Kasimir

Gamma, I have a clarificatory question that occurred to me: You say of the Returned's Divine Breath, "Doing so will automatically kill you, even if who you wanted to save didn't die." Here is this scenario-- A chooses to give his life up to save B. B chooses to give his life up to save A. How would this work out? Would being saved by A negate the auto-kill of B's giving up their life and vice versa? Do both of them wind up in the Dead Doc feeling utterly ridiculous and ashamed of themselves?

Yah, you got it.

Yes, Grandpa--I swear you won't even have to put us in timeout or somethin', sir! And there be no Wyrm Inquisition here! Action Three:

You didn't, TBH. Loyal Sibling would be good, and I've decided that the objectors can just deal with it: no scare quotes, I'd nominate you for MVP. You definitely swung things for your chosen teams and you could swing things for Heritage had you chosen to still press the Faction War angle. Give some time though? Bit busy these days, so if the M'Hael gets to you first, that's one thing, otherwise, I'd take a bit of a while

1. Don't cross the streams--crossing the streams is bad, etcetera, now everyone in your game's going to ask me to produce trolls...wait, do I get Wealth for that? 2. As I have resigned MR7 is over, I am no longer responsible for having to generally manage you, control the wide swathe of crushed souls and weeping, traumatised players you leave in your wake damage, and make sure you don't traumatise the other players too much. So, I don't care, not my problem, you can't make me, etcetera. Oh, and I can do this too!

Obligatory Post-Mortem: Kas Edition First, thanks to all for their kind words, and am glad you've all enjoyed the game, for what it's worth. For reasons of conscience, of principle, and of practicality (...my supervisor did, in fact, get highly judgy when I met him today, and he was right to do so...), I would, in any case, be obligated to withdraw. Nevertheless, there is one last duty I must first discharge: that of the obligatory GM's Post-Mortem. So, I think there are several things I'd like to highlight. 1. Importance of Inactivity Filters: This cannot be emphasised enough Pretty sure a MR is not supposed to drag to thirteen cycles and more! I didn't put an inactivity filter in this game as I expected the kill-rates to be fairly high (forgetting that the reason the kill-rate was so high in MR1 in the first place was because of Slaughter.) As it was a Faction game, I did in fact expect Strikers to be far more ruthless with their kills as well, since there was a lower chance of 'friendly fire'. (Normally, as a Coinshot in a standard Elimination format, you might be slightly worried about pulling a Meta/Hreo and leaving a trail of corpses behind you, as those are teammates. However, I believed that given a Factional set-up, there was less reason to be 'nice' and to refrain from killing.) This did not happen. I would say that one thing for future GMs to note is that if you are running a MR or a QF, keeping in an inactivity filter that auto-kills players who are inactive for two cycles is at the very least a very good idea, at best a must. While inactivity was only one reason why this game dragged, it did in fact contribute to some of the latency that popped up by approximately Cycle Ten or so. The pace was beginning to wear on the players and the amount of activity in the Faction docs also reflected this. MR7 did not have an inactivity filter. It suffered for this. I would also note that things would've turned out very differently had there been an inactivity filter, and Seonid, Araris, Bridge Boy, Paranoid King, Zas, Neo, and possibly Orlok would've ended up dead at various points of the game. To add to this, I think an inactivity penalty would have at least ameliorated the difficulty with the tied votes: as the spreadsheet indicates, while the Cycle Nine and Eleven no-lynches partly had role-blocks to blame, a much bigger factor was players simply going inactive and not bothering to send in a vote at all. (I would further suggest possibly flipping a coin or rolling a die in the case of a lynch tie to determine who dies, but admittedly, this is not often such a big deal when playing an MR.) 2. Expectations: To be honest, I think that as far as balance is concerned, I did my best and there I have no regrets. I went over my rules with an electron microscope and a hammer, Wilson went over them, Gamma went over them, Wyrm went over them. We spotted some breaks and fixed those. Others, we did not. But there are other difficulties, some of which I have claimed responsibility for. One problem with balance, as I've previously mentioned, came because of the fundamental rule of game-building: don't build it with an expected style of play in mind. I'll put it like this: you may in fact have in mind certain optimal ways of playing given the set-up, but you shouldn't make it so that the smooth-functioning of the game is dependent on your plays finding and consenting to go with that optimal way. As I've said, I think I did a fairly decent job when it came to the roles. There were more issues when it came to the basic premise of the game. Most players seemed fairly uninterested in playing it as a Faction game and preferred to simply hunt down Discovery. (As noted, many of you have claimed you were really playing Discovery as scape goats to manoeuvre for a better position. I am not going to judge those claims; I'm just going to note that it's an awful lot like one of those Tragedy of the Commons-type situations where individual action somehow stacks, manages to muddle everything up, and then leads to collective action in the direction of Village-versus-Eliminator. As mentioned, this game was not balanced for that. That was my responsibility, and I failed on those grounds. I expected this game to be played as a Faction game. Whatever the intentions of the players, their individual actions led to a collective game that was played as a straight-up Elimination game. That broke the game balance in a way that MR7 could never truly recover from. These problems recurred on a micro-level with game mechanics, such as with the Bribery mechanic. But I've devoted an entire point to dissecting it, so I'll move on for now. Similarly, I think I should have done a better job with subverting player expectations. I felt that two J-Diplomats was just about right, with only Glory receiving two Diplomats. But I think I could have played with Faction compositions more; in particular, having one Faction be infiltrated by only one member of Discovery or something like that. It would take more work, but I think it would make it more difficult for players to rely on role-distribution to be able to soft-confirm members of their team. 3. Tackling Discovery: I have discussed the issue with Wyrm on many occasions, both in the aftermath of MR1 and while watching the trainwreck that this game became. In the original set-up of MR1, the Sharders had a flexible win condition. They infiltrated two Factions, were loyal to one of the Factions they were infiltrating, and could win either with the Seventeenth Shard or with the loyal Faction. And, of course, they had Slaughter: a weapon that 'fed' off one player from the wielder's loyal faction (this action could be blocked and was at two points in MR1). In exchange for sacrificing/killing a member of the Faction he was loyal to, Gamma was able to make an unblockable instant-kill on another player in the game. ...Slaughter was, I think, rather shattering, for obvious reasons. To attempt a patch in MR7, I decided to remove the infiltration Faction and to simply have the Sharders/Scholars infiltrate one Faction. In hindsight, this is an issue on which I will disagree with Wyrm: I think the flexible win condition is necessary to make Factions actually pay for focusing too hard on Scholars. As noted in point 2., many players focused on Discovery simply because it didn't cost them anything. It was a low-cost way of playing for time. By removing the flexible win condition, I think an important balancing element was removed--kind of like what happens when you take the water out from a hydraulic computer and then get puzzled because hey, that water wasn't doing anything, was it? Flexible win conditions meant that it cost Factions to decide to exterminate their Sharders. By increasing the costs of such a strategy, I feel it would have made players more circumspect about simply declaring open season on Discovery and ignoring each other. It would have made the 'play for time' strategy less attractive. In addition, however, some might notice an extended argument I had in the dead doc. This was related to a point Wyrm and I also discussed after his death. We felt, mostly, that not giving Discovery a kill at all proved to be too problematic: once Diplomats like Adamir had revealed themselves, there was pretty much diddly-squat Discovery could do about them. In fact, I do wonder if Discovery should have some weaker form of the other Faction abilities. But that's more or less just idle thought at the moment. The biggest imbalance, I feel, was, in fact, not giving Discovery a kill. It removed the ability of Discovery to offer reprisal or to really, to anything except object when the other Factions simply stubbornly chose the lowest-cost strategy of exterminating them all. As I pointed out, even Moderation was capable of reprisal. Its failure to do so was no indication of a failure of game balance because Moderation misstrategised, badly. Discovery did not have reprisal capabilities that it could even lose through bad play. I feel that a number of players have been, perhaps understandably, a little blasé about the matter. My response is that Aonar, I think, is the perfect illustration of what I meant, and there is in fact a rather illuminating conversation between Aonar and Kipper in Cycle Twelve of the Glory Doc that is worth a read. Aonar had played most of this game as Moderation. Three Cycles of being in Discovery frustrated him to the point of ranting in the Glory Doc. This, I think, pretty much illustrates my challenge to most players who felt that Discovery was not as unbalanced as I'd intimated: be stripped of your role (or, hell, keep it!). Be added to Discovery. And then see what it feels like to be on the receiving end, with absolutely nothing you can do. Wyrm is one of the most chill players I've known. I have yet to see anything other than the collective, obsessive focus on Discovery bait him into outcries of immense frustration in the dead doc. For these reasons, I feel Discovery came out severely wronged by me in this game, and much rebalancing needs to be done. My immediate suggestion for how I would recommend this be fixed is, amusingly enough, the reinstation of a flexible win condition and the granting of a Discovery kill, even at the cost of truly branding them Eliminators. Another possibility is to strengthen the J-Diplomat, turning them into a proper Seeker. This might increase the value of a Diplomat beyond just the Factions-Discovery front, forcing more strategising. 4. Bribery Mechanic This mechanic has, I will admit, been the cause of much frustration throughout this game. I had wondered how the players would use Bribery. In MR1, the lack of inter-Faction communications had badly hamstrung the ability of each Faction to respond as the Sharders became more and more powerful. I had, in part, added Bribery both to fracture the immediate desire to strategise openly in the Faction docs, yet to balance it out by giving Factions a chance at communication. ...Remember what I said about expectations? I have, as well, discussed this at length with Wyrm and with Wilson, with Moderation, and with the M'Hael. And a bit in Glory with Seonid and Bridge Boy, I believe. My current inclinations are to simply limit the number of available Bribes to a three-shot thing, whether throughout the game, or simply for the first three cycles, forcing players to be more strategic about their Bribery, and requiring people to play under the assumption they wouldn't necessarily get Bribed back. Difficulties with Bribery also included players with residual loyalties to their former Factions. As is obvious in the docs, this became a big deal in Moderation with Joe proclaiming loyalty to Heritage, and led to quite a stand-off, a few death threats, and what I refer to as the 'Great Moderation Purge', with about half of the Moderation Doc for that cycle being destroyed in order to limit Joe's ability to blab out what they were saying. While I issued guidelines about how players should regard their new win conditions, I feel that it might've been better to simply allow players to act against their win conditions. While this is technically not considered a good thing to do (see the amount of outrage Gamma caused in LG4, for one!), I feel as though this particular game was so against playing as Factions that I should have allowed the gesture, since it only accentuated the Faction divide and mistrust. As I've pointed out somewhat more acerbically in the Dead Doc, Bribery also led to the problem of the Mega-Faction. My take on that is simple: there is nothing philosophically compelling about it, and any player who wants to argue philosophy with a GM who studies it shall have to put up with being judged and subjected to the standards of the discipline This includes consistency: if we played this game as maximising altruists, then I shall expect all players who want the most number of players to win to surrender themselves and their teammates in future games then they play as Eliminators. ...It doesn't work so good that way, does it? Thought so. Consistency is an important philosophical standard. As Seonid has correctly pointed out to me, changing Bribery would be unfair to the Siblings. And I agree: if that were the case, the win condition of the Siblings would definitely have to change. I might be more tempted to turn it back to something like a Survivor-type requirement, or one where upon the death of one Sibling, the other gains an ability and a win condition against the Faction responsible for the Sibling's death. Something like that. The Siblings, I must admit, were interestingly deployed. I did not expect such a huge bidding war over the Siblings, that was for sure! I expected their value to be as a source of communication between two Factions; nominally, Heritage and Moderation, to balance the power of the Teullu. I was especially interested to note that many people were regarding the Siblings as having their loyalty 'bound' to the Faction they were with. This neglects, I think, the reminder that the Siblings are instrumentally loyal to the Faction they are with. Their ultimate win condition is a unique one. Seonid was correct in noting he could've chosen to betray Glory and be a Heritage agent. And as I informed him in his PM, I would have backed him up there: there was absolutely nothing in his win condition that required him to actually play as loyal to Glory. That oversight would have been costly for Glory. And, that's about it from me, I think. Oh: I expected the Revision History features of Google Docs to be used far more than they were. That was the whole point of my asking for email addresses: so you can't just type-delete as an anon. I was somewhat surprised that Discovery made far less use of it than the Seventeenth Shard had! I would also flag Seonid, mostly, as the 'MVP' for this game. I use scare-quotes because I think it's going to be rather controversial: my definition, therefore, is as being a player who majorly swung the game. He did that, changing the entire direction and objective of the game, by getting everyone to tunnel onto Discovery. (I note that players like Bort have said that doing so fit with their aims for the Faction War; nonetheless, it is clear that a number of other players, Bridge Boy included, had internalised the whole 'Kill Disco!' narrative and were unable to see past that to their actual objective. And yes, for those who look at the spreadsheet, he was basically trying to lynch PK for several cycles in a row.) "We'll attack Discovery now, seize an advantage, and kill the other Factions," is a legitimate strategy. As I've pointed out, in the chaos of different actions, that simply did nothing else than to turn the game into a standard Elimination one. And there is a second problem associated with the strategy: if not now, when? When would Factions be ready to kill each other? Moderation backed down from precipitating a Faction war, to its own immense disadvantage. The playing for time strategy was gamechanging simply because it legitimised, to a large extent, the narrative that Discovery was a threat. That narrative was being repeated blindly, even past the point where it was clearly obvious that it just wasn't making any sense. To say that three members of Discovery 'could swing the lynch' is to simply reify Discovery into the Unknowable. Try changing your perspective: who knows who Glory could vote for? There were five of them, and Heritage had no active agent in Glory. Glory could swing the lynch by allying with Discovery or another Faction. Mindblowing, isn't it? My point is just this: I cannot speak of what was going in all the players' heads. From the GM's perspective, it was clear that the game being pursued was a Village-Eliminator one. Perhaps it was the result of a universal play for time. But I think not. I think that the way players strategised, the narratives they used, the rhetoric they appealed to--all of it is rather damning. And a good amount of it points to that rhetoric having been internalised, and affecting the way players saw the game and their strategic objectives. Now, if it came to players I'd commend: I would say I felt Eowyn strategised very well, for a newer player. Similarly, I would like to commend Zephrer and Paranoid King, who carried the burden of being (effectively) Eliminators on their very first game rather well, particularly in a game that ended up being so broken. I felt that Zephrer played decently, and Paranoid King is definitely someone I would keep an eye on. And as I've previously said, either way you cut it, Seonid was a majorly influential player in this game, and his impact on the game cannot be understated. If there is any sort of 'medal of honour' I can confer, it would have to go to Orlok, simply because I felt he was the only player in this game who showed a very clear and sharp grasp of the strategic objectives and what was going on. (I apologise to those who died early; for obvious reasons, you have been by and large excluded from this list.) There were so many times I just wanted to buy him a beer or to tell people to pay more attention to him. Unfortunately, he spent a lot of time getting ignored. Last but not least, I would give Wyrm a round of applause because he somehow managed to troll everyone without trying very hard, and also managed to turn my game into Groundhog Day, to boot. For those who are not aware: Wyrm was a Sharder as well in MR1, he was also spooked on the same cycle as he was in this game (Cycle Three), and he also died to a lynch two cycles after his initial spooking. That takes skill. What sort, I'm not sure. But definitely skill. Even so. Round of applause to everyone, thank you for playing and being bloody good sports about it -Kas, signing out.

...It's Shadowrun, Dunkelzahn. I know because you incepted me with it >> I am terribly disappointed in you, Past!Wyrm. After a car crash, a detective turns to creative means to deal with his grief. And fights crime.

MR7: Aftermath - The Triumph of Art That night was a night of endings. In one of the many underground arenas in the Imperial Seat, where coins, even at this hour, swapped furtive hands, Kartesh waited. The previous bout had been particularly interesting to watch, with one of the combatants reputedly Teullu-trained. Lies, most of it. But the crowd loved it and soaked it up. So he had to spend the past hours watching a fistfight between two men. He had no bout on, tonight, but the training ring of the arena was as a second home. He lined up a target, and carefully fought, pelting it with blows from the blunted sword he carried. The rules of a duel were far different from those of being a soldier. He pulled blows, and pulled them hard. The idea was to score points by making marks of contact; on rare occasions, to kill. Death was always there, Kartesh thought. You got used to it, or you moved on. He smashed the target in the knee with the pommel of the training sword. Half a point, Kartesh counted, and then followed up with a driving slash to the shoulder. A full point, for that one. Shoulder-wounds were considered to be proper marks of contact, when made with the edge of the blade rather than with the pommel. He attacked the target viciously, his blade a constant blur of motion, raining down blow after blow. Why, he could not say. It was cathartic, at least, to take out his frustrations on the target. Cathartic to hit something that couldn’t fight back. Being hunted down like an animal. Being cornered. Being killed. His breathing was heavy. Sweat dripped into his eyes. A sound. He whirled around, senses still raw. A Striker had entered the room; no, he thought. Not a Striker. A Captain. He recognised her—the Captain of the Emperor’s Guard. He’d seen her that day, when she entered the Frozen Moon searching for the MaiPon assassin who’d reportedly killed Yazad. It seemed an eternity ago. He reached up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “What?” he asked. She tossed something to him, overhand. He caught it, startled. A skin of water. “Thanks,” Kartesh murmured. He tipped a little, into his mouth. The rest went over his head, cool, like a blessing. He sighed in relief as the water trickled down his hair, eased the sticky sensation of sweat clinging to his skin. She threw him something else. It slid across the floor and clattered to a halt at his feet. He bent down and picked it up. His sword, the one he’d left at the storage area. Not the mysterious sword Asterion had received from that contact of his, the one that Cang Lu had once wielded. Not Regicide, but his sword. He picked it up. His callused hand fit comfortably around the battered hilt. It had accompanied him through many years of service to the Empire. He’d cared for it with all the attention a soldier was to pay to his kit; had painstakingly smoothed out the nicks and notches with the whetstone, had polished it and kept it clean from rust. A rasp of a sword against its scabbard. The Striker had drawn her sword. He was exhausted, and emotionally spent. He’d been hitting the target for the better part of the night and it was late. He raised an eyebrow, drew and slipped into a guard stance. “They say you are one of the best,” she said. “Show me.” They were both warriors, Kartesh thought. They did not need words to understand one another, to understand what was playing out here. At least one of them would not leave this room alive. It was a gift, in a way. To be able to choose his end. He had dreaded it; the sharp shock of a crossbow bolt puncturing his lung, piercing his sternum, ending him. Rather a blade, he thought. Rather a fight. He’d fought all his life. He recognised her sword stance; another trained soldier-turned duelist, a mirror of his. He stepped forward and attacked. They were following him. Trying to kill him. He knew. It was painfully obvious, the way the Strikers at the marketplace had attempted to follow him. You didn’t get to be one of the best bodyguards without learning total awareness of your surroundings. They tried, of course. They removed their uniforms, hid away their swords. But it was still too obvious. The way they carried themselves: watchful, erect, and proud; the way they glanced sharply at their surroundings, even their walk—almost an arrogant saunter. Sir Edonar did not think of what he was doing as hiding. A bodyguard walked that dangerously fine line between honour and practicality. That meant anything was allowed—kicking a foe between the legs, teaching your principal to take cover at the slightest sign of threat, always pushing yourself between the one you were protecting and a prospective foe. He was drawing them off, leading them on a merry chase. After all, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve. And he was most definitely aware of the hidden crossbowmen attempting to draw a bead on him as he headed towards his most recent safehouse. It’d taken them twice as long as he’d expected to find it, too. He made a note to be less meticulous in future. He looked up, and smiled and burned iron and steel. The steel-tipped armour-piercing bolts from the repeating crossbow whipped away, deflected—to them, it appeared to be from an unseen force. The crossbowmen cursed, a moment before Sir Edonar flicked open his folding knife and slashed the coin purse he was carrying. A shower of coins streaked towards them, whipping through their chests in a flurry of blood. The crossbowmen toppled from the roofing. He turned, slowly. The Strikers were already cursing, already racing towards him, fumbling in their voluminous scholars’ robes for the hidden swords they carried. Sir Edonar waited. Calm. The Blade formed in his hand, ten heartbeats later, lethal, glittering, beautiful. The light glinted off the spikes driven into his eyes. Ashim was playing with the bone-carved chess pieces. It had been a long game, taking shape before him. The complex beauty of the game had given way to more typical, pedestrian moves. “Check,” he said. The skeletal sitting across him clacked sharpened teeth in a frustrated sound, and mutely moved a different piece. “Arbiter takes pawn,” Ashim said. He picked up the offending piece, frowned at it. The ground-up paste of ashes used to stain the bone was fading, he thought. But the bone was no longer pale, but a curious admixture of mahogany and ivory. He was, all things considered, awfully calm about this. He felt it, the moment it happened; the backlash of one of his skeletals being destroyed. He hesitated, and then set down the pawn he’d been holding, beyond the edges of the chessboard. There were two options, mostly. He dismissed one of them. “So, Glory and Heritage then,” he said, aloud. It was not unexpected. They had taken him among them, and expected him to work for their ends, and now planned on killing him for his refusal. Among other reasons. He picked up the Arbiter, flipped it over to reveal the seal he’d carved into the piece. It was a little amusement of his, this chessboard of seals. He would need some blood. A flash of pain as he cut himself. It was a shallow cut, across the palm. He let the blood pool, feathering out into the lines of his palm and inked the seal. He could not fight them; not all of them. Not the collective resources of Glory and Heritage. But he’d always wanted to see how he’d fare against two of his countrymen. Some things ended, that night. And some things began. The emergency session of Factions that gathered in the Theatre of Address was unprecedented. The man who had summoned them waited, patient. “You overstep yourself, Gamman,” said Nareska, the Arbiter of the Discovery Faction. A tall figure, intimidating, disapproving, but ultimately, politically insignificant. “You have lost every right to claim credibility,” Gamman replied. “Was it your Faction not involved in the open warfare that followed the Emperor’s death? It’s simply disgraceful, Nareska, and you know you have no leg to stand on. Not any longer.” “They’re renegades,” Nareska retorted. “We cast them out from the fold a long time ago. You surely remember.” Murmurs of disapproval—critically, directed at her, rather than at Gamman—followed her statement. Gamman shrugged, carelessly. He said, “Surely you know that such a meeting that never happened. Obviously, I wouldn’t be able to claim to know what was happening to your Faction.” “Enough with Nareska!” cried one of the other arbiters; this one from a minor faction, occasionally affiliated with Reform. It mattered, Kwai thought. It mattered very much, this night. It had to seem smooth, unorchestrated. “Where is Glory? Where is Heritage?” “Gone,” Gamman answered. “And so I have summoned all of you here today.” His eyes flicked to Nareska. “If I overstep myself, the gravity of the situation compels me. Moderation has been destroyed; Arbiter Renzu has fled, or disappeared. It is unclear which. Discovery has—” he raised a hand, refusing to yield to Nareska’s outcry of protest, “—been cleansed, if such a term may be used. And where do Glory and Heritage stand? By each other’s side. In the midst of all this slaughter.” “Enough games, Gamman!” one of the arbiters cried out. Gamman whirled on him. “Tell me, then: where are our missing Factions? Have you been living with your head in the sand for the past days? Have you noticed what has become of Moderation? Factions do not simply disappear, Shanglen! They are broken, exterminated. That is what has become of Moderation. And Glory and Heritage are behind this.” He looked across the Theatre, from where he stood at the podium. Met each one of them in the eye. Almost, Kwai thought. Almost. “Will you stand for this? Will you wait for them to decide to take by force what they cannot have from us? Our votes? Our voices?” “They would not dare!” Shanglen retorted. “This has not been done before in the history of the Empire!” He glanced around him, seeming to sense that he was, inexplicably, a lone voice in a sea of faces. “And that will stop them,” Gamman said, dryly. He applauded; a soft, mocking clap that seemed to cut the silence. “Tell that to Moderation. A Faction has not been brutally slaughtered in the history of the Empire.” Silence. Now, Kwai thought. It had to happen now. He hesitated. But sometimes, the world didn’t wait for choices; events swept you up with them, and all you could do was to ride them out. So it was that Kwai watched as another arbiter cried out, “We must vote now! I nominate Gamman for Emperor!” “Gamman for the Rose Throne!” “Gamman!” In the sea of acclaim, Kwai stood, and watched, as Gamman nodded and thanked each of his supporters. The votes passed swiftly. And at the end of it, the newly-annointed Emperor gazed across the room, seeming to locate Kwai in the crowd. He nodded; a minute gesture. Kwai slipped away. Wenshon found him, making the finishing touches to the painting in the cellar. “He didn’t need me,” Kwai said. “He played them all,” Wenshon said. “Expertly.” “I know,” Kwai said. He looked at Wenshon. “He wanted me to do it. To kill Frava and Urskevan. I refused.” His hand went, for a moment, to his shoulder. A curious gesture, that. Wenshon said nothing. “We choose, who we are. Every moment, every day. I chose to walk away.” Wenshon nodded, wordlessly. Together, they admired the painting, complete at last. Kaleva, a calm figure, with an inscrutable smile. Yazad; radiant with health, skin bronzed—painted as a simple man; more a builder than an Emperor. The man who knew MaiPon poets, who was conversant with three languages. Who had wanted, more than anything, to build a stronger Empire: one that would last the challenges that came its way. It was, Kwai thought, what mattered. It was something; his own pebble stacked against the avalanche of history. “Tea?” Wenshon finally asked, gruffly. He scrubbed roughly at an eye. Kwai’s voice was equally rough. “Yes,” he said, at last. “I’d like to.” Post coming shortly after; the short of it is that I have talked to Gamma and he has talked to Meta and Wilson and the decision has been to call the game. There are many reasons for this: some of them include how long the game has extended and the increasing inactivity. With the death of Aonar this cycle and the overwhelming decision for a Joint Victory, there would be no way for Discovery to resist. In addition, it would merely drag out a game that has already extended far longer than an MR should. I admit; I signed up to GM a MR, not a LG. It has been challenging, in more than some ways. I did expect unexpected things to happen, but things took a different change once the associated costs with this game overrunning came about. Things like being over a week overdue on my paid work. Things like being late on my thesis and having to begin yet another job tomorrow. I have borne the costs to myself with little comment for the past few cycles. It has, at this point, I feel, reached the point where I can no longer ignore the mounting RL costs to myself--and that the game is so indubitably won for Glory and Heritage that there is no point in further dragging this out in such a damaging fashion. In addition, I have noticed players, too, are growing weary with the game. These were the factors voiced and taken into consideration in my calling this. I understand that this might not be a decision that is uncontroversial. To temper this, I should note that I have had myself removed from the active GM lists. I do not feel that I am in a position where I am able to or should be allowed to GM, regardless of whether it is a Faction or a regular game. As it stands, it is a Joint Victory for Glory and for Heritage. Will do a longer analysis post in a bit. Here are the links to the relevant docs: Dead Doc Discovery Doc Glory Faction Heritage Faction Moderation Faction Spec Doc Master Spreadsheet [N.B. Kas from 2021 - Edited in cycle titles and note that doc links have been lost with my old drive. RIP.]

The cycle is now closed. No further PMs will be accepted, please hang in there for the write-up and stuff.

Hmm. I'd push Denethor off a cliff because that's kind of what he does anyway, I'm just helpful that way And his parenting skills need a lot of work. Probably set Smaug on fire, just for the irony, really. If he could even be set on fire. Relationship...huh, that's tricky. I'd have to go for Eowyn, I guess. Would probably marry Eowyn as well. I'd pick Samwise for the blanket, and I'm up for being roommates with Faramir For fandom: the Assassin's Creed universe!

Hello fellow Singaporean! Do you prefer the Alloy of Law setting or the Final Empire, out of curiosity?

I'm passing my go at a bad description over to Wyrm, since I think he'd do a better job at it, and I'm too storming tired to come up with one, alas. (Probably shouldn't have answered but I liked solving these...) Your turn, King

The Dresden Files, Storm Front?

MR7: Cycle Twelve - The Painter's Choice Kwai tended to the hearthfire as the last patron left the Frozen Moon. He washed the cups and dried them and stacked them neatly, poured out a last cup of tea for himself and sipped it. It had been a long day, a wearying day. It had taken him six cups alone to touch up on the mural still taking shape, still painstakingly laboured over in the cellar of the teahouse. Now, he stood at the counter, breathed, and allowed himself a seventh cleansing cup, easing the toil and worries of the day. There were many of them, weighing on his mind. Wenshon had taken one look at the few customers in the Frozen Moon, sighed, and told him to take care of cleaning up, and turned in early. It was a long slow day, another in a whole string of them. They’d repaired the doorframe, for one, but custom was slow to return to the teahouse. They were probably tired of the faction war and had decided to lie low and wait things out, Kwai thought. Nights, he was. He realised that he had emptied his cup, and sighed and reached over and poured himself an eighth cup of tea, because the kettle was still full. A few leaves drifted on the surface of the water. He waited, allowing it to settle. If only his thoughts could do the same, leaving his mind as clear as the steeped tea. His thoughts drifted—not for the first time—to the message written on the folded slip of paper, curled up in the bamboo tube. When was it too late? Kwai wondered. When did you realise that you’d started down a path you could not turn back from? Sometimes, choices swept you up with them, like the headwaters of a raging river. Some choices could not be unmade. The hour was late, now. Or perhaps, it was early. Sometimes, it depended on your perspective. The door to the Frozen Moon creaked open. The night breeze blew in, chilly, laced with the faintest scent of smoke. A man that Kwai had expected never to see again in his life stepped in through the doorway in that moment. He hid his surprise. “Arbiter,” Kwai greeted, inclining his head to the man who was now the foremost Arbiter of the Reform Faction. “Could I offer you a cup of tea?” Arbiter Gamman straightened the collar of his formal robes; a deliberate gesture. There were no guards, Kwai noticed. That surprised him. That told him much. “I suppose I should accept,” Gamman said. “By all means, then. It has been a very long time since I have set foot in the Frozen Moon.” A thin smile, like winter ice. Like winter ice, too, there were dangers here: both the obvious ones, and the ones that lurked beneath the surface. There was a little water left, freshly drawn from the well. Kwai filled the kettle and left it to heat. He would add the tea leaves, later. He moved slowly, deliberately. Gamman looked at him and said, amused, “He won’t shoot. Yet.” “That would be the man you’ve put in the rafters,” Kwai said. “You probably had him wait with this morning’s crowd, of course, so I’d have forgotten about him since I regularly serve the lower level of the teahouse. And Wenshon had left early, this night, so he wouldn’t have noticed.” He let the smile on Gamman’s face grow for a moment longer before he added, “Of course, I’m not sure what to say about the crossbowman in the courtyard outside. A little excessive, wouldn’t you say?” Gamman let out an abrupt laugh. “By the suns! I’ve certainly missed talking to you, painter. You’re far more entertaining than guards or even hired assassins.” Kwai shrugged, tiredly. “So, you found me.” “Yes, I did,” Gamman replied, casually. “I suppose you got my message.” “I read it,” Kwai said. “And?” “I’ll have to think about it.” “Nights,” Gamman growled. “I came because I could see no other way to speak with you, quietly. And to say certain things.” “Then say them,” Kwai said. He had not been prepared for this conversation, he thought. He had expected one thing, had found himself confronted by something else entirely. In the flickering light of the hearth, the shadows seemed to shift as they spoke. “I paid off the Strikers searching for you,” Gamman said. “You think the word of a mere proprietor enough to deter them?” Kwai shrugged. “I really wouldn’t know.” Gamman said, “I need you.” Kwai said, “There are assassins. And guards by the dozen.” “None as quick to grasp the implications,” Gamman said, bluntly. “None with your particular set of skills.” “What was it then?” Kwai asked, surprising himself by his own bitterness. “An audition? For that I killed Yazad and Kaleva?” Gamman said, “You got attached, didn’t you?” Kwai made no answer. Gamman sighed. “Attachment, sentiment,” he said. “Men like us cannot afford such luxuries, Kwai. We live in times that will either break the Rose Empire or forge it anew. We cannot balk at what must be done. There is no other time as good, painter. You know it. Kaleva…” he hesitated. Finally, he said, “Kaleva would not have seen it. He was ready to end it, painter. To stop the dance and to surrender, gracefully, to the inevitable. You must know this.” “And Yazad?” Gamman said, “You seem to think I did not know him. I did. For all that he was, first and foremost, nominated by Kaleva. He spoke to all of us. I remembered him.” He looked at Kwai. “Nights, painter. You should’ve heard him, back then, when he was hale. All the dreams, all the promises. We were going to fix all the things that had broken within the Empire, one by one. And then he became Emperor, and we watched as they fought him, inch by inch, step by step, breaking him, killing him. Tell me you did not think it a mercy, painter.” Kwai hesitated. “And now?” Gamman shrugged. His face was shadowed. “We do what we must. You know my aims. Has this much changed, painter?” Kwai considered it. He retrieved the leaves, and poured out the water from the kettle into two cups, and offered one of them to the arbiter. “Perhaps,” Kwai said. “What are the men for, then?” And here was the steel. “Because I do not know the answer you intend to give.” Choices, Kwai thought, all unfolding before him, like threads of scarlet in a tapestry of blood. He closed his eyes, cradled the cup in his hands. He was a painter, he knew that. And he remembered why he had done it, why Gamman had persuaded him. It was a tempting thought, to create the future through the thrust of a dagger, rather than through a paintbrush. A reminder of who he was—of what he was. His hand brushed his left shoulder, for a moment. Sometimes, you painted in blood. Was that what he wanted? He opened his eyes. He made his choice. Nobody died! Okay. Guys, I have an announcement to make. I considered not announcing this, but I believe this is important to your decision. So: Moderation is dead and has been dead for a cycle. The Faction has been defeated. I know this game has been dragging on pretty long for an MR, and this is partly my fault in not building in an inactivity filter because normally, that would increase the kill-rate and deal with inactivity issues. But so, I'm going to offer everyone a choice. Based on what I am currently observing, most Factions seem to want to kill Discovery and then turn on each other. There has been a very low activity rate in this game so far, and I assume everyone is generally tired and just wants this to end. I am going to offer the surviving Factions, Heritage and Glory, the option of this game ending as a joint-victory for both of them should they manage to kill Discovery. (Or, I suppose, as a joint-loss, if Discovery kills you...) I am going to require all living players to PM me by the end of this cycle to indicate if you would prefer your current win conditions or if you will go for the joint victory. I will further note that if I get no response from players, I will assume that you have opted for a joint victory, by default. And lastly, I will require a majority in favour of individual victory conditions in order not to institute the joint victory. Thank you. The cycle has begun and will end on 23rd July, at 11PM SGT. This late write-up has been brought to you by all the game-changing last minute orders and by Heron IndustriesTM. Player List:

The cycle is closed. Please stand by for the incoming write-up and PMs. Thank you.

Kyril Heron #6: The Tower and the Ash Deliberately, Kyril folded the letter bearing the seal of House Uethorn. He had read it, several times, scanning the cramped handwriting for any piece of information that stood out to him. There was little else he had not already found. Lord Retleh plans to hold a series of Allomantic Games, he thought, shaking his head. Something about easing all the tension in the wake of that attack on Tekiel and a demonstration of goodwill… “May I?” Elise asked. He extended the letter to her. She took it from him, and read it. “It’s a circus,” Kyril said, at last. “That’s what it’ll be.” She raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be the biggest circus in Luthadel,” she said, deceptively mild. That was, he decided, the first sign of their abiding disagreement. “Have you heard? Word has already hit the streets. Retleh’s been busy sending the letters out to every House in Luthadel—and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d heard, even in the Farmost Dominance. The Lord Ruler himself will be in attendance.” “All the better for them,” Kyril said, gruffly. He took the letter back, tossed it carelessly on top of the heap on his study desk. Elise noted, “Someone woke up grumpy.” He looked at her, and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But I don’t like this. It’s sheer panoply, and all I can think about is that we have bigger affairs with which to concern ourselves than just showing off our Allomantic strength to the other Houses. Or, as it may, feigning weakness.” His eyes drifted, involuntarily, to the ledgers with which he’d busied himself for the past months. It was not good. It never was. Sometimes he wished his father had other children, that the duty and the burden was someone else’s to shoulder. He wished a lot of things, these days. “You know that I disagree,” Elise said, at last. “It is a chance to make connections, to show off the strength of our Allomancers. To have the name of Heron made known.” “For Steelpushing skill?” he wanted to know. “Perhaps for Rioting? Do these not seem like trivial matters to you?” “They’re not so trivial to some,” Elise retorted. “Kyril, you must know that.” He sighed. “Yes,” he said, running a hand through his hair, distractedly. “Yes, love. I do know that. But even so, I consider these games a distraction. We will train our Allomancers, if we must. But we should not find ourselves bound up in all these small affairs.” “And the pressing ones?” He looked, deliberately, at the stacked ledgers. Elise sighed. “I will not argue on that,” she conceded. Reached out and laid a callused hand on his forearm. “But Kyril, you need to remember this.” He looked at her. “Your instinct,” she said, quietly, “Is to bury yourself behind walls of stone, to shut out the roar of the wind and the swell of the sea. You want to make Heron strong—not great, but strong enough to withstand what comes its way. But walls go both ways, Kyril. And you cannot shut out the world and bury your head in the sand. The world will not always be willing to ignore you.” “I know,” he said. Not unhappily. “But we must build from what we are given, Elise.” He moved, over to the open window that looked out over the courtyard. In the distance, he could make out the brooding shapes of other House Keeps, even without burning tin. “Do you know what I see?” “Luthadel?” She was beside him, now. He slid his arm around her waist. “A wilderness,” Kyril Heron said, quietly. “A vast wilderness of tigers.” He looked at her. “To me, love, House Heron is a tiny, tiny candle. And I worry that it will take nothing at all for it to be doused. Just the faintest gust of wind, the slightest ashfall…” Something light brushed his cheek. “Speak of the devil,” Elise murmured. Ash was beginning to fall over Luthadel.

You're assuming Alv even had it in the first place... The write-up is pure fluff. Regicide is more or less just their Faction kill, really. Appointed killer takes Regicide and goes off.

MR7: Cycle Eleven - The Blood of a Ghost Shi KwaiRan was not particularly alarmed when a striped cat slunk into the teahouse. After all, cats were a common sight in the alleys of the district, particularly near the teahouses and lodgings. Where there were scraps, the cats gathered. Among other things. He was, however, a little more startled when a figure he knew, a figure he had, in fact, painted, walked into the teahouse, all colour drained from her features. The ligature marks were still clear, around her neck. Nights, Kwai breathed, freezing, a hand going to where the dagger had been secreted about in its wrist-sheath. The dagger with which he’d killed a king, with which he’d damned himself in the eyes of all men, in the eyes of history, for all time. What is going on? Cation Vinid looked at him—looked through him. Her eyes did not register his presence. They were dead. She was dead, he told himself. She’d died in the brawl that had happened a few nights ago; the one they were still repairing the damage for. Grey and lifeless, Cation Vinid carried on into the teahouse, following where the cat had gone. Kwai passed a weary hand over his eyes and wondered if he was going mad. Perfectly calm, Asterion sipped from his cup of tea. Regicide lay on the table, before him, gleaming in the lantern light, well within easy reach. Everyone gave the table a wide berth. He frowned for a moment as the striped cat padded into the teahouse, and the Lifeless followed shortly after. Hadn’t it been a black cat, with deep green eyes? This one was amber-eyed and regarded the teahouse with an arrogant sort of curiosity. Another Lifeless entered the teahouse. And another. He’d had his ways, procuring those bodies. Waimin, the diplomat who’d died in the teahouse affiliated with the Moderation Faction. His gut wound had been stitched, his blood drained and replaced with ichor-alcohol. Hreo, the pirate, the crossbow bolts removed and the wounds stitched up as well. It was important that the ichor-alcohol didn’t leak. The Green Xienbei, now faded to grey. The doorframe splintered. A grey creature, much like a bear, ambled into the teahouse, shouldering its way past the door, scattering teacups and smashing into tables in its wake. Jain, the mascot and the Arbiter of the Moderation Faction, had followed the cat into the teahouse. Asterion felt the sharp pain in his arm. He set down the cup of tea. So, he thought, it had come to this. He was unsurprised by how calm he felt. Eventually, death came for a man. He had only been surprised—if he would allow himself to admit this—by one thing, in the past days. The return of an old almost-comrade. The unexpected gift. He reached out, and touched the hilt of Regicide. This, he thought, had been most unexpected. Being finally able to fight back. To choose where and how he would end his days, instead of going to ground like a hunted animal. They had given him that, at least. He willed the Blade to dissolve to mist, and stood up. He approached the closest Lifeless. “Blood of a Ghost.” He Commanded. “Follow me and fight for me. Blood of a Ghost.” And then the next. And then the next. The server was looking at him. No matter what, Asterion thought, it was clear he was no simple labourer searching for work in the Imperial Seat. His fingers were long and clever; suited, perhaps, for grasping an ink-brush. Or a paint-brush. He held himself differently, too. It was clear in brief flashes: reality breaking through the plaster façade. He bowed his head; a swift gesture of respect. From one deceiver to another, or perhaps simply one of recognition. Many things could be said with a simple gesture. Words, Asterion had found more wanting in that respect. He had, in any case, no intention of further wrecking the Frozen Moon. He walked out of the teahouse. The Lifeless followed. The skeletals were clustered on the street outside. That was the problem with skeletals, Asterion thought. None of them could figure how to do something as simple as using a door. Each of them were in the shape of men with swords. He knew the bones would often be sharpened. And the pulsing, glowing scarlet seal on their foreheads animated them. The sharp flash of hot pain from his shoulder seemed to match it. He held out his hand. Ten heartbeats later, Regicide dropped into his waiting fingers. He assumed a two-handed high guard stance, assessed them. There were ten to twelve skeletals. One of them was charred, blackened, somehow. Probably retrieved from a fire, but the Bloodsealer was unwise to do so. Depending on the heat, the bones would be more brittle. He swept Regicide in a low swing. He’d expected the Blade to cut through the skeletal with little resistance, but there was a faint tugging as he drew the Blade across the skeletal; Regicide skittered, deflected, across the bones, having only traced a light surface scratch. Asterion frowned. Plans changed. He reversed direction, leaping back from a slash aimed at his throat, and smashing the flat of Regicide into the offending skeletal with all the force he could muster. The force of the blow dislodged a number of rib bones and cracked some of them. But the skeletal remained, still operational, and sharpened finger bones dug deep into his biceps. Ribbons of blood trailed down his skin. He reached for his cloak, swept it up over one shoulder, and snapped, “Protect me.” He felt the Breath leave him, draining from him to the now-colourless cloak. He saw no other alternative and smashed the pommel of Regicide, again and again, into the vertebrae of the skeletal. Finally, one of his repeated blows with Regicide dislodged enough critical bones and the skeletal fell apart. Asterion gripped the finger bones that had driven themselves into his arm and yanked. They came free, trailing blood and bits of his flesh. The skeletal had managed to claw the flesh of his arm to ragged bone. He shook his head. Time for that later. Waimin had fallen, still twitching; ichor-alcohol draining to the pavingstones of the street. Cation Vinid had smashed another skeletal to bits but she, too, was leaking ichor-alcohol. The Green Xienbein had wrested a sword from a fallen skeletal and was systematically dismembering it. Hreo held two sharpened pieces of skeletal-bone, ichor-alcohol dripping from his fingers, and was fending off yet another skeletal with quick, circular strikes. Jain was cornered. The panda fought silently, muscles bunching up, swiping at skeletals with clawed paws. Each blow smashed skeletals to fragments, swept them apart. But Jain’s blows hadn’t hit upon any of the critical anchors of the skeletals and they swiftly reformed, again and again, hacking and tearing at the panda with their swords and sharpened bones. Asterion strode over to where the skeletals had cornered the panda, and drew Regicide back. One, powerful swing smashed through the skeletal’s spine and severed it. The animating seal dissolved at once and the skeletal fell. But now, the other skeletals had registered him as a threat and whirled about to engage him. Jain rammed another of the skeletals from behind, smashing it apart. Asterion beat aside an attack and came in, wielding the Shardblade like a club, using it to smash the skeletals beyond reassembly. He had been too occupied in the fray to notice that other interests had planned the ambush, very carefully. The first crossbow bolt glanced off his cloak. The second and third lodged themselves in his throat. He was choking, blood welling up. “Blood of a Ghost…” Asterion whispered. They were his last words. Asterion was a Blasphemous Scholar! The Cycle has begun and will end on 21st July, Tuesday, at 11PM SGT.

The cycle is over. No further orders will be accepted. Hang in there for the write-up and the PMs!

Aniketos Heron #1: The Sky Is Broken Everywhere hurt. Especially his back. So Ani lay on his side, tried to think about something else, and waited for sleep to come. It didn’t. A hand on his shoulder. He flinched. “Ani.” He opened his eyes. It was his Uncle Wystan, by his bed. He held a glass of water in one hand, and a few thick, gleaming beads in the other. “You need to keep burning.” “Don’t want to,” he murmured. Pewter a dull burn of warmth inside him. “Ani,” his uncle’s voice had grown harder. “You need to keep burning. We’ve had the wounds cleaned and stitched up so you won’t be in danger of infection, but you’ll only recover much faster if you keep burning pewter.” He swallowed the beads, one after another, washed them down with water. “Good,” Uncle Wystan said, encouragingly. “You’re going to feel much better, very soon.” Ani wasn’t so sure about that. He felt as though he was an old cushion; battered, ragged, held together by stitches. “Where’s…?” he couldn’t say the word. Couldn’t force himself to say it. “Your father’s away,” Uncle Wystan said, at last. “Ani, this had to be done. Do you understand?” He gripped Ani’s collar, forcing him to look at him. “All of us had to go through this—me, your father, your mother…it’s the only way the power makes itself known. We call it ‘Snapping.’” Snapping. He was reminded of when he was much younger; he’d snuck into his mother’s room and accidentally broken her favourite glass. He’d been beaten for it, of course. Not as badly as he’d been today. And never like this. Father had taken it to the glassmaker’s and had it repaired, but you could always see the crack that ran through it; hairline-thin. Snapping was like that; he felt like that glass, now: cracked inside. “I get it.” It felt like someone else was speaking, inendurably distant, through his lips. Wystan smiled, faintly. “Good boy,” he said, ruffling Ani’s hair. “Get some rest. And keep that pewter burning. You’ll be as good as new in no time. And then we can really start working.” Eventually, even he left. So Ani occupied himself with studying the light from the glass window, the way it fell across the sheets, the way it met the bedposts and cast shadows on the walls. The light from the window faded, grew dim. He closed his eyes. One thought followed him into the dark.

Point of order: I do not 'expect' players to do anything anymore, besides not breaking the explicit rules and the SE games policies. It causes less problems for everyone this way Anyway, a quick GM announcement: dowanx has not been added to the dead doc as he has kindly agreed to pinch-hit for Zas. While this is a little irregular, I have chosen to permit this as Zas would otherwise be going inactive for over a week. So please don't worry if you see dowanx saying stuff, he's just taking over as Zas. Which brings me on to my final clarificatory point: Finally, please be reminded that the dead are not allowed to speak in this game.

MR7: Cycle Ten - The Remembrance of Lost Things The painting occupied his spare hours, now. Kwai added the fiercely-grinning Cation Vinid, a splash of vivid blood on her knuckles. Another of those who had burned too brightly, he thought, and in the end, had burned out. Bortholemew the Blind, he painted at her shoulder—barely coming up to her elbow, with a magnificent beard, curling like the froth of a well-poured cup of tea. What did an artist do? He created. Sometimes, Kwai thought, he remembered: more truly than the Rememberers employed by the Heritage Faction. He remembered those who were forgotten, those who were lost, those who had been trampled underfoot in the factions’ mad rush for power. Did it matter? Yes. He chronicled them, painstaking brush-stroke after painstaking brush-stroke, the lives that should have been. That could have been. Each figure was a memory, a quiet admonishment to the faction war that still raged, that had claimed the lives of so many. All for a throne he himself had emptied. Lives mattered, Kwai thought. There was the lesson in this: this was an art that picked out that which mattered, that which was of value. The Heritage Faction looked in the wrong place; in the books and the artworks of the past. They admired the splendid Lamio carvings, the rich tapestries and luxurious rugs, the wood-staining…all craftswork, but distractions from their subjects. Art lived. Art breathed. Another brush-stroke touched up on the faint light surrounding Eo; a platter overflowing with steamed buns before her. There was a moment’s choice between calm or joy; he hesitated and then selected the latter as the mood of the character. After all, the inscrutably patient figures of Cang Lu and Kaleva were peace and mystery enough. Across the quiescent city, in the depths of the night, another man was hard at work. Another man remembered. Dow sat at his workbench, frowning down at the stamp before him. Eventually, he would have to heat the soulstone, to harden and set it, he thought. But not just yet. Instinct said that there was something not quite right about the soulstamp. His workshop was scattered with all of these things: articles he’d collected and salvage from heaps of discards. These odds and ends, these detritus spoke, if someone had the ears to listen to them. They murmured of the lives they’d led, of the lives they’d touched before they’d been broken and thrown away. A child’s wooden doll sat on a shelf, the paint flaking, a glass eye missing. He would repaint it, eventually, and then find another glass eye for it. Not all things required forgery to fix them. Some required only the labour and a pair of attentive hands. And care, Dow thought. It was important to care. There was a wooden horse, snapped. Perhaps in a child’s tantrum, or out of spitefulness. Or perhaps simple carelessness. Dow did not know. That required more work. He’d picked it up in an alley, still damp from the rain. Nearby lived a woman—a carpenter and a toymaker—who would’ve mended the toy without charge. Had lived; the woman had moved away a few months ago. He had known her passing well. A simple soulstamp could rewrite the wooden horse’s history, so it had been broken a few months earlier and taken by a concerned owner to the toymaker. He knew her work. His workbench was scarred—a long crack ran through the wooden surface, where a misplaced knock with the chisel had gone awry. He’d thought about fixing it but left it there. Sometimes, Dow thought, you couldn’t fix all the broken things. They remembered the fracture points: the points at which they’d broken. Sometimes, even things had scars. His MaiPon instructors had never spoken of this. He’d become acquainted with them after years of plying his trade, years of drowning out the voices of things at one of the Heritage Faction’s production lines. He imagined that this was, in a sense, atonement. Listening to the voices of these fragile, broken things. Salvaging them, where he could. It gave him peace, working with his hands. There was a sound. Dow looked up abruptly; startled from his work. He did not catch sight of anything. Probably just the cat, he decided. There had been a stray, recently, coming to the alley behind his lodgings. He’d taken to leaving some scraps of food for her, and he noticed she’d sometimes slink in through his window and inspect some of his salvaged treasures. Sometimes, she’d even clawed her way up to his workbench and watched him work. Perhaps he’d tamed her, just a little. Or perhaps they’d tamed each other, he thought, smiling faintly. He liked that idea. The sound came again. Dow frowned. It didn’t sound like the cat. The Shardblade made the faintest whisper as it ran him through. Dow did not make a sound as the tip of the blade jutted out through his chest: he was already dead; his eyes burned out. A cat mewed, forlorn, in the distance. Just another sound, in the various noises of the night. The stars gleamed overhead. The moon was on the wane. The figure—the man who had killed Dow—looked at the oddments on the various shelves; the soulstamp that Dow had been working on. That interested him—he studied the marks that Dow had already made on the soulstone, reached out, and pocketed it. The rest, he dismissed. The broken horse, the unpainted doll with the missing eye, the cracked spinning top, the children’s hoop-stick, the jewellery box, the snapped kite… He could not hear their voices; now silent. He stepped away, letting the Blade dissolve into the mist. He moved with the slow deliberation of a man who knew that he was in no particular hurry, no particular danger. In the Imperial Seat, the night held many of its own perils, but the workshop of a Rememberer set in one of the cheaper districts was as safe a place as a man could be, in such days, in such times. He pushed open the door. And then, he was gone. Dow was a Rememberer! 1. The Cycle has begun and will end at 11PM SGT on 19th July. Sorry for the time taken :/ 2. Quick note: this is the second retcon of the game, the first having been of the Resealer. A Resealer cannot protect against Regicide but the wielder can be role-blocked. Happy slaughtering.

The Cycle is closed. No further actions will be accepted. Give me a while to get things sorted out, please.

To say nothing of the fact that our Almighty GM, the Wyrm his Honour, is a most noted Troll of the highest calibre - Kyril Heron #5: Promises of Water Elise found him in the baths. He’d snapped the cane—surprising himself with his own viciousness—and had it burned. “Is he?” she asked. He knew. He looked at her, and nodded, minutely. We do to our sons what our fathers do to us, he had thought. And so it went on. Because they must. Because Wallace Heron had done what he had to, and now, so had he. Duty, of course. That was the only way to drown the heart, to numb it, to silence its cries. To steel it and to still do that which needed doing. He leaned back against the stone of the baths and closed his eyes, and just wished… He didn’t know what he wished. To shut out the world for a time, perhaps. The scars on his back itched, sometimes. Still felt raw. He reached over his shoulder, traced the long ripples of keloid. They’d dug out the splinters later. He wasn’t drunk enough for it. He’d been a boy. The worst was cleaning them out. The alcohol hurt the most. He drowned them in the warm water of the baths, too. All thought, all worry, all memory. Let the water wash over him and sweep away the aches with it. Splashing. “It’s a dirty practice,” Elise said, finally. He made a sound; neither agreement nor disagreement. “It makes us what we are.” “What are we?” He opened his eyes to see her regarding him. She’d removed her clothes and joined him, on the opposite end of the small bath. “Mistborn,” she said, simply. “My father beat me too, you know.” He reached out, across the intervening space, took her hand. “I’m—” She placed a finger on his lips. “I’m not,” she said, firmly. “Being Mistborn…I wouldn’t give that up, for the world.” “I would.” It wasn’t the House Lord speaking. The House Lord would never say that. Could never say that. “I know,” she said. “I don’t understand that.” “I know.” There were no words. He reached out—put his arm around her. Memory of a late night, a coin nicking his throat. It could be anything, cousin. Wystan and a promise. “I don’t want to talk about that.” “Are you sure?” “Talking doesn’t help everybody,” he said. “I’ve never felt more free than when I’m burning steel and iron,” she said. An admission. An offer. “The mists are yours. The night is yours. And above all, the air is yours. You’re just flying, graceful and sure. Nothing can stop you. It’s intoxicating.” He thought about it. Reached a decision that surprised even himself. “Will you…?” “Will I what?” “Teach me.” Elise considered it. “Yes,” she said, finally. Action Two: