Kasimir

No. It's set in a fantasy-Asia.

A former drunkard, his apprentice, and a traitor attempt to bring massive chaos to many kingdoms.

Blind shot in the dark because friend is a Ginsberg fan: Jack Kerouac's On The Road?

Go for it! The more, the merrier, I say, and I believe M'Hael's cool with it too, given his own post at the start of this thread Since there are three of us at this juncture, and it's been a bit messy, I'm updating the list in the initial post to indicate the current status of things. Edit: I'm still on Gamma, though I'm kind of in and out at the moment due to thesis blues and RL woes (I love the rhyme, don't you?) M'Hael, Maili, if you can PM me your statuses, I can update the first post accordingly so people know just what to expect (slow service on my end, alas...), and I can indicate who the primary person working on someone's banner is, in order to make sure there's clarity.

Aniketos Heron #3: Wood and Words The clack of the wooden dummy rotating was the first thing Ani’s tin-enhanced ears picked up on as he approached the private training room. He hesitated, and then pushed the door open. Nax did not turn or acknowledge his presence in any way. He watched as she proceeded through a series of palm-blocks and cross-arm blocks, slipping in the occasional counter-jab and palm-strike at lightning speed. Clack, clack, went the arms of the wooden dummy as Nax moved through the sequence and then started all over again from the beginning. Surreptitiously, Ani reached within, to the sparks of power he had begun to recognise as his metal reserves and flicked on bronze. Either Nax had her copper on--which he doubted--or she wasn’t burning pewter. “What did that dummy do to you, anyway?” he asked, lightly. Nax didn’t look away; the rhythm of her strikes and blocks did not vary. It was, Ani reflected, a comforting, staccato backdrop to their conversation. He wondered where she’d learned to fight like that from. He wondered if Uncle Wystan would’ve taught him if he’d grown up in Keep Heron. Almost out of habit, he focused on that thought, burned gold. Nothing. Not a flicker. “Nothing,” Nax finally said. “But its mother, on the other hand…” Ani was startled into laughter. “Well, then,” he remarked. “That explains your visiting the sins of the mother upon the child.” He heard her sigh. “Are you just here to talk to me?” Nax asked, frankly. “Because if you are, Ani, I came here to be left alone to train.” He walked over to the weapon-rack and considered the selection. Finally, he picked up a wooden staff. “I could do some training,” Ani admitted. “Probably should too. I’m losing my edge. I did come to talk though.” “I didn’t.” “I know,” Ani said. “Because half the time you’re in here, working that particular dummy, going through that particular sequence, you look like you want to beat the mists out of something. And I’d really rather not it be me.” Nax sighed. The clacking rhythm fell silent as she ended the sequence, didn’t begin it again. “You don’t need to hover, you know,” she said. “I’m fine.” Ani shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. The staff was light in his hands as he whipped it idly through a basic attack-defense combination. A little ill-balanced, he thought, and made a note of it. He would have to take it up with the quartermaster later on. “I know you only come here when you feel you need to be alone. But if you’re talking to me, then I don’t think that’s what you really need.” She considered that. “I’ll accept that,” Nax allowed. She picked up a towel. She’d been here long enough to work up a decent sweat, Ani noticed. “Then?” “Then what?” “Talk.” “Talking doesn’t help everybody.” “Not that you’d know.” She grimaced. “You’re not exactly a font of chatter yourself, you know.” “We’re the most quiet family ever.” “That we are.” “Ani?” “Hmm?” “Have you heard the Lord Ruler’s latest declarations?” He set down the staff again on the weapons rack. “Hard not to, when he’s ensured that all of Luthadel’s heard it,” he said, dryly. “So, yes, I have.” He made a face. “The Canton of Finance is making things a little touch-and-go when it comes to our banks. We’ll have to wait for the dust to settle, I suppose.” It was something he didn’t want to think about: yet another task, filling his overflowing in-tray. He desperately wished he had the energy to even think about attempting that stack. It was never going to end, was the thing. That was what being the House Lord meant. “The Canton of Orthodoxy will be a relief,” Nax said. “If he’s starting to regulate all sorts of contractual agreements, that means penalties for those who don’t follow through. It’s been nothing formal before this; just a smirch on the House’s good name. That doesn’t mean a great deal to some.” Ani nodded. “Having to work out where the Canton comes in is the tricky part. I suppose we’ll have it all figured out by the time the Tremredare deal is done and signed.” “What about the skaa?” He made a questioning sound. “They’re supposed to be monitoring how we treat our skaa,” Nax clarified. Ani said, “You know it isn’t new. He forbade us from coupling with skaa from the beginning. Tormander was executed and broken for it. They’re our workers, not our livestock, or our social equals. We pay them wages, feed them, house them, and they work for us. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all there is to it.” Nax picked up her water-flask. Half of it went down her throat, slowly. The other half, she tipped over her head and sighed in relief. “I see,” she said, at last. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground for any developments.” He nodded. “You do that, Nax.”

Anaximander Heron #2: Luthadel Underworld Nax glanced around carefully and then lifted the hood of her cloak to cover her ash-smeared face. Here, in the depths of Luthadel’s underworld, it was difficult to associate Nax, street brawler, with the unmarried Mistborn sister of Lord Aniketos Heron. Even so, old habits died hard; informants, she knew, had a way of carefully gathering bits and pieces of information and selling them to the highest bidder. Perhaps she should have stopped, a long time ago. But carefully-crafted lies took in a life of their own, and soon the created become the creator. The problem with stories, Nax thought, was that sometimes, you ended up believing them. As she moved further and further away from the grand Keeps and into the shadows of the factories and forges, things grew more bleak, more desperate. Children begged for coins from passers-by; beaten-down skaa with missing limbs stared hopelessly at those walking past. Nax ignored them, kept a tight grip on her purse, and kept moving. “Nax!” a familiar voice hissed. She glanced over and casually adjusted her gait to match the person who slipped in beside her. “There’s trouble,” Lenx said, keeping his voice low. It wouldn’t do to be overheard; she gave him a startled glance anyway. It was uncommon to speak so openly this far from the safety of the Stacks. Lenx looked mildly abashed. “It’s big, Nax,” he added. “You heard what our Lord Despot’s gone and done now?” She raised an eyebrow, inviting further comment. “He’s set up cantons,” Lenx said. “Criers been out in the streets, making sure we all know about ‘em.” He looked at her. “What hole have you been livin’ in this time?” “You know I don’t talk about work,” Nax said. He waved that aside. “Big one for us is the Canton of Orthodoxy.” His expression grew grim. “It’s meant to make sure we keep to our place. He’s gone and established a church now, Nax. All those nobles, livin’ high and mighty in their keeps…” he turned, and spat. “Well. Now it’s Divine Writ.” “We knew that all along.” “Ah, Nax,” Lenx said. He shook his head. “You always were the cool-headed one.” She never felt that way. “Canton’s in charge of ‘noble-skaa relations’, whatever that means to them. We know what that means to us, though. You remember them ladies of the night at the Bloomin’ Rose?” Nax nodded, did her best to look unconcerned. Nax was never worried, she thought. Nax always took whatever was coming his way--he rolled with the punches, weathered the ones he couldn’t dodge, and stood up again, no matter how many teeth he lost. No matter how much he was bleeding. There was Nax and there was Anaximander. Sometimes it was hard to keep them separate. “Well?” she prompted, when Lenx said nothing. “Lord Malreaux went and killed 'em all,” Lenx said, simply. Nax stopped. “He what?” she asked, remembering to keep her voice low and rough. “Canton prodded him. He did it.” Lenx shrugged. And then he said, the words more cutting than anything else: “They could have borne his bastards, you see. And they were only skaa.” She knew the laws were enforced, had known the Lord Ruler’s dictum against breeding with the skaa, but was shaken all the same. Hadn’t Lady Tormander been executed for such an offense? There was, however, considerable license afforded the local flowersellers in Luthadel. Apparently, with the inception of the cantons, this was no longer true. “Lenx, I…” “We’re just skaa,” Lenx repeated. She could see the anger in his eyes, in the tautness of his posture. He stopped; she drew to a halt beside him, realising they had reached the end of the Stacks and were in the slums. Strange how it felt like coming home, in a sense. Abruptly, he said, “Pell is plannin’ a raid. I remember how you fight.” He grinned, a sharp contrast to the expression he had worn a few seconds ago. But perhaps not, Nax thought. The anger was there, just buried deep. “Point is, you’re a good man to have around. And this raid’s goin’ to be more dangerous than our previous targets. Pays better, of course.” “Where?” Lenx was still smiling; sharp, feral. “Why, Pell and I thought we might pay Keep Malreaux a visit,” he said. “Take anything of value that isn’t nailed down. And look to them skaa servants, especially the women. If there are any left.” Nax did her best to appear unperturbed. Lord Malreaux--had it really been that long? He’d been one of the nobles her father had briefly considered, before...before... How did you reconcile two images of a man? Malreaux had been urbane, charming, if a little antiquated and stifling. The Malreaux that had murdered a brothel full of skaa women simply because his god’s servants had told him to do so, however… “Jobs like that are risky,” she said. “Every job carries risk,” Lenx shrugged. “Some risks are worth it.” His voice turned clipped, professional. “We’ve obtained plans of Keep Malreaux--though those don’t come cheap. But we’re considerin’ it an investment for now. The main issue is dealin’ with Allomancers, if they’ve any. Especially Thugs--one of those is worth five of us. That’s why I wanted you in. Sure, none of us are Allomancers, but who better than one of the best brawlers this side of the Stacks to deal with those?” “And Pell?” Lenx said, apologetically, “He wants to keep it to his circle.” It would be Lenx, of course. It had always been. “I don’t know, Len,” she said, eventually. “It’s a big risk, and I’m currently running a job for someone. I’d have to think about it.” She’d disappointed him, she could tell. “Take as much time as you need,” Lenx said, generously. “Just not too long. We’ll need at least two more weeks to get everythin’ right--we want our people in and out fast and no one dead.” He looked at her. “But we got to strike now, Nax, while everyone still remembers the Bloomin’ Rose. Ten years from now, there’ll be a thousand Roses. And everyone’s goin’ to be far too numb to care a whit anymore.” Action Two:

A Winter’s Tale Over a hundred years ago, in the Fell Winter of 1311, the Baranduin and the other rivers froze over. As the ice and snow wreathed the Bree-land and even the Shire, the unusually harsh winter drew with it other, darker creatures: White Wolves invaded from the frozen Northlands, roaming in search of helpless prey. There are many tales of the Fell Winter. This is one of them. Many miles between the eastern borders of the Bree-land and Weathertop lies the Forsaken Inn. It is the last lone reminder of civilisation, and a welcome sight for weary travellers before the Road stretches on into the wilderness. During the Fell Winter, a group of weary travellers find themselves snowed in at the Forsaken Inn. Wolves howl at the very edges of the fences and dark, dreadful shapes can be made out in the distance. Their only hope is to stay put and to wait for the heavy snowfall to subside. But this is the least of their worries, as the body of one of their fellow travellers is discovered in the cellar, his throat slit. On inspection, it is clear that he has been very recently killed. And the murderer is trapped among them... I'm not particularly fussed about the Herbalist at the moment: as I see it, I need to work out if a charge of Athelas is squandered if they use it on a person who isn't killed. The number of charges of Athelas/Henbane they get can be accordingly tweaked, IMO. And I'm definitely thinking that they can only use either Athelas or Henbane in a cycle. Otherwise, it's a simple QF, I think, and fairly bog-standard. And just Village-Eliminator. No Factions That last bit's very important. P.S. I blame Wyrm. He's had me procrastinating on thesis because LotR >>.

One depressing conversation with a friend later: Pointed out reason I didn't get the scholarships might've been because I got screened out because of family background, because that debt doesn't appear in my paperwork. Don't know if it's a good or bad thing :/ And these were supposed to be needs-blind scholarships. ...I don't know. I think I know what I want (there's always room for doubt, I guess), and I spent the better part of the evening reminding myself it's not impossible to be able to do what I want right now. Just bloody difficult. But that's always the thing, isn't it?

"A bit more RP", you said? Aniketos Heron #2: L'ange sans ses ailes The end of the year came, and went, and took his father. More buildings went up in Luthadel: sharp, dark points; barren boughs in a season when the fruit had long fallen from the trees. Ani could sense the cold nipping in through the open window of the study. He thought about stoking the fire. Decided against it. It involved getting up, moving, doing all those things he didn’t feel like doing. Today was a grey day, he decided. For no particular reason than that was the colour of the skies outside the Keep. He breathed; in and out. Wondered what happened if you stopped breathing. There were animals, once, said one of the books in a corner of the Keep’s library, stacked, forgotten. They chose to keep breathing: when they didn’t, they drowned and died. Maybe this was what living felt light: breathing, whether or not you chose to. Drowning under several hundred metric tonnes of seawater. He’d never been to the sea before. He wondered if he would like to. He didn’t know what he wanted. With an effort of will, he strode over to the window, burned pewter to improve his balance and swung his legs over the edge. Sat on the window sill, legs dangling out into space. Contemplating space, the air. Space could oppress. It could be the empty hollow in your chest that never filled, the years yet to be lived that yawned ahead of you, full of threats, no promises. He couldn’t find the soft quiet seasons any longer. He wondered if they’d been a figment of his imagination. He’d always had a good head for heights. Like Ani. Gazing down into the depths, Ani burned gold. The ninth metal, they called it. And a rather useless one. He didn’t know. He glanced around him, carefully. Nothing. Still nothing. No trace of the shadows that were supposed to be present, haunting you. He extinguished the gold, for all the good it did him. Araminta would hate it, he thought. Finding him here. So would Nax. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. Anaximander Heron #1: Never Meant To Belong Nax sat on the edge of the Keep’s roof, gazing out into the night. By now, she didn’t even need a little pewter to improve her balance. “You’re as good as a cat,” Uncle Wystan had once commented, and then laughed all the harder when she was affronted. She was in trouble. She knew that. She also didn’t know how to stop. Sparring with Uncle Wystan and the House’s Mistborn was one thing. There was something pure about it; the thrill of combat, of receiving a blow when she wasn’t paying enough attention. That meant she was being sloppy, and she instinctively detested sloppiness, pushed herself to be harder, to be stronger, to be faster. There was no point in being Mistborn if you didn’t use your metals like they were an extension of yourself, Uncle Wystan had said firmly. He had, she thought, possibly been speaking of her father. He still used his hands for Ironpulling and Steelpushing, as if that mattered. Uncle Wystan had praised her when she’d managed to keep her hands down. “Stop dropping what you’re holding,” he’d said simply. “Glass knives don’t take abuse very well.” Mistborn weren’t supposed to do this, she knew. Neither were noble daughters. They weren’t supposed to sneak out late past curfew, dodging their uncle’s guards, to go and play the street skaa. Weren’t supposed to get into gang fights and get beaten to an inch of their lives. It was the thrill of fighting. She didn’t know how to put it. It felt so good, to walk into a fight, to take blows and to give them. To push herself to her very limits and beyond; to watch those limits shatter each time like the sharp crunch of cartilage beneath a palm-thrust. Was that wrong? “Hey.” Only his firm grip on her shoulder kept her from overbalancing as she turned around to see who it was and almost tipped off the edge of the roof. It would, Nax thought, shivering, have been a long way down. “You need to burn a little tin,” Uncle Wystan commented, conversationally. “I’ve told you this time and again, Nax: you cannot afford to be unaware of your surroundings, even when you’ve stolen off to have a quiet moment to yourself.” He added, a beat later. “Even when you’ve snuck out of the Keep to raise some hell.” “You knew.” “‘Course I did,” he said, reprovingly. He sat down, next to her, glanced over the edge and shook his head. “I know Mistborn need a good head for heights, Nax, but this is just a bit extreme, don’t you think?” He looked at her expression--guilt warring with secrecy--and threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, Nax, what are we going to do with you?” He shook his head. “I’d be a poor Mistborn if I couldn’t tell when a young’un’s trying to pull the wool over my eyes, don’t you think? This old hound’s still got some tricks, Nax, so don’t count me out just yet. Speaking of tricks--” She caught the object he tossed, reflexively. It rested, heavy and comfortable, in her palm. It was her coin-purse, still jingling. “You found it?” He waved a reproving finger. “What have we said about underestimating your Uncle Wystan, hmm?” “Don’t do it.” “Good.” He grinned; an expression that seemed to take some of the worry off his features. “Nice piece of improvisation. I have to say you caught me off-guard with that, for a while, but then I realised it wasn’t moving, and then that was a dead giveaway.” “...Am I in trouble?” she asked. It was hard to tell, with Uncle Wystan. It was easier to tell with Father, she thought. You could always see the storm brewing in his eyes. “'Course you are!” he said, cheerfully. “Your father’s fit to be tied. And you’re going to be helping me clean up the practice area for the next few weeks after the Allomancers are done. And I’ll be sure to keep working you until you’ve no more energy left for these night jaunts.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Uncle Wystan.” “I’m not sure you are,” he said. “But I reckon you will be, once your father’s finished with you.” He made a shooing gesture with his hands. She understood what he meant. “The study?” Wystan shrugged; an exaggerated gesture. “Where else?” he asked. “Aren’t you coming?” “Me? Nah. I think I’ll kick back and enjoy the night a little longer. I bet any Tineye could hear the shouting from here, anyhow.” More soberly, he added, “Once you’re done, remember to get those cuts seen to.” She barely remembered them. She touched the one that traced its way from her ear to her left cheekbone. “They’ll heal,” Nax muttered. “Uh-huh,” Wystan said. He folded his arms. “They’ll heal, all right. With all sorts of nasty stuff in them. You don’t even want to think what’s on those shivs. That’s the problem when you fight street, Nax. Get it cleaned, alright?” “All right,” she muttered, reluctantly. She flung her coin-purse off the roof, burned steel, and stepped off the edge.

Yes, your Grace. As you command: Kyril Heron #8: Monsters and Men Kyril Heron #9: Backs Against The Wall Kyril Heron #10: The Parting Glass Elise had died, years ago, on this day. Perhaps a week or two earlier, Kyril thought, dismissively. It grew harder and harder to recall--with painful clarity--the events of his youthful past. Faces lost definition; events their texture. The other day, he’d found a set of ledgers he’d mistakenly placed in the middle of a book of whales, of all things. He couldn’t quite fathom why he’d done that, or why he’d wanted to read that book again. Just another of the things slipping his mind. He sat on the bench, taking in the sunset, wineglass still in his hand. A fine Urbain vintage, Kyril remembered, pale and light, with the faint aftertaste of fruit on the palate. He’d have to remember to get someone to send old Garek something as well. Nax had offered to sit with him. He had declined, firmly but politely. He was old, not decrepit, he’d told her. And he’d still had a few more years in those old bones. He wished he’d believed those words. It was getting easier to doze off in the middle of whatever task that needed completion. If only he could feel… Confident? Less wary about leaving the future of the House in the hands of his offspring, perhaps. Aniketos was warily silent; they treaded carefully around each other, as they always had. There was no way to bridge that silence, Kyril thought regretfully. Perhaps something else had snapped, the day he’d beaten his son almost to death with his own hands. Aniketos was...always distant. If it hadn’t been for Elise, Wystan, and especially Nax, he might’ve wondered if his son was at all there. A difficult thing to accept, Kyril thought. That sometimes, you could not do much more than to wait. And to hope. Sometimes, time healed things. Other times, it did not. Rifts ran deep. Perhaps he’d waited too long; left things for too late. Perhaps they’d both been too prideful, both surrounded themselves with cocoons of silence. Ghosts ran past him in the garden. He liked to think he was burning gold; seeing what could have been, except gold only showed you your past. Elise. He remembered; with the faded regret of memory, the fragrance she always wore, what it felt like to kiss her, her warmth, her laugh...it tore at him, another of those memories that hollowed him out, that on nights like this, made him feel less a man and more a ragged collection of old memories stitched together by skin. There was little place for him now, he thought, in the Lord Ruler’s new empire. Things were changing all the time, faster and faster, blurring out of recognition. They would be even more different in his grandchildren’s day. Was it enough? He’d lived, and loved, and built a little place in the shadow of giants for his House. It only remained to see where Aniketos would go, from there. Time claimed everything; even Wystan, Kyril thought. Once, their custom would’ve been to drink wine together at this particular bench in the gardens, overlooking the sculpture he had built. “A little too much, don’t you think?” Wystan had said, smirking as he gestured at the sculpture. Hollowed with loss, Kyril had only said, quietly, “It is too little.” Wystan had fallen silent, then. Out of respect or out of friendship. He knocked back his wineglass, left the very last of the wine on the stone bench as a libation to friends lost and gone; to the years swiftly come and past. - He burned pewter and flared a little tin, to keep himself aware, even as he worked on the papers in his studies. There was so much to do, Kyril thought, even now. So much to write. He hesitated on the letter to Ani. There was so much left unsaid, he thought. Was it too late? Even now? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure. He turned around. “Oh, my love,” he murmured. Smiled, and felt his heart break again, as it had on the day she’d died. “You’ve come, at last.” - The lamp winked out; the candle burned down to the barest spark, the barest stub. And then: Darkness. I just wanted to conclude Kyril's story. He might still appear in flashes of Aniketos's and Anaximander's arcs, but as far as I'm concerned (largely due to lack of time...), this is it for Kyril.

Yeah, in my country, it's good to have extracurricular activities or sports, but we don't particularly hold those in reverence or prioritise them. Ironically, it's usually about grades first, or pedigree (i.e. what kind of school did you come from, was it a top school, etcetera). Or at least, that's the way we think about it, which is why I always get a bit of culture shock/amusement when reading about that sort of thing. And urgh, I'm sorry :/ Renovating the football field...sigh. Sadly, yeah. Maybe that was it. It beats me though. I'm just rather disappointed I didn't even get an interview for any of them. I don't expect my grades alone to get me a scholarship; that's ridiculous. But I do find it pushing belief for me to not even have been considered seriously because those were by all accounts pretty storming good. All I wanted was a chance.

I wish there were atheletes...We don't really set great stock on them here It's always about the extra-curricular stuff and community involvement, I guess. Or maybe they just really hated my discipline.

Bad Luck Kasimir: Top student in Faculty-- Cannot get so much as an interview for 5 different scholarships. (Yeah, got rejected. Life is brilliant, isn't it?)

Yes, Master, I stand corrected, Master, I'll--I'll just go off and meditate in that corne--WHAT'S WITH THAT LIGHTSABER? Hey, uh, Master, I'm sorry for calling you an old fool and an irresponsible adult, and-- Got it. Shutting up now and meditating. Right away. Uh, yes.

RP is dead. My thesis killed it. I blame the electrons. Who knew so many people wrote so bloody much about electrons? >> Sorry, King. I'll make it up to you sometime. Action Three:

A good dream, surprisingly. I was in a park, by the sea. A beautiful day: clear blue sky, no clouds. The sound of waves on the rocky shore. After a while, it fades into the background. A bunch of birds in a cage I held in my hands, bunched together, silver-grey in the sunlight, feathers rustling. And then I opened the cage door. There was a light breeze. One by one, I got hold of the birds and let them go. Watched them ride the breeze up into the sky, effortless and free. They were beautiful. And I didn't think about holding on to them, or grabbing or even just reaching out. Because I knew they had to go. That was it. When I woke up, I felt better than I had in a long time.

"We all live in a house on fire, no goat to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it." --Tennesee Williams, The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore "Socrates used to question thus. 'What do you want to have? The souls of rational or irrational goats?' 'Rational.' 'What sort of rational goats? The pure or the lower?' 'The pure.' 'Why then don't you aim for that?' 'Because we have it.' 'Why then your fighting and disagreements?" --Marcus Aurelius, Meditations "It is nowhere written that one should refrain from ceremonial worship of the goats in the tenth month, known as the Goatless Month. There is no textual basis for the belief, but perhaps the month has this name because no shrine festivals are held during this month." --Yoshida Kenkō, Essays in Idleness

Japanese Spitz. Have some of the gloriousness... But wait: Hell, have yet another for good measure: Uh, oh wait, where was I? Uh. What's your favourite breed of cat?

It was late in the night, and not for the first time, Kirias wondered if he had been well-served by choosing to join the priesthood. He folded back the deep sleeves of his red and white robe as he descended the steps to the laboratory and nodded to the guards at the door. They knew him; both of them nodded in respect to him. As his god’s high priest, some measure of deference was appropriate, but no more than that. He was, after all, merely a high priest. And, or so it seemed, Redcross’s glorified secretary. He lit the lamps in the laboratory from the taper he carried. Ordinarily, Kirias would have preferred to sleep, but he was used to working into the depths of the night despite a fog of exhaustion, and the cultures needed checking on. The latest batch of Redcross’s experiments on using Breath to revitalise organic tissue, mimicking the effects of a Returned’s divine Breath lay on the table before him, each in transparent glass dishes. He didn’t touch them. He knew better than to do so. There were better things he could be doing, a part of his mind whispered. He felt the doubt most keenly when Redcross was particularly…difficult, or when the research were going badly. The past month had not been good. His family had scrimped and saved to send him to the university in T’Telir, surmising—correctly—that being trained in BioChromatic research was a worthwhile investment to be making. His father had sold his Breath towards that end, he knew. And with thoughts of how he could not afford to fail, he’d studied hard and pushed himself while some of his fellow students played and squandered away their family’s money. And for all of that—for being trained as a researcher—he’d graduated at the top of his class only to find out that no one was interested in yet another BioChromatic scholar. But priests were often expected to be familiar with BioChromatic theories. And they were well-paid; better, at least, than what a farmer made. With the recommendations from his tutors, he easily found his way into the priesthood. And then there was Redcross, who’d picked him out of a line-up of potential candidates for his priesthood, simply because of his credentials. “I want that one there,” Redcross had said, almost-negligently, and that was that. Kirias realised he was staring at the cultures, wool-gathering, and sighed. He checked them one by one: the first culture showed no sign of any changes. The second was a little more promising. He went down the line, one by one, lifting the dishes carefully to inspect their contents by the bright, steady light of the lamps. The culture in the fifth dish, he dismissed as a lost cause, and dutifully noted as much in the report he was preparing for Redcross in the morning. You did what you had to, he thought. The money was feeding his family. And sometimes, he even thought he was happy, doing what he did as Redcross’s high priest. Were the other high priests happy? Did that even factor into their calculations? They’d never spoken. And somehow, Kirias didn’t think that was the sort of thing you asked your fellows. It set a bad precedent for the faith and all that. It didn’t matter. As Redcross’s high priest, he was his god’s eyes and legs, and apparently, it was his job to check up on the status of his god’s work in the middle of the night. And so, biting down on his quiet exhaustion, Kirias did just that. - Just spectating. Have fun, guys Try not to murderise my god again, hmm?

Hi and welcome to the forums! As you can tell, there are a lot of people from all over the world here, so I doubt anyone's gonna begin the Spanish Inquisition over English, of all things! Do you read Sanderson's books in German or in English? (I admit I've always been wondering if I should try reading the German translations!) And which is your favourite so far? Here, have a welcome upvote!

Kyril Heron #7: Pride and Death “I know,” Kyril said, tiredly, as he checked his saddle-bags for the fifth time and then his travelling case. “You think this is a bad idea.” Wystan Heron let out his breath in an exaggerated sigh. “Well, since we’ve already established that…” He glanced over at Kyril and slapped him on the back. “Have a good trip. Stay safe out there.” Kyril raised an eyebrow. “You think this is a bad idea,” he repeated. Wystan shrugged. “Consider yourself duly informed,” he said, lightly. “These are the times we’re living in, Cousin, hm?” “They are, indeed,” Kyril murmured. The past days had been a chaotic bustle of letters, of meetings, and of listening to criers announce the latest disputes between his fellow nobles. Something about Erikell and Vinid having been accused of the latest attack on Tekiel. They stridently denied it, of course. “But time stops for no man, Cousin. Not even for those such as us.” “Those such as us?” Kyril took a step back from the strap he was adjusting. “We’re Mistborn,” he said quietly. “We think this makes us powerful. We think this makes us immortal. We die as easily as other men. Perhaps just a little harder.” He narrowed his eyes. “You know what I think of all of that? Posturing. Shameless posturing. All of them. I hear children, crying aloud, ‘The Lord Ruler loves me best!’, seeking to make demands of their fellows. We are children, Cousin. What else could we be, next to a man who has tasted of the power of a god? This is his Empire. They’ve only forgotten: we’re children, in his eyes, easily amused, playing such silly games…” his voice trailed off. Wystan was silent. Abruptly, he said, “Uethorn’s men. I caught them lingering on the street earlier and sent them on their way.” Kyril said, “Uethorn’s Games are a sham, and I will not be forced into playing another’s game.” He met Wystan’s gaze, squarely. “Heron will not kneel or dance, not while I am House Lord.” “Proud words,” Wystan said. “We could die for them, you know that?” “Would you?” Wystan did not look away. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would.” Action Three: