Kasimir

One more rule clarification: 1. The write-up reveals no game-relevant information. Where the death announcement is concerned, the Spy and Handler do not reveal in any distinctive way from the rest of the Conspirators, i.e. expect to see something like:

Hello there! 1 We are back with more rule clarifications for this cycle! 1. It has been brought to my attention that the Order of Actions has not been updated. Sorry for the oversight! Here is the new Order of Actions given there is no more Assassination: Specifically, the Stack now entails that Survivors will be hit by the kill, before the Extra Life kicks in, 'saving' them. So if a Survivor is protected by a Striker, then the Survivor will not need to use up their additional life. The protection absorbs the kill first. 2. If two Arbiters, Wyrm and Haelbarde, attempt to redirect Jain's vote, then Jain will roll over, go back to sleep, and munch more bamboo simply stick with his original vote, whatever that is. 3. Strikers cannot protect from both a lynch and a kill on the same target. (Whichever one gets through is strictly academic by this point, but I'll flip a coin for it, just for the records.) On the other hand, two Strikers protecting the same target could protect from both the lynch and the kill. 4. If every Eliminator except a C3 Disco!Embedded Operative is killed, then yes, the Embedded Operative gets a kill every cycle instead. There's no one to hog the kill anymore ht: @Elbereth for spotting the catastrophic phrasing 5. No actions can be taken during the Assassination round. But only Eliminators are free to vote. That's it. 6. If the last Villager lynches the last Eliminator, and the last Eliminator kills the last Villager, then there will be an Assassination Cycle, on the grounds that technically-speaking, the Eliminator win-con requires survival whereas the Village one does not. 7. An Embedded Operative who chooses during C5 can first make the kill during C6.

Reserved for rule clarifications. Also, did you know the cycle titles are song links? You have three guesses for which song this cycle is based around, and the first ten don't count Vote Tally Player List Rule Clarifications

Cycle Three Old Stones It had been five years since Shi KwaiRan had killed an Emperor; the tiny pebble that had started the avalanche that was to come. The Succession Riots began almost the same evening that Emperor Yazad and Arbiter Kaleva had died, and the ensuing bloodbath had nearly eradicated the Moderation Faction and the Discovery Faction. And Gamman, the ambitious but unassuming arbiter of the Reform Faction, had ridden the chaos to power, stepping in to cut the legs out from underneath the warring Factions. As far as most of the citizens of the Rose Empire were concerned, the MaiPon artist who had assassinated the former Emperor, may he reign in radiance, had been captured by the Strikers, and well, it was best not to think too deeply about those things, though they had also hoped that his death had been long and agonising. In truth, Kwai had had a quiet and rather uneventful life since the end of the Succession Riots. Life went on; the Frozen Moon weathered a terrible midsummer storm, and then the following months were taken up by repairs. He waited tables and generally stayed out of the way. Occasionally, he painted. He wanted no more role in Imperial politics, much less the terminal sort. He kept his head down, and for a time, he allowed himself to breathe and to believe that it was over. Gamman, in any case, was busy consolidating his power. All of this came to an end one evening, when he came out of the kitchen to an empty tea room, and Gamman was sitting at the table, having helped himself to a cup of fresh Emperor’s Blessing tea. There was a crash. Pottery shattering on the floorboards. He’d dropped the stacked cups he was carrying, of course. Wenshon would take it out of his paycheck. That didn’t seem like a pressing concern now, when the Emperor of the Eighty Suns was sitting in their teahouse. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Gamman said, and his smile was like a knife. Kwai felt a sudden chill. “Your Majesty,” he said, cautiously. “What do you want?” “You seem to have lost a little of that court polish, haven’t you?” Gamman observed, idly. He might have very well been talking about the weather. Kwai could not make out any Strikers in sight, but he suspected there would be at least a dozen of them close by, ready to intervene if necessary. “I work in a teahouse now, your Majesty,” Kwai said. “So I’ve heard,” said Gamman. As if he hadn’t come to the Frozen Moon, five years ago, when he’d wanted the other ambitious arbiters from the Glory and Heritage Factions—Urskevan and Frava—assassinated for him. In the end, they’d lived. His smile grew as he set the cup back on the table. “What do I want? The same as Yazad and Kaleva, I suppose. I want power, to set the policies I must. I want power, and that means I need to be able to get rid of the old guard, the corrupt ones who have money and power and influence, and who have been kicking their heels and screaming about every single reform our Faction wanted to pass. I want to live to a ripe old age, and to see my enemies humbled, and the Rose Empire strong and proud and powerful again. Six in every ten citizens outside of the Imperial Seat starve each year; within the Imperial Seat, four in every ten citizens do not have a roof over their heads. You didn’t think Kaleva was a saint, did you? He had a nasty habit of throwing his enemies into jail or blackmailing them. There’s a reason our eyes and ears grew so extensive under Kaleva.” “Your Majesty, please get to the point.” Gamman reached into the bag at his side and threw out a set of books, all bound together with red cord. “Burn them when you’re done. The names and addresses of people who are of interest to me.” “I’m not a killer anymore, your Majesty.” “Then don’t kill for me,” said Gamman. “Write for me.” Kwai pushed the books away. “I work at the Frozen Moon now, your Majesty.” Gamman smiled. “Where is Wenshon?” he asked, a seeming non-sequitur. “He went out yesterday to—” Kwai began and then froze up as the implications hit him like a charging Gurish warhorse. “Write the letters, assassin,” Gamman repeated, softly. He pushed the books back at Kwai. “Study the names. Know them. And then, we will begin.” ㄢㄋㄌ Wai ZhierSen had never expected to return to the Frozen Moon. She wanted no more part of such games. She remembered from past experience that there was a small bathhouse at the back of the Frozen Moon, and slipped away from the milling crowd of disoriented conspirators, and made straight for it. If any of Gamman’s Strikers were out there, they would have to fight her for the bathhouse. She ran a hand through her hair and winced tiredly as her fingers came away thick with glitter. Was there no end to the sticky menace? Even getting plastered with soggy beard hair was better than this. In any case, Zhier was not as concerned with the rest of the conspirators. Let Gamman reign over an Empire in revolt, if he must. Or an Empire of ashes. That did not matter to her. What mattered was whether the creator was to be found amongst this rabble. And if they were, Zhier intended to take appropriate, bloody vengeance. Preoccupied as she was, she didn’t notice a shadow slipping out from the courtyard, slinking towards the brightly-lit confines of the teahouse. A shape stirred in the darkness, letting out a cry of pain. Zhier hesitated. To pursue? No, she decided, a fraction of a heartbeat later. She rolled her shoulders, and stretched out her arms, fingers interlocked. It wasn’t her problem today. Heroics was for someone else. Whoever she was, Wai ZhierSen wasn’t a hero, and she didn’t intend to start being one today. ㄢㄋㄌ Blood welled up from the meat of Kwai’s thigh, from which a crossbow bolt protruded. He bit back a cry of pain and leaned against the pavillion wall. Strikers, he thought, disgustedly. Of course it had to be Strikers. Why else would Gamman ask that of him? He examined the bolt. All things considered, the wound was not particularly bad, and the Striker in question had gotten the drop on Kwai, or he would not have shot Kwai to begin with. Of course, Gamman hadn’t bothered to tell the Strikers anything else, Kwai thought. He had yet to decide on whether it was back to being a deniable asset, or if Gamman had wanted him dead too. Left alive, he was a loose end that could not be relied on, especially since he had resisted doing Gamman’s wetwork for him. He wasn’t going to make it back across the courtyard. Not like this. The bolt had gone through muscle, and as far as he could tell, had not been tainted or poisoned. Still, attempting to put his weight on that leg immediately brought about pain, and he tried very hard not to curse. The Strikers weren’t moving in yet. That puzzled him. They should have been. And yet, they seemed content to form a loose cordon about the teahouse, and to shoot at anyone who was unfortunate enough to enter their line of sight. What were they waiting for? ㄢㄋㄌ “Leaving so soon?” a voice asked. A flick had the knife dropping into her hand from its concealed sheath, as Zhier went straight for the speaker. In a moment, she had a stranglehold on his collar, a knee wedged against his thigh, in perfect position for a reap. Her knife pricked his throat, and blood beaded up. “Prickly, aren’t we?” “Bad time to be sneaking up on someone in the dark,” Zhier retorted, not letting up. It was the Grand from the teahouse. “What do you want? Think the group back there will manage to not wet their pants if you aren’t there holding their hands?” The Grand cocked his head, curiously. “In a matter of speaking. Are you going to put that away so we can talk?” Zhier raised an eyebrow. “Give me a reason,” she challenged. “You seem to be doing a pretty good job of talking even with a blade at your throat.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself. You’re looking for someone, and they’re in the teahouse. Or rather, they will be in the teahouse. But they will also be in the pavillion, rather than the bathhouse, which is where they’re heading.” “What’s in it for you?” “I studied the Succession Riots,” he said. “To understand the Riots, I had to understand the key players during the Riots. Yourself, Lady Wai. Asterion. Cang Lu, Ableah, and the others. I had to understand the enemies we faced, from the Glory and Heritage and Moderation Factions.” He smiled, faintly. “Cunning of Gamman to rise when we were too busy slaughtering each other to notice. I think they let him, too. By the end, we were all tired of wading through blood.” She applied a little more pressure to the knife, and he spoke a little faster. “The last report that mentioned you was...curious,” he said. He didn’t flinch or twitch away from her knife. She did not loosen her grip on his collar. “Mentions of some fantastic portal and a hail of sweetbreads trailing beard hair. A rain of maple syrup and glitter. And then you came back—the sketch artist’s portrait did not do you justice, Lady Wai—and then I asked myself what the reason could be. Asterion, perhaps? He was staring at you as if he’d seen a ghost. But no. I suppose you want vengeance.” “Suppose I do,” Zhier growled. “Why tell me about the pavillion?” He frowned at her, as though she was a particularly inept pupil. Zhier did not like that at all. “Because it is history,” he said. “Because that is the collection of our lives; one person intersecting another, and another, and another, writ large. Because tonight was not inevitable, and yet we have been steadily crawling towards it, since the day Yazad and Kaleva died and we slaughtered each other in the streets. Because I want to see what happens next.” His smile was thin. “I am, after all, a scholar first and foremost.” Zhier withdrew her blade, slamming it back into the concealed sheath in a swift blur of movement. She let go of his collar at the same time. She’d have to clean the knife later. After she dealt with the creator. “The creator will be there. You are certain of it?” “How many things are certain in this life, Lady Wai?” he asked her softly. She kicked at the soft tissue behind his kneecap, just to make him flinch. “I am tired of being played with,” Zhier said, steadily. “Think about that before you try to entangle me in more Discovery games.” “You will be waiting a very long time, then,” the Grand replied. “The best way of modelling situations is to look at games.” She left him in the courtyard. Overhead, a thin sliver of moon was beginning to appear from the shroud of clouds. ㄢㄋㄌ Asterion moved through a world of ghosts. Too many memories. He saw ghosts wherever he moved, or sat. He blinked, and the afterimage of Cang Lu laughing over a cup of tea disappeared. He ground the back of his hand against his eyes, and Ashim disappeared. Probably returned to the dust. Old bones. He even saw Jain, the panda arbiter of the Moderation faction, nosing at a large bowl of tea. Then Itiah walked through Jain, and he realised Jain wasn’t real. Too many of them, long dead, long departed. Flushed down the drain. All of them except Asterion, and now, her. The main door was barred but he watched as the ghost of the MaiPon server slipped out through the kitchen and almost laughed, silently. Of course. Kitchens meant waste, and waste meant that there was always another exit. He slipped out through the kitchen window, practically daring a crossbow bolt in the dark. None came. Perhaps the Strikers were asleep. Or perhaps Gamman had given them other instructions. Asterion did not know. Asterion did not care. Cang Lu smiled, his eyes burned out forever by a Shardblade, and raised a cup of tea in a silent salute. He faded again into insubstantiality as Asterion walked on, further into the dark. ㄢㄋㄌ He crossed the courtyard, his soft shoes barely making any noise on old stones. He had learned to walk silently, had learned to Awaken, had learned to infuse life into the dead. He had not learned how to survive with ghosts and the pain. How to survive when they’d shot him and thrown him out and left him for dead. The cart rattling down the cobbled road, dead bodies surrounding him. He couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe couldn’t— Asterion stumbled into the open air pavilion, beneath the peach trees. He was not alone. She was there, looking right at him. “You,” she said. Asterion’s throat worked. He tried to find the words, but there was nothing at all. He had not spoken in years. “You set them on me then, didn’t you?” He wanted to tell her he had nothing to do with that, but he had no words to set against the suspicion in her eyes, and in any case, she wasn’t alive. He should stop talking to the dead, except it was Cang Lu who had warned him, and the MaiPon was probably dead, and he’d told him to come, so there was that. He was a dead man walking, and that was the problem; he was haunting the living and he wasn’t going to be allowed peace until it was over and he could sleep. “The glitter never leaves,” she growled. “Never. I spent weeks trying to get the stench of syrup and beard hair out of my mind, and I’ve been finding streaks of glitter everywhere. Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused me?” A knife flashed. “Didn’t…” someone wheezed. Asterion realised belatedly that it was his voice. He hadn’t spoken in so many years. There was a hot, wet pain in his abdomen and his hand came away bloody. If she could kill him, was she a ghost? He reached out and grasped her hand by the wrist. It was warm to the touch, or maybe he was the one who was cold. “Didn’t,” he croaked. “Someone else…” He read the suspicion in her eyes, bleeding away into realisation and horror. “Who?” Wai ZhierSen demanded. She grabbed at his shoulders, as if she could stop him from dying by force of will. As if she could pry answers from him. They’d done this dance before, hadn’t they? Lives, and lives… “I died...years ago…” Asterion whispered. Blood of a ghost… Death came, in the end, as an old friend. He had not seen Ableah in years, either. He smiled and closed his eyes. ㄢㄋㄌ There was only breath. There was only the repeating crossbow. Ableah cranked it and lined up his shot and exhaled and then fired. Once. Twice. Thrice. A remarkable piece of engineering, the crossbow. In Scyla, they used the crossbow too, but in the Rose Empire, they’d worked out how to make the crossbow fire several bolts, one after another, before it needed reloading. The bolts ripped through the killer. He’d seen her, and in five out of three worlds, he’d been too late to stop her from killing Asterion. Far too late. He tasted blood on his tongue as he stood over the two of them, one fallen over the other. Dead. The ducks in the pond let out a mournful call as Ableah faded back into the embrace of the shadows. ㄢㄋㄌ Kwai ground his teeth together and forced himself to his feet. He wasn’t going to die here, exposed, in the courtyard. Not today. Not like this. ㄢㄋㄌ little wilson (Wai ZhierSen) was killed! She was from the Glory Faction and aligned with the Conspirators! Alvron (Asterion) was lynched! He was undercover in the Heritage Faction and aligned with the Discovery Faction! The cycle will end (and the new one begin) on 21st October, at 9PM, GMT+8. Stay tuned for the next round of Who Wants To Kill Somebody Today!

What I'm saying is that that's technically correct, but it's true of everyone, including Discovery, so that doesn't say much that's helpful to the Village and the Eliminator. It's not the indicative part of the death announcement. The only thing that's significant, gameplay-wise, in the death announcement, is whether they're listed as being Conspirator-aligned, Discovery-aligned, or Non-aligned.

I should take the opportunity to proactively clarify this point before it generates more confusion. 1. The Spy and Handler will show up in red when killed, even though their faction is technically green. This is because they win with the Conspirators. The Embedded Operative will not show up as a red (Conspirator) or purple (Discovery) faction member if they have not made a choice yet. 2. 'Glory' and 'Heritage' are flavour and can be safely ignored.

SE players at GMs: Nothing brought this on, I promise Someone shared the lecturer/deadlines thing again on my feed, and I thought it was appropriate.

I can actually clarify this as this was the subject of a tiny bit of trouble on our side. Basically, Striker didn't green his original vote. So we had a question of how rigidly we wanted to adhere to our requirement that original votes must be greened out. (The original rule was phrased more as "please do this or we can't guarantee we won't miss stuff, and if we do, sorry, tough luck.") We ended up adhering rigidly, which is why Striker's vote for Alv didn't count, on the view that it was in our rules and we should stick with that. But before we did that, I chose to interpret the rule liberally and flipped a coin for the tie-breaker. All I can say is that either RNGesus or the Euro really has it out for Striker this time >>;;; So in this context, the liberal or rigid treatment of our rules did not make a difference.

Rule Clarifications

The cycle has closed! Hang in there, we'll be back shortly after the commercial break!

When you persistently badger a colleague who loved the entire Wheel of Time series to read Sanderson's other works

Ahem. You mean Kale'elin, Herald of the Healthy Superfood Lifestyle, with a side dish of great justice! Remember to eat enough fibre, kids! I return you to your regular scheduled backstabbing and murderparty now Also, on a more serious note: please remember to go back and retract your votes guys! I'm free enough avoiding reports to be able to count and to see what you mean, but please do help to make it easier on me, as I already messed up one of the trackers just now Edit: Arbiters cannot change non-existing votes. They can only change existing votes, either by re-directing them or converting them to a no-vote.

We return you to your regularly-scheduled rule clarifications, and another reminder to familiarise yourself with the updates on Assasination and the Reform Spy. With that: 1. What do the lucky numbers mean? They're flavour. This game has more flavouring than a packet of instant noodles. But if you strike the lottery, give me a call! 2. The Embedded Operative gets different bonuses based on which cycle and which side they make their choice for. Choosing in the third and fifth cycles are mutually exclusive. 3. The third cycle Discovery bonus essentially 'shares' the kill with the Discovery Faction. The Embedded Operative gets it on every other cycle, and the Discovery Faction gets it on every other cycle. (Mutually exclusive.) 4. Is everybody in the same role again? Or was RNG used? 5. Discovery and the EO know who each other are, if the EO chooses Disco in C3. They just can't communicate.

Player List Rule Clarifications

Cycle One: Full Circle “As it transpired, the fifth year of Emperor Gamman’s reign was shaken by threats from without and within. For all he spoke about reform and changing the nature of Rose Empire policy, Gamman inherited the previous Emperor’s mistakes, and relations with Svorden continued to be strained throughout the early years of Gamman’s rule. Gamman, too, had a keen instinct for power, and he had inherited a devastated polity in the aftermath of the Succession Riots, which saw the Moderation Faction almost entirely eradicated. Even so, ShuWen of Ukurgi argues convincingly that policies passed in the first years of Gamman’s rule were more about the consolidation of his power and the concomitant control of internal dissent…” —Shuos KanSeun, When the Rose Blooms: The Lives of the Emperors ㄢㄋㄌ On the sixth day of Gushurye, Arbiter Darela of the Reform Faction was discovered in her office. The door was ajar. It was said that the Strikers had only discovered her because of the stench. It was, after all, well into the dog days of summer, and by the time they discovered her dangling from the rafters, it was, well. The less said about that the better. Rumour had it that a number of Strikers—seasoned, toughened men and women who pulled bodies out from the slums and sewers on a weekly basis—had fallen to their knees and evacuated their breakfasts. They cut her down, of course. The funeral was a relatively subdued affair. Everyone knew that Arbiter Darela had quarreled with Arbiter Huzin in the Frozen Moon the other week. Everyone knew that Arbiter Darela had disappeared and everyone knew that they were supposed to know. That was how these things worked. The official consensus was that it was a terrible tragedy, except that a Striker had gotten drunk off-duty and whispered to a flower-seller, who in turn had chatted to a butcher, the butcher a seamstress, and suddenly half of Imperial Seat had heard it from someone that if Arbiter Darela had, in fact, taken her own life, she had been helped by a series of stab wounds in her back. Arbiter Huzin attended the funeral, her lips pressed together in a tight colourless line, her gaze fixed straight ahead. The last remaining arbiters of the Reform Faction, Arbiter Raishin and Arbiter Ijimai both attended as well. It was noted that Arbiter Ijimai appeared to be suffering from an illness. It was also noted that their final, missing colleague, Arbiter Turela, had not been heard from for weeks. The very brave might approach the remaining arbiters of the Reform Faction and carefully offer their condolences. It was, after all, known that Arbiter Turela was fiery and stubborn as a rock-mule, and with a withering impatience for fools. It was also known that Arbiter Turela had shouted at the Striker who was the Captain of the Guard in the palace, and that they had fought about the proper use of treasury finances, and that Arbiter Turela was now missing. Someone who was exceedingly brave, to the point of folly, might further observe to Arbiter Huzin’s face that Arbiter Ijimai had refused to consent to legislation lowering the bar for the exercise of emergency powers, allowing the Rose Throne to bring the full force of the Strikers to bear upon the Svordish library in the market district. Some said Arbiter Raishin had all the backbone of wet porridge. Others said that if Arbiter Raishin had a single principled bone in him, it was that he was a survivor, and that he had some understanding with Gamman and would never act against him. Whatever the truth of that, Arbiter Ijimai eventually passed away after a short but gruelling illness. And then there were two. ㄢㄋㄌ Those were the larger events: the one the entire Imperial Seat knew about. But in the weeks that followed, smaller events came to pass: little things, easily overlooked by those who stood on the lofty peaks of the world and gazed down at the happenings and deeds of empire. One evening, a man went out to buy tea. He never returned home. Another evening, letters worked their way across the streets and rooftops of the Imperial Seat. Some worked their way into select books, and were pressed carefully between the pages so a casual onlooker would see nothing amiss. Another found its way into the light carrying tube of a courier pigeon and took wing across the ink-dark skies. Another was traced in a mixture of crushed beans and carefully applied to fine paper. Another was wedged in a drawer, another was left on an armourer’s workbench. Always, they said the same thing, in the end: spelled out in letters neat and crisp, strong and bold, crisp and flowing, ink pooling at the end of the brush so it sheened copper on the paper. The Frozen Moon, two nights from now. Even Emperors fall. ㄢㄋㄌ The door creaked, letting out an annoyingly loud protest as it swung open. The first person to enter the Frozen Moon stepped warily over the threshold, wondering if it was a trap. The letter that had been folded up and stuffed hastily into a coat pocket—really, he should have burned it when he first received it—felt like it was painting a target on his back. In any case, he had plenty of reason to be wary. It was a bad time to be someone with a distinctly foreign-sounding name in the Imperial Seat. It was an even worse time to be attending a meeting along the lines of what the letter had suggested. Lawrence Scholdei was fully prepared to flee if the Frozen Moon had turned up to be stuffed to the rafters with Strikers. It was a bad time to be in the Imperial Seat, really. Made a man jumpy. Made him see shadows everytime he turned his head. But there was Darela, wasn’t there? No one had heard from her for days, and then... Those were the times they were living in, and beggars made poor choosers, so Lawrence Scholdei breathed and set aside his worries and sauntered over to the counter where the lone MaiPon server was cleaning clay cups and stacking them one after another. The MaiPon server glanced over at him, a scowl darkening his face. “So early?” “No one else is here?” The server shook his head. “Booked the whole teahouse,” he muttered, disapprovingly. “Didn’t like the look of him, but he paid.” “Who was he, do you know?” The server stared flatly at him and refused to say anything more. In all fairness, Lawrence had not quite expected a response. After all, if you were soliciting those who might be interested in a matter of conspiracy against the Emperor of the Eighty Suns, you wanted a respectable teahouse that was known for a reasonable amount of discretion. Lawrence sat at a table and looked around. Normally, the teahouse would have been packed with patrons, but the mysterious letter-writer had paid for the use of the Frozen Moon, and so the teahouse was currently empty. He briefly entertained the idea that it might be a trap, and then dismissed it. If it was a trap, it had netted only a single fool. The MaiPon server came over with a cup of hot tea and a platter of steamed buns, and then left, taking up a broom with him, likely to sweep the fallen leaves from the courtyard outside. ㄢㄋㄌ The letter was nailed to the wall with a single crossbow bolt. Asterion crossed the room, glancing about him warily. It had been difficult, immediately after the Succession Riots, to be a known member of the Discovery Faction. Not any longer, however. Things had changed since then. It had helped that they had thought him dead, and afterwards, being a blasphemous scholar of the Discovery Faction meant nothing so long as he was useful. He breathed and the colourless cloak he wore shifted, slightly. A small price to pay for the precaution, even though it had not at all been easy to obtain. But there was no ambush, and as he reached out with his senses, he realised that the interloper had simply broken into the secret garret in the Gardens of the Sun, and left, having delivered the letter. He drew back. He could make out little from the letter itself, except for the startling words. The promise of power. Or perhaps, of vengeance. Asterion was not certain he cared for vengeance. The handwriting displayed the neat, economical strokes of the current favoured calligraphic style of the Rose Empire, except—there. A slight defect: a slight flourish, as though the writer had favoured a more elaborate calligraphic style, but had mostly succeeded in suppressing their original handwriting. The crossbow bolt itself; now that was a more interesting message. He ran his fingers along the fletching. The Strikers did not use swan feathers. Not any longer. And yet, the arrow was fletched with a swan feather. He tugged the crossbow bolt free. It had been embedded by force, rather than fired from a crossbow. He would have had to cut it free if it had come from a crossbow. The letter he folded neatly and slipped into a pocket of his cloak. The writer, at least, had Asterion’s attention. He would go to the Frozen Moon, for the first time in five years. He would return and watch. And perhaps he would find out what he wished to know. ㄢㄋㄌ Everyone asked Kavela if her name was really Kavela. You’d think people would know people could more or less share the same name, Kavela thought, as she perched somewhat high up in the peach tree and watched. She watched as person after person furtively crept towards the Frozen Moon and entered; she watched as the MaiPon server went out into the courtyard to sweep the fallen leaves. He didn’t look up. People rarely did. She peeled her purloined orange thoughtfully. She had been given the letter and told to come here and report on who she saw, and what she heard. She would have to enter the teahouse, of course. Eventually. She could spy on who came and who went, but she was expected to report as well on what was discussed, and this could not be done from a peach tree outside the teahouse. The letter would win her admission. She’d slipped it from the pocket of Arbiter Raishin himself—a fortuitous bump-and-grab. Her heart was still racing at the thought. Stalking Arbiters was dangerous; pickpocketing one, even in the crowded marketplaces of the Imperial Seat, was a fast way to get her door kicked in by Strikers. The letter, though. Her fingers tingled. She had more than one buyer lined up for the information from this meeting. And already, she had seen so much that was useful. Members of the various Factions: Glory, and Heritage, and Moderation—somehow struggling at the precipice of extinction—and even Gamman’s own Reform Faction. She recognised a Striker by his gait and the way he balanced himself, even though he carried no sword to the meeting, and tensed up, but then realised he wore a mask and his manner was furtive. Even an Arbiter came. It was Uskevan, Kavela thought. His build was distinctive, though it was bold of him to come without a mask. But Uskevan was of Glory; no doubt he thought a mask beneath him. That was interesting. Whoever had written the letter had been clever. She hadn’t realised what was happening at first, until she realised that the paper carried with it just the faintest whiff of crushed soybeans. A little steady heat and the words bloomed on the paper, materialising in dark brown writing. She munched thoughtfully on her orange, licked the juice from her fingers, and made her way down the tree, slipping from the last branch down to the courtyard tiles. Oof. Hard landing. The MaiPon man just raised an eyebrow at her and continued to sweep. Kavela moved past him, and towards the meeting at the Frozen Moon. Most of the others should have arrived by now ㄢㄋㄌ Ellira nursed her tea and watched as the tea and the steamed buns eventually loosened up this evening’s visitors to the Frozen Moon. Some of them wore simple masks, meant to conceal most of their features except their mouths. Not their throats, of course. She noticed a tall Grand—she supposed he was attractive enough, in a fine-featured way, if you were in the market for meat—smiling at her, and smiled back, ducking her head a little with feigned shyness. It always helped when they underestimated you; by now, it came as breathing to Ellira. And there was a little frisson of a thrill running sharp in her veins at the beginning of this dance, and then when she killed; by preference, close enough to feel the moment the life left them. This evening, however, the Grand was not her target—not yet, at any rate. Perhaps her master would change her mind later on. Her instructions had arrived for her in a coded message tied to the leg of a pigeon at the coops. Infiltrate the meeting, mark those who were there, and report back. The promise of death to come. No one was yet admitting that they’d convened the meeting. That was fine with Ellira; she concealed a yawn behind her hand. She hadn’t expected anyone to admit to it, in any case. Those who spoke now spoke guardedly; in implications and worried glances, rather than to directly solicit conspiracy. Differences of Faction and rank were set aside here. Everyone knew what Gamman had done to his own arbiters. Everyone here was someone who had come to the conclusion, however tentative, that something had to be done. Something had to change. It took only half the night of verbal fencing and multiple cups of tea before the conversation drifted into offers of resources and assets, and then finally, outright conspiracy. “Gamman is still young, for an Emperor,” declared one of the others. Ellira decided she was either more careless, or simply more trusting. “We can’t outwait him. Look at what he’s already done to the Empire. He’s gutting the laws, one by one, and those who can stop him, and if we wait, there’ll be no one left capable of stopping him.” “Exaggeration,” said the other. It was the tall Grand, Ellira realised. He folded his hands together. “But not untrue. Gamman already has his own private army, and he’s not afraid to deploy it as he desires. The Strikers have more powers under Gamman than they’ve ever had in the history of the Empire, and they are more numerous than they’ve ever been in the history of the Guard. More importantly, Gamman has been striking out at his opponents. You do realise that, don’t you?” he was speaking louder now, addressing the rest of the room. “If any of you were so much as followed, we’re going to disappear and then be found again in our own homes.” Like Darela, he meant. “Bold of you to assume we’re not even being infiltrated right now,” someone began. Which was about the point they were all interrupted by a series of loud, piercing shrieks. Ellira winced and clamped her hands against her ears immediately. Even Joon’s handsome features were marred by a grimace. What was going on? Someone dragged a very naked and very dead body out from a storeroom. It took Ellira a few moments to realise it was Arbiter Urskevan, formerly of the Glory Faction, and shot through with an excessive amount of crossbow bolts, all fletched with feathers that were a striking arterial red. He had vanished for a while, ostensibly to locate more steamed buns. Clearly, he’d bitten off more than he could chew. The Grand pressed a hand to his mouth, his pale eyes wide. Someone screamed. And screamed. And screamed. That was the point at which the clandestine meeting disintegrated into turmoil. ㄢㄋㄌ Herat decided she’d had enough. Getting rid of Gamman was all and very well, but she hadn’t bargained to end up dead in the process. Nights, how many arbiters were dead, by now? If they could kill an arbiter, they could most certainly kill someone like her, with all the ease of swatting a fly. “Well,” she said, as casually as possible. “Be seeing you around, then.” The Grand called out after her, but Herat had made up her mind. Enough was enough, and she was leaving, and that was— She made it halfway out of the window before she felt something. It was like someone had punched her in the stomach, and she felt the air rush out of her lungs at once. And then another punch. And another. Callused hands closed about her legs as someone yanked and she slid back, all at once, flopping to the floorboards of the teahouse, and then pain flared, all at once, as though it’d decided she’d been sufficiently spared, and she could’ve sworn there were crossbow bolts, short, thick, and heavy, protruding out of her stomach. Nights. Nights, she’d been shot. Nights. The Grand studied her, gravely. “She’s been shot,” he called out to the others. She did not know how his voice remained calm. She drummed her heels back against the floor, her breath coming in quick, panicked gasps. She’d been shot and it was hurting like blazes; it was like her stomach was molten glass and it hurt so much— “They’re outside,” the Grand said. Still calm. “I think we’re surrounded, now.” She knew he was saying something else, but there was a loud roaring in her ears and the world grew dark and distant and wavering. “Forgive me,” the Grand said, and then the world fell away. At last. At long last. ㄢㄋㄌ The cycle has begun! It will end at 9PM, GMT+8, tomorrow - on the 19th October. Please stand by for role PMs, player list, and rule clarifications! Please also remember to check the rules in the original thread, which has been edited to reflect the changes to Assassination and the Reform Spy!

[Ominous Statement] Re-sign-ups have closed. Please stand by for the thread. Again.

That's fair! Ultimately, I think the balance on that is a bit of a crapshoot - it'll end up depending on who the Spy is, who the Handler is, how many roles there are (since these are confirmed to not be the Spy or the Handler.) A good Handler will certainly make finding the Spy difficult - that's their primary job. Given that there are no PMs though, and given (so far) Village performance in QFs that don't have Seeks or roleblocks all over, an Eliminator team that goes into an Assassination Cycle would likely be facing a rather active Spy. We'll take that into account while jiggling the distro balance. Thanks for bringing it up!

If I'd meant to, I'd have said, "Let's not have a Reform Spy think they're a Striker now."

Please note that the rules in the initial game post have now been updated to their current incarnation for ease of reference. (RIP anyone trying to figure out what the original rules were, but hey ) Thanks @Alvron for helping me out there! Once again, this information will be repeated at the start of the game. Let's not have a Reform Spy think they're lynchproof now

@Haelbarde [Concerned Statement] We appear to have interested a goddess. [Smug Statement] We shall have to make a game worthy of her attention. [Concerned Statement] The players won't break it again, will they? [Statement of Trepidation] I am almost afraid to Discover Hi guys, welcome to the game! This is an important GM announcement. I will make this again at the beginning of the game, which is now taking place in around eleven hours' time. We are removing/patching the Assassination System. Please read this carefully as we do not want to cause more confusion, but we also do not want more problems/breaks. Changelog: [Read this for a summary of the main changes] Rationale [Less important but good to read if you're curious I guess] If you see any potential breaks, we would appreciate if you inform us early. I have already taken this patch (courtesy of Hael) to a few people, but more minds and eyes are better. Thank you, and see you in under eleven hours

No worries; thanks, and glad you had fun!

...Just for clarification guys, the re-run starts in slightly under twenty two hours P.S. STINK, is this what it feels like to be the guy in Pokemon who came down to Saffron City to fight Team Rocket and found the protag had already trashed them?

Ngl, I read that as you attempting to subtly role-claim, so I was all, "Wow, Reform Spy's being bold today by roleclaiming in RP."

Keep calm and immune on I can definitely say we were prepared for every single lynch outcome except that one.

Thanks to M'Hael for doing the great ending write-up and thanks to everyone for playing! Thanks especially to Fifth Scholar for being a great IM and managing to bootleg communicate with us even while in class A few comments before I reopen a sign-up post: Players did seem a bit stymied by the role of the Reform Spy. A gentle reminder that the village can actually win without the Spy, through good ol' fashioned stab votes and the like, as long as the Spy doesn't die by Assassination Since giving Eliminators certainty about your Spy means a loss, treading carefully when it comes to the Spy might be a good strategy. There are trade-offs, of course, and there isn't quite a 'right' way to play this. Familiarity with the rules might help In addition, players generally fared well enough until time pressure happened and they made last minute decisions under pressure which were a bit more Chernobyl - "Not great, not terrible." I did not expect to be the second person after Wyrm to have to re-run a game after it was more or less won in the first cycle, but there we go Good job to the Eliminator team, who were fairly on the ball. For what it's worth, the spec/dead doc, the Discovery Doc, and the Master Spreadsheet can be found here respectively. As previously announced, the game will be re-run, with the new cycle beginning tomorrow at 9PM, GMT+8, on the 18th October. I will be taking the existing player list to be the default for the re-run, so please do notify the thread if you want to drop out, join the game, or change character. This re-'sign up' phase will end at 8PM tomorrow so we can panic over formatting the role PMs again Thank you, and see you tomorrow at rollover! Player List