’t care if we’re doing Gamman’s dirty work for him, Marzia had said, slipping a short, heavy cosh into her fist. He hunted us down like animals during the Succession Riots. I’m not keeping my head down and pretending that everything’s alright. If Gamman had a spy here, though, that changed everything. The spy wouldn’t be able to reveal their identity, for fear of the conspirators turning on them. But Gamman had no love for the Discovery Faction. They were in danger as long as the spy lived. “We need to find the spy,” Marzia said, now. “We do,” agreed Somi. Asterion merely nodded. He had not spoken, since the vicious attack that had almost cost him his life, five years ago. There were several candidates for the spy. Somi scanned the crowded room of the teahouse, letting her gaze flick from person to person without particularly focusing on any one of them. There were a few outlanders who might have been coaxed into spying for Gamman—the man who named himself Stefan Trent Isle Nathan Kilkreath was one of them. There was the arbiter, Yesterday Jones. Marzia dismissed her. “She’s an arbiter,” Marzia said. “Gamman probably learns more from what she says to her fellow arbiters than anything else. She can’t be our spy.” There was the quiet and unremarkable Itiah, sitting at a corner of the table, nursing a cup of hot tea and ignoring the pastries. Asterion indicated him. Perhaps there was something more; some hidden depths to the man that were yet to be revealed. Somi considered, briefly, the legendary Wai ZhierSen, who had been seen on a few tasks for the Glory Faction before she’d vanished, presumed dead, after the incident with the glitter and the syrup and the sweetbreads. There was a story there, but Asterion would not tell it to her, and so she’d had to put it all together. Yes, Wai ZhierSen fit the profile of the spy perfectly, but Somi could not see one such as her condescending to work for Gamman. It was probably one of the others. Wasn’t it? “I bet it’s Kilkreath,” Joon murmured. He had slipped away from the girl, at long last, and was currently lounging insouciantly on the chair. “He just seems like the sort.” But when eventually they ambushed Kilkreath with a cosh to the temple and searched him, they found nothing, only a hank of twine, a ball of dried noodles, and half a bottle of rice wine. If there was a spy, they had slipped through their grasp. “We don’t have time for this,” Marzia said, at last. More bravado than deliberate course of action. “We carry on with the plan.” Somi rubbed the carved duck lucky charm in her pocket and hoped this lapse would not come back to haunt them. ㄢㄋㄌ Some of the conspirators surrendered, walking shame-facedly out of the Frozen Moon, hands held high up. They were arrested by the waiting Strikers, and taken away from everyone’s sight. The rest of the conspirators, however, argued about the next course of action. “Gamman is not known for his mercy,” Yesterday “Yes” Jones said, “And we are ill-served by giving in to him.” As an arbiter of the Heritage Faction, her words carried some measure of weight, and put some steel into the conspirators backs. Shuos KanSeun laughed. “Of course Gamman is not known for his mercy,” he said, shaking his head. “He won the Rose Throne through cunning and subterfuge and he is terrified that the day he falls behind will be the day he is deposed by someone more ambitious. Someone like Arbiter Frava, perhaps. Or Arbiter Urskevan. It has always surprised me that Gamman let them live, when he first seized power.” “You said Gamman needed to be stopped!” Roashina screamed back at him. “Of course he does,” Kan said, with a raised eyebrow. “Did you really think we would get away scot-free in the process? One does not hunt a tiger and expect all the hunters to return home safe and sound. And make no mistake about that: Gamman has the soul of a tiger.” In the end, the conspirators held firm. They would not surrender. “In fact,” DeTess murmured, “Murdering a group of peaceful citizens, among whom are the arbiters of the Glory and Heritage—and Discovery Factions,” she added, with a reluctant nod to Kan, “Might provoke popular backlash. Even Gamman can’t risk that. He will need to wait.” “Former arbiter, I’m afraid,” Kan said, with a graceful bow. “A pleasure, Arbiter DeTess. History has come and gone, and left me behind in its wake, I’m afraid.” “You are not in your grave yet, Shuos,” DeTess replied. “And neither are we. We will look for opportunities and negotiate with the Strikers. To kill so many arbiters from Factions not his own would provoke an uproar within the Theatre of Address.” ㄢㄋㄌ Days of deprivation and hunger followed. Kavela kept hold of her orange, stolen all that while ago from the marketplace, sucking at each slice for just a trickle of sweet moisture. A few more broke, and surrendered. Lawrence Scholdei, arbiter of the Glory Faction, caused a stir as he surrendered and was pinned to the door of the teahouse by a flurry of crossbow bolts. Suddenly, the Strikers weren’t so peaceful any longer. They were ready to kill. The well was poisoned, and then they began to ration their water. Shuos KanSeun was nowhere to be seen. Kavela did not remark on that. And there was Itiah, brave Itiah, crossing the picket lines to bring back water. He lay sprawled in the dust, precious water trickling out of his pocket, his eyes burned out. How he had died, Kavela could not say. She only knew he had died terribly, and wished he had said something—anything at all. The debates about whether to surrender continued. Herat lay in a corner, unresponsive, her eyes glazed over and muttering on occasion. Her skin was flushed with fever, and Kavela could not bring herself to give Herat any of their precious water. She was done for, she told herself, one way or another. Woundrot was setting in, for all they’d tended to the wounds after Kan had removed the crossbow bolts lodged in Herat’s thigh. And then Herat died, and Kavela felt a shred of guilt, deep inside. She closed Herat’s staring eyes. At least Herat was no longer suffering. Kavela was far too tired, far too dehydrated, to cry. ㄢㄋㄌ Gamman arrived on the last day, clad in full war regalia. It was the infamous paranoia at work again, Kan thought, as he made certain to keep sufficiently distant from the Emperor to soothe the worries of the Strikers. Gamman was no coward, but he would not leave an opening for the conspirators to strike at him. And it was a clever move: the Emperor of the Eighty Suns was a striking, resplendent figure in the war regalia, and clearly meant to stand in contrast with the rest of the conspirators. “I will be interested to hear more about how you unmasked the conspiracy,” Gamman murmured, smirking. “I am especially interested in how you came to hear of it, in the first place, General.” Of course, he thought Kan didn’t know he’d ordered the letters sent. All the more fool, he. “Of course, your Majesty,” Kan smiled. He had been good at it as a child, this game of keeping a straight face. Letting people think what they wanted to. “I am grateful my efforts have won your Majesty’s approval and recognition.” Gamman nodded. “Of course,” he echoed, briskly. “Where is Commander Ki?” The gaunt-faced Striker rapped a fist against his chest in salute. “Orders, your Majesty?” “Flaming bolts,” Gamman said, casually. “I want this teahouse up and in flames yesterday.” “Your Majesty!” This was Arbiter Huzin now. For all she was a staunch supporter of Gamman, it seemed that this last order was a bridge too far. Even Arbiter Raishin looked disturbed, though he said nothing. At least Kan thought he looked disturbed. It was difficult to tell, with Raishin. People often mistook a chronic lack of principle and flexibility for a chronic lack of spine, but Raishin had a finely-honed sense for where the political winds were blowing. “There are people inside!” “I know,” Gamman smiled. “That’s the idea. Flaming bolts, Commander! I want to watch the Moon burn.” ㄢㄋㄌ The Strikers dipped crossbow bolts tied with rags into oil, and then set them ablaze and launched volleys of bolts. The first few hit the stones of the pathway and soon flared out completely. But a few bolts found their mark in the wooden walls of the teahouse, and then more and more struck home. Even the countless peach trees in the courtyard were ablaze. Gamman held his hands out to the fire, dark eyes intent, as though he could feel the warmth against his skin. So perished a part of history, Kan thought, and was surprised at the pang in his heart. Some of the conspirators struggled out of the inferno, as walls began to collapse. Too few of them did. A slight girl, with striking green eyes. He caught the brief flicker of recognition from Raishin, and noticed especially when Raishin concealed it in the next moment. Gamman accepted her surrender, and had her arrested and taken away without so much as a search. There was something going on there, Kan decided. The other was a familiar face: Yesterday Jones, arbiter of the Heritage Faction. “Tsk,” said Gamman, shaking his head sorrowfully. “Another arbiter plotting treason. Take her away,” he commanded, and the Strikers wrenched Yesterday’s hands behind her and marched her off. “What are you going to do with them, your Majesty?” Arbiter Huzin asked, uneasily. “Starve them for a few days,” Gamman said, easily. “They’ll have water, but not very much of it. On the fifth day, we’ll feed them, and take their surrender, and we’ll watch them carefully but let them go. They shouldn’t cause anymore trouble.” “Your Majesty, forgive me but...people like that don’t forget,” Arbiter Huzin said, eyebrows knit together in a worried frown. “People are animals,” Gamman said. “Put them somewhere uncomfortable for days, deny them food and water, and they grow weak. The mind answers to the body. Ideals become much less palatable when you’re dying, and once they eat, they’ll surrender. The shame will never let them conspire to remove me from power again.” “Not everyone surrenders, your Majesty,” Arbiter Huzin felt compelled to point out. “Some people regard ideals as more important than their lives.” “I know,” said Gamman softly, smiling. “Who do you think the people who died in that fire were?” Kan sucked in a long, astonished breath. “They were the ones who wouldn’t surrender, no matter what,” Gamman continued. “The ones to whom ideals mattered more than their own lives.” The flames of the burning teahouse seemed to be reflected in his eyes. “For the rest of their lives, the survivors will feel ashamed of themselves when they think of rebellion. They will tell themselves they should have died in the fire. And word of the fire will spread, and others will think twice about mobilising against the Security Act that Arbiter Huzin will pass in a few weeks.” He turned his head slightly. A shadow moved. Ableah Edr leaped out of the shadow of clustered tents, cutting down with inhuman grace and speed the first two Strikers that put themselves between the Emperor and him. And then— ㄢㄋㄌ Shi KwaiRan knelt on the roof of the dwelling, steadfastly ignoring the pain in his wounded thigh. He barely dared to breathe, as he watched Kan lure the Emperor every closer towards the fires of the burning Frozen Moon. The Frozen Moon, burning down. Goodbye. Goodbye, to a chapter of his life, goodbye to Wenshon, and Kwai felt a few tears prickle in his eyes as he saw the inferno. Perhaps it was better Wenshon was dead, and Kwai would likely be dead soon. He braced himself carefully and drew back the laminated horsebow, nocking the arrow and pulling the string back with thumb and forefinger, almost past his ear. He breathed, lining up where Gamman would be in physical space with the target in his mind’s eye, and felt the strain as he held the horsebow steady. He half-exhaled, and loosed. The arrow traveled in an arc, spinning about a little as it dropped towards where Gamman would be— ㄢㄋㄌ Ableah would have said he wanted vengeance, but each kill splintered his world a little more, shoving more cracks through the tattered canyons of his mind. He was breaking apart, dying in fire, by the sword, reigning over an empire of ashes and bone, and Ableah did not care. He had hidden himself well, and chosen his moment to strike. As he burst out from the shadows of the encampment and lunged at Gamman, two Strikers tried to stop him. He cut them down with the Shardblade, barely slowing down. Metal fared badly against Shardblades. Trading for this one had cost him dearly. He pulled back for a swing that would ram the point of the Blade through Gamman’s throat, and— And there was a flicker of movement. Then the arrow took him in the eye and Ableah screamed— ㄢㄋㄌ Kwai lowered the horsebow, stunned. He’d just saved Gamman’s life. What’s more, Gamman knew: their eyes met, and the Emperor inclined his head slightly, and motioned away the Strikers that were about to surge like hunting jackals in Kwai’s direction. Unexpected. Kwai’s arms shook as he lowered the bow, as the Soul Stamp dissolved into a puff of red smoke against his skin. He had set out to assassinate another Emperor. He had not expected to save Gamman’s life by sheer accident. Had not expected Gamman to acknowledge the gesture, and to call the Strikers off. That made them quits, didn’t it? Wenshon would not be avenged, not today. The eye shot had been a one in a million chance. The arrow was meant to go through armour but Kwai didn’t feel like rolling the dice a second time, not against imperial war regalia. He had lost. He felt so tired. He unstrung the bow, coiling the string about. Below, some distance away, the Frozen Moon continued to burn. ㄢㄋㄌ Raishin didn’t come for her, but there was a symbol scratched into the dirt of the tent. Three diamonds, overlapping. Ellira knew what was expected of her. She killed the Striker standing watch over her, by crying until the Striker came over to make her be quiet, and then she drove the poisoned, sharpened hairpin into the Striker’s eye and slipped away as the woman died, choking on her own blood. Pity about the hairpin, Ellira thought. She would have to get another. The Frozen Moon burned to the ground that night. It was said that the dying conspirators had remained defiant to the end. No one had cried out. No one had asked for mercy. Word of the Frozen Moon massacre spread throughout the Imperial Seat, and then the Rose Empire. It grew more and more exaggerated in the telling, until it was said that Gamman had played a flute and the bones of the dead had walked, even as the Frozen Moon, the former jewel of the Imperial Seat, had burned. Arbiters refused to comment about the Emperor’s actions. The gathering in the Theatre of Address proved to be subdued, with Arbiter Yesterday Jones of the Heritage Faction a silent figure at the back of the room. The Security Act was passed and approved, with little fanfare. Gamman’s grip on the reigns of power tightened ever further. And in the cellar at the base of the Frozen Moon, which had sheltered them both from the devouring flames and the searching Strikers, three surviving agents of the Discovery Faction parted ways, for the moment. They would return to their lives, return to hiding. And perhaps one day, they would strike as the lightning, and their enemies would never see them coming. ㄢㄋㄌ “The Frozen Moon Massacre was a turning point in Gamman’s domestic policy. While Gamman had previously arrested dissidents and had rebellious arbiters killed or cowed, he had never acted so openly before. Some believe that the Frozen Moon Massacre was carefully planned and orchestrated as a way of removing Gamman’s enemies and sending a strong message to the rest of the Empire. Others argue that Gamman had no way of knowing that the Frozen Moon Massacre would not become a propaganda victory for his enemies: he simply chose to take the risk, and to test how much he could get away with. The true answer, I think, lies between both these views. Either way, the Frozen Moon Massacre was a significant step in Gamman accumulating unchallenged power as an absolute emperor.” —Shuos KanSeun, When the Rose Blooms: The Lives of the Emperors ㄢㄋㄌ And that's a wrap! Thanks to everyone for playing! Once again, congratulations to Team Disco [Alvron, Burnt Spaghetti, Elandera, and Arraenae] for the victory, but you have been outfoxed and hoodwinked by the Village! Bragging rights and kudos goes to the Village for a magnificent display of trolling, as STINK was not the Reform Spy! Player List Dossier

The cycle is closed! Stay tuned to see who gets to brag!

I'm logging a vote from @Alvron in the Eliminator Dead Doc, due to his Internet failing him. Alvron voted for Itiah.

Jokes on you You can't only sign up for games I make and run from now on if I don't make or run any games!

StrikerEZ: "I'm signing up!" Kasimir has left the GM Lounge.

Me being unable to upvote anymore because I burned it all up upvoting everyone's posts: Me upvoting both Disco and Villagers alike: Me being unable to upvote Striker Kalebane, Gamebreaker, Terror of GMs, because I burned the last upvote on Rae's excellent RP: Yes, that's right, I'm roleclaiming Thanos, a hidden role. I win if half the village dies and half Disco dies. Alas...

Don't you mean Joones Bond? J/k

Assassination Cycle So Far It was a night of endings. Kwai slept fitfully, a hand pressed to the wad of bandages stuffed over his thigh. The crossbow bolt that had pierced his thigh lay on the floorboards of the storeroom, bloodied. Herat shivered, a thin sheen of sweat on her skin. She had not stirred in the last few days, as the conspirators fought, and argued, and died, but she still stubbornly clung to life, despite running a fever. If Shuos KanSeun hadn’t known better, he might have said that she was waiting for something. Ellira slipped out, a ghost in the night. Waiting for orders, wondering if the same orders would return again by spanreed. Watch and observe. Yesterday should have acted yesterday, she found herself thinking idly, as she crouched over Marzia and raised the twisted knife in her hands. She’d never killed before. She was surprised Somi had such a knife on her: more or less a twisted hunk of metal, wrapped in cloth, with a point. Too late for regrets. She brought the knife down. Marzia opened her eyes and smiled as the blade bent like a cheap reed. “Pity,” she murmured. “You should know better than to try to take the best armourer in the Rose Empire with a shiv like that.” Marzia lashed out with an elbow, forcing Yesterday backwards. “I’ve slept in armour ever since the Succession Riots,” she commented, idly. “It’s how I survived. You can barely see the thin ceramic plates beneath the jacket.” Elsewhere, Kavela was staring out at the moon. She shouldn’t have come here, Kavela thought. Too late for that now. With the conspiracy collapsing like wet paper, she would be lucky if any of her usual buyers were interested in the information she had to sell. No, perhaps the best choice would be to cut and run. “Copper for your thoughts?” she asked, sensing Joon come up behind her. “Sure,” Joon said. A thin wire bit into her throat, drawing tighter and tighter, and Kavela realised in horror that she shouldn’t have trusted him. Shouldn’t have let him behind her guard. She drummed her heels against the floorboards, struggling to break free, but Joon had a tight grasp on the stranger’s wire and did not let go. Eventually, dark smears crossed Kavela’s vision, and she tasted the sharp coppery tang of blood in her mouth, and then her struggles grew weaker and weaker, and ceased entirely. Joon leaned into the hold, and smiled. ㄢㄋㄌ It was a night of endings. Even as Kavela died, she wished...she wished they’d had a second chance. She wished it hadn’t ended this way. For a moment, Joon’s grip seemed to slacken. The walls of the teahouse blurred, and then came into sharp focus. Wai ZhierSen sat at one of the tables, and Asterion at another. Faitren was well again, and sipping at a pot of tea, while Lawrence Scholdei smiled, mostly to himself, his mask concealing most of his features. Shuo KanSeun was talking to Ellira, and smiling pleasantly, and Joon was trying his luck with Ellira, all over again, handing her a hairpin. Kavela’s nails dug into her palms as she sucked in a deep breath. Air. It felt so good to breathe. Tears stung at her eyes. She scrubbed at them. Wouldn’t do to be seen to be crying now. The Frozen Moon seemed like an unexpected vision, the momentary calm before the storm of suspicion, suffering, and privation that had descended upon them over the last few days. Could it be…? Was this her second chance? ㄢㄋㄌ Young Bard (Kavela) was killed! She was from the Glory Faction and aligned with the Conspirators! Elandera (Marzia) was lynched, but survived! Vote Tally The game has ended, and Discovery reigns victorious! Congratulations to Alvron, Arraenae, Burnt Spaghetti, and Elandera. Due to popular preference for an Assassination Cycle, a 24-hour Assassination Cycle has begun! This Assassination Cycle will not be played for the win, but for bragging rights and kudos. Can Discovery find the Reform Spy? Or will the Conspirators stave them off? Please be reminded that everyone playing this game may now post in the thread, but only Discovery members may vote to lynch the Reform Spy. Treat voting as though it were an ordinary lynch. The votes in red will be counted. Thank you, and have fun! The Assassination Cycle, and the game, will end on 9PM tomorrow, the 24th of October, GMT+8. Player List

Thanks

My thesis has finally come back and it has been accepted! Grader #2 extremely did not like it (lol, academic life 101, it's always grader #2/reviewer #2) but I passed! I am a Master of Philosophy now! AMA! (j/k please don't) I'm both visibly confused (as I might have to make some amendments despite the pass) because Grader #1 was so enthusiastic about it, but Grader #2 really hated it, but also extremely excited because after three years, my suffering has ended! I have graduated/passed, and I actually got the best possible grading outcome on a thesis, despite Grader #2, and despite losing my original supervisor due to a career move on his end! I'm just ridiculously excited right now, though a little apprehensive. And now my watch has ended.

I like this! You have my bow vote! It's definitely consistent with SB as it is, and it's a nice touch for a more consultative god, rather than presuming he understands best. [X] Speak with the people

Reserved for rule clarifications.

Cycle Five So Close [Insert cycle text here. There was supposed to be a write-up but I am dead tired and also I just got an email from my uni telling me my thesis has been accepted! I am the Master of Philosophy now! Or, I would be but I might have to make some urgent minor edits! Or not! I am now contacting my supervisor, deliriously happy, and also visibly confused. As a result, the write-up will be delayed but please accept your results from me while you're at it] The shadows crept about the Frozen Moon as the sun was swallowed by the hungry horizon. Today was the seventy-ninth sun; yesterday was the seventy-eighth. Tomorrow would be the eightieth sun, before the cycle would repeat, as it always had. As it surely always would. Joon tucked away his cosmetics kit and flashed a smile at Ellira. Fool, Ellira thought, and wondered if she should make a break for it soon. If tonight was the night. Her master had sent the same message, over and over again. Watch and report. Watch and report. Watch and report. Watch what, Ellira wondered, but it was not hers to comprehend why her master was interested in the goings-on of a group of a group of disgruntled arbiters and academics and bleeding hearts and even the occasional ambitious citizen, looking to move up in the world. The answer came to her almost at once, in response to the thought, in his usual soft voice. People often thought her master was weak for that, but Ellira knew better. She had seen him bleed, and she had seen his steel. Perhaps, she thought, not for the first time, one day he would let down his guard around her. He would put aside that terrible knife he carried, and he would let her close, and then she would put her knife in his stomach and twist it, just so. She had never killed one such as him before. She wondered how it would feel to have his blood on her hands. It would look a little like this sunset, Ellira decided. It was all blood and fire, and she smiled at the sight. She scratched her master’s seal into the dust, surreptitiously: three interlocked diamonds, overlapping, and then brushed it out with a swift gesture. ㄢㄋㄌ Not everyone watched the dying of the light. STINK gurgled, hands scrabbling desperately at his throat, struggling to breathe. His name wasn’t STINK, of course. Or rather, it was, in a manner of speaking. Stefan Trent Isle Nathan Kilkreath was very far from home indeed, where the various syllables of his name only served to elicit an eye roll from the citizens of the Rose Empire, rather than any sort of respect or flattery. He’d joined the conspiracy largely because he was no stranger to intrigue. The idea of a secret gathering against the oppressive Emperor had amused him, and he’d dreamed of spies and missions, and a resistance. There were none to be found, in the Frozen Moon. This game, after all, had turned out to be the end of him. “It’s nothing personal,” his assailant said, unsmiling. “In fact, it’s just good business.” STINK would have said something, anything, but then he was dead, and then he said nothing at all. ㄢㄋㄌ Kwai, too, did not watch the going down of the sun and the start of the evening. He dragged himself further into the saferoom. There were rations there, set aside for a rainy day. Wenshon had believed in being prepared, and had set aside a cache of rations, armour, disguises, a weatherproof cloak, and a small but generous array of weapons, just in case his past caught up with him one day. It had, of course. Kwai had written the letters. And Wenshon had died anyway, stabbed by a Striker and left to bleed out, in order to make a point. Two points. The first: that you didn’t walk away. You never did. The second: that Gamman had held all the cards and he’d willingly thrown one of them away. He didn’t need Kwai any longer. That Kwai was as disposable as Wenshon was, especially if he crossed Gamman. Even if he didn’t. He’d arrived far too late to do anything about Wenshon. He hadn’t had the chance to say anything, any final words. Something. The last thing Wenshon had said was that he was leaving to pick up supplies. They were running short. And then he was dead, bled out long before Kwai could have done anything about the matter. A helpless fury had overtaken Kwai, at the utter, unutterable waste of it all. He sat there on the wooden steps to the Frozen Moon, and tried to reconcile himself to a universe that had, all of a sudden, turned so very empty. He wanted to kill Gamman. He would have, if he could, but he was not Seo Doriye, who was the famous Sleeve of White Snow, who had killed fifteen men in various duels over the years, and who was faster than the blink of an eye on the draw. Not even Soul Forgery could give him Seo Doriye’s skills, and his handlers in the Reform Faction, back in Kaleva’s day, had insisted that he earn any skill he might have had with the blade the hard way. With painful bruises, a broken arm, and sweat stinging his eyes, even with his hair tied back behind him. He wasn’t going to kill his way to Gamman. Not through an entire army of Strikers; not with Gamman, who was renowned for both cunning and paranoia, who had taken increasing amounts of various poisons in order to build a resistance to them. Instead, Kwai had dug deep. He’d put out feelers, and carefully asked questions. Approached the right contact at the right time. It’d been five years. In the end, it had been the truth of Wenshon’s death that had bought him exactly what he needed. A few more letters slipped into the pile that Gamman had demanded he write, and then Kwai dispatched them. Worded just right, in most cases; hooked with exactly the right bait. He contacted the seditious, the ambitious, the fools, and the dreamers. He contacted everyone that Gamman had wanted: all of Gamman’s enemies gathered behind the flimsy walls of a single old teahouse. And then he contacted the Discovery Faction. Fallen from grace and bleeding a slow death since the Succession Riots, it had taken one name from his contact before the outcast remnants of the Discovery Faction would even consider granting him a meeting. Shuos KanSeun, scholar, desposed arbiter, historian, and sometime general of the Rose Empire. Kwai paused and rifled through a bag that had only recently been moved into the saferoom. There was a bolt extractor there, though it would hurt. There were bandages, clean enough that he would not risk woundrot or infection. There was painwort, which was unbearably bitter, but the better of the two options. And there was bloodstanch, ground into powder a month ago, and fresh enough to form a slow seal over the wound. There was soapstone as well; he’d hoarded just enough for an emergency, and a bottle of squid ink, though it was not fresh enough. He left those alone; Flesh Forgery was difficult and dangerous under the best of conditions, and Kwai was not that desperate yet. He ground his teeth together and began. ㄢㄋㄌ Bad enough, Faitren thought, that Lawrence Scholdei had been sent out to negotiate with the Strikers and had gotten killed. She grimaced. Her tongue felt thick and caked in dust. The remaining water had been saved to soothe their parched throats, a little at a time. They could not hold out much longer. The others must know that. Joon sat on the floor, cross-legged, his eyes almost glazed over. Ellira was nearby, a dull flush in her cheeks. Yes was sluggish, barely stirring from her curled up position on the floor to make a halting comment or to answer a question. Somi had yet to budge from under the table, while Marzia leaned against the wall, blacksmith’s arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were narrowed in distrust. Kavela stood opposite Marzia, readiness in her posture. Her lips, though, were chapped and dry. “We need a better plan,” Faitren whispered. Croaked, rather. “We’re running out of water.” Itiah had died, they’d learned later, after his body was dumped in front of the teahouse, his eyes strangely burned out, without a single mark on him. She shuddered at the thought of what foul blasphemies Emperor Gamman’s Strikers now employed on their enemies. Itiah had died trying to bring them water. There was half a waterskin in his pocket, and Kavela had wasted precious moisture crying out in horror as they watched the waterskin spill some of its contents into the dust. The swift action of Ellira had salvaged the rest of the waterskin, and they added its miserable contents to their dwindling stores of water. “How much longer can we hold out without water?” Faitren continued. “They’re happy to kill us all—or wait us out.” She didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not with the thirst a constant, nagging irritation that she couldn’t ignore at all. She glared at the rest of them, especially Ellira. Her eyes felt gummy and stung. She tried to push past the sensation. “Say I’m selling out if you want. There’s nothing we can do now that the well’s fouled.” “Then you go alone,” Marzia told her, firmly. “We’re not having any of this.” Ellira’s shoulders shook, as though she was trying to cry, and Joon did his best to soothe her. Kavela simply glared at her. “Go then,” Kavela said. “Go there and die, if you want to.” She didn’t look away until Faitren had left. ㄢㄋㄌ Faitren crossed the courtyard, nervously expecting a Striker’s crossbow to find her any second. There was nothing. No hum of crossbow bolts, no sound of blades. Nothing at all. The back of her neck prickled, as though she was being watched, although she hadn’t the faintest idea where her watcher might be. She crossed into the picket line of Strikers without incident. They looked scornfully at her condition but accepted her surrender. Her arms were bound at the wrist with rawhide and she was escorted into a tent with a single Striker—a young woman who wore bright silver charms in her curling hair, and whose equipment was so fanatically polished you might have expected to see her coming several yards away. And they gave her water. She nearly gave herself a stomachache, drinking greedily until she felt her stomach would burst. The Striker took away her waterskin, and gave her another. And another. Sweet, clean, pure water, and all Faitren could think of was the relief, that all the others had to do was to surrender. She wondered what had gone wrong with Lawrence. She heard a strange sound, almost as though something was ripping apart, and then she realised that the silken walls of the tent were falling, as someone sawed a blade through the material, cutting an opening. A man poked his head in. And then she saw the head of a crossbow, nocked with vicious bolts. The Striker drew her sword and lunged, and suddenly fell to the ground, dead, the knife that had cut the tent silk now protruding from her eye, sunk hilt-deep. “So much for Glory,” said the man. He had a pleasant voice, with the hint of a burr to it, the sort that snagged and became sharp when you least expected it. “Goodnight.” Pain ripped through her, and the last thing Faitren saw was the man shaking his head and turning away. ㄢㄋㄌ STINK (STINK) was killed! He was from the Heritage Faction and aligned with the Conspirators! Devotary of Spontaneity (Faitren) was lynched! He was from the Glory Faction and aligned with the Conspirators! The cycle will end at 9PM tomorrow, on the 23rd of October, GMT+8! Vote Tally Player List

Rule Clarifications

Cycle Four Precipice Death walked the teahouse and the surrounding courtyard that night. He wore a silk mask, dyed the bright, fresh spurt of arterial blood. Across a shoulder, he balanced a sword so large that even the most muscular of the palace Strikers should have struggled to lift it, let alone swing it with any ease. In the other hand, he held a repeating crossbow, already loaded with bolts, and ready to fire. Death walked, and in their sleep, some of the conspirators trembled. Perhaps it was some animal sixth sense: some barely-eradicated instinct from the past of swaying fronds and thick underbrush, a shared history red in tooth and claw. Death walked that night, and no one was safe. ㄢㄋㄌ “Isn’t that just a little dramatic?” Shuos KanSeun shrugged. “Perhaps I took liberties,” he admitted, unabashed. “But Ableah Edr was there that night, and I think Gamman had planned for everything but that. Or at least, Gamman had kept his plans fluid enough to account for those who should not have been there: the Discovery Faction, and myself. But Ableah...Gamman had not accounted for Ableah.” “But Gamman wanted them dead,” said his interlocutor. “He wanted them broken and brought to heel,” Kan corrected, cutting in. “He wanted to make an example of them. Oppression is a delicate balance to walk. Too much of the sword, and you lose effectiveness. People are too terrified to take their own initiative; they start watching their own backs, rather than doing what needs to be done. Too much of the silk glove, and you leave the steel in their spines. And then it is your own back that might sprout daggers one day. Easy enough, for the Emperor of the Eight Suns to order a small team of Strikers into each house to ensure their deaths. Harder to send a flurry of letters in secret. But then they would be martyrs, and that would never do. He had weathered the criticism that came with the death of his own Faction’s arbiters, but he knew this required something more.” “A game,” the arbiter said, slumping back in his chair. The movement peeled the hem of his robes away from his ankle, and just for a fleeting moment, Kan caught sight of a series of inked lines. “But of course. Gamman has...always been masterful at games.” “Games are the most honest representations of life, Arbiter,” Kan said. “It cuts straight to the quick and exposes bone. It cuts away at everything superfluous, and reveals what we are willing to do to win. What we will give up, and what must be defended, no matter the cost. Games like these...games of empire...these have the highest stakes of all.” “Of course they do,” Arbiter Raishin said. “Who else but Emperors can command that others die for their desires?” For a moment, he seemed to smile, as if he had in mind a private joke. ㄢㄋㄌ Ecnelis was hungry. The first few days in the teahouse had been fine. He’d kept to himself and read his book, from cover to cover. And then backwards, just for variety. He wanted nothing to do with the mess that the attempt at conspiracy had become, and could only hope that it would make a significant difference to Gamman’s Strikers. Ecnelis was not certain why the Strikers did not move in on the teahouse. After all, they had every advantage. But then, he corrected himself, as his stomach threatened to gnaw itself, perhaps that was the point. It was precisely because the Strikers had every advantage that they saw no need to close the noose on the miserable conspirators. After all, they had all the time in the world. The food in the teahouse was running low, though there was at least a well. Ecnelis was not certain that he intended to starve, however. A man couldn’t live on books alone. He tramped out grumpily to the kitchen and checked the larder surreptitiously. The last of the summer snacks had been consumed, and he found only a shred or two of dried dates, which he gnawed at. They didn’t suffice to trick his stomach into thinking it was full, however, and so he sighed, and went out to the well, thinking to at least fill his stomach with water and gasped. There was a body floating face down in the well, pierced through with crossbow bolts. Ecnelis tried to scream but he let out only a faint gurgle as a knife tore through his stomach. The masked figure held up a repeating crossbow and pulled the trigger. Almost negligently, he shoved the dying body into the well. He knelt to the pooling blood that Ecnelis had left on the cobblestones, and produced a crossbow bolt from his quiver. He dipped the fletching in the blood. “Another dead,” he growled. Another corpse closer to the end. Another weapon in his hand. It was written there, but fools they, they did not read the message he left written for them in the language of blood and broken bodies. Fools. After all, wasn’t it Glory who prided themselves on their fluency in blood and battle? ㄢㄋㄌ Kwai all but collapsed on the floor of the old, tiny, dusty storeroom, dragging his bad leg and leaving behind a long smear of blood. Just a little longer… He told himself. He just had to hold on for a little longer… He fumbled for the jar of rice wine, and missed, and reached out again, and just barely caught hold of it. It took all his strength to press down on it, and even when he did, he unwittingly rested too much weight on his bad leg and cursed again. There was a soft click, and then the sound of whirring gears. Part of the wall spun about to reveal blank plaster, with a dark seal on the door. Stamped in blood. Kwai had renewed the seal on the door without fail, over the last five years. He tore at the seal. The fresh plaster wall disappeared, revealing an old doorframe. Once, a short time ago in the history of the Frozen Moon, this secret room had been sealed up behind plaster. After the Succession Riots, however, Wenshon had torn down the plaster. The thought brought pain, but Kwai bore up with it steadily. He limped through the threshold, and into what lay beyond. ㄢㄋㄌ “I think we should negotiate with them,” Lawrence Scholdei said, of the Strikers that seemed a permanent presence around the Frozen Moon: just barely visible, but thoroughly menacing. The unwelcome discovery that Ecnelis had been found dead in the well, along with a nameless Striker, brought little comfort to the involuntary residents of the Frozen Moon. Water was now being thoroughly rationed. How many days could they last without water? Lawrence Scholdei was beginning to feel the pressure. No, he thought to himself, hiding the thought behind a cutting smile. This was barely delightful at all. Even the pastries had run out, and Lawrence did not feel up to the task of fathoming what they might start eating when they got unaccountably peckish. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure about this,” Kavela said. “Negotiation implies we have something they want, they have something we want, we talk and make it happen. There’s nothing they want from us. Not, at least, anything we’d want to give.” She suppressed a shiver. She wasn’t going to die, and she wasn’t about to lie down and give in like this. “If we don’t negotiate, we’re dead,” Faitren pointed out, from where she’d been lurking in the shadows. “Seems to me like you’re in league with the killers from the Discovery Faction here. You can’t take us in a straight fight, so you want to talk us into lying down and dying?” she spat at the floorboards by Kavela’s feet. “I’m with Scholdei. We need to survive, before we talk about anything else at all.” Marzia moved to stand beside Kavela. Her blacksmith’s shoulders and muscle made her seem more intimidating, even though she barely came up to Faitren’s chin. “Think you should reconsider,” she said, firmly. “We have nothing to give them, except our lives. This is not a path we should even be considering. That’s defeat talking.” She wished she had the words to convince them. She was better with metal and forge-fire than she was with people, and sometimes the words turned to slag in her mouth. Joon had found Ellira by this point, and when she shivered, he snaked an arm about her waist, allowing her to lean back against his chest. “No,” Ellira said, quietly. “I...I think that wouldn’t be good. They’d kill us, right? I don’t want to die…” Her green eyes glinted with tears. “No one’s dying today,” Joon told her, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. “I promise.” “How are you going to make sure of that?” Lawrence asked, arching an eyebrow. “I’m calling your bluff, lover-boy. They hold all the cards. We have nothing. Nothing. If we stay here, the Discovery Faction will slaughter us all! I’d rather we take our chances with the Strikers. Nights bind Gamman! Any of you who support me are welcome to come along.” He strode out of the teahouse, and for a moment, they thought he had made it through. But then they heard the characteristic clank-thwack of crossbows firing. Lawrence, at least, had not cried out. No one had followed him. No one had moved at all. ㄢㄋㄌ Itiah went out in the dark. He hoped that the Strikers would not see him. He was not sure he was brave. It was easy to be brave when you had nothing left to lose. And he had played his part, hadn’t he? He’d seen through the deceptions of the Discovery killer, Asterion. They needed water. They needed someone who could breach the Striker perimeter. He did not think himself specially skilled. He thought only of himself as one amongst many, and knew that there was a task that needed doing. The Strikers did not see him. Perhaps luck smiled upon him, or the fickle moon, who shrouded her face from the world below as he held his breath and worked his way past the Striker picket lines, a little at a time. He kept his head low and kept going. There were so many of them. That thought struck him with dismay. If they fell upon the teahouse, all at once, the conspirators would be crushed; caught between the anvil of the Discovery turncoats and the Striker hammer. The moon had turned her gaze from him, but there was a hunter in the dark. As Itiah passed into the shadow of a silk tent, a tall figure grabbed him, and then a sword swept through him, and he fell forever as his eyes burned. The last thing Itiah heard, whispered balefully: “I see you.” ㄢㄋㄌ The cycle will end on 22nd October, at 9PM! (GMT+8.) I think I am here. (Itiah) was killed! He was from the Heritage Faction and aligned with the Conspirators! Butt Ad Venture (Lawrence Scholdei) was lynched! He was from the Glory Faction and aligned with the Conspirators! Xinoehp512 (Ecnelis) let history pass him by! He was from the Glory Faction and aligned with the Conspirators! Vote Tally Player List