Kasimir
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I have clarified this issue in several of the docs, so I will do so here as well. First, I have made many mistakes in this game. One of them was not balancing this game to be played as a Village-Eliminator game. I had assumed that this game would be played as a straight-up Faction game, following how MR1 and MR5 had been played. In not considering that the players might have reason to play this as a Village-Eliminator game, I failed. I broke the most basic rule of game design, which is not expecting players to follow a particular style of play. I have, I hope, attempted to cleave to this rule when designing most of the roles. And players have surprised me--often pleasantly--by using their roles in extremely creative ways. But I did not question the most fundamental assumption and balance for it, which is a problem. This game was therefore simply not meant to be played as a Village-Eliminator game. I have had several exchanges with players in the dead doc over this. To summarise my stance on the matter in a very simple way, it is like this: balancing a Faction game is very different from a standard SE game. One thing GMs should ask themselves when it comes to balance are: does each Faction have equal chances of winning? But there are other dimensions in which a game can be balanced. One of them is in parity of retaliatory capacities. I mean that quite bluntly: in the dead doc, we have discussed and pointed out several missteps Moderation made when being ganged up on that led it to its present state. I say this very honestly when I claim that Discovery has played a near-perfect game but has simply been hamstrung by its inability to retaliate when Factions gang up on it. Any other Faction has in theory the capacity to retaliate. Discovery does not. That was an imbalance that become increasingly apparent to me as the game wore on. I did not intervene because of this imbalance. As far as I was concerned, if the three Factions intended to turn on Discovery and then on each other, that was perfectly fine. The line I have drawn and will always draw in this game is at that of the Mega-Faction. This game was not built to deal with being forced into the mould of a standard Elimination game. As a game-designer, it was short-sightedness on my part. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was simply this: picking a ridiculous place to draw the line. There were two reasons I threatened to throw Slaughter to the Discovery Faction. First, because of the reputation Slaughter had elicited from MR1. The idea of Discovery being given an unblockable instant-kill, I figured, was extreme enough that it would be enough of a disincentive to steer people away from breaking the game by meta-gaming the win conditions. Unfortunately, this was not the case and I had to deal with the recurring Mega-Faction plans. (This is not new; members of Moderation can confirm that I've had to rule this out on prior occasions.) The second reason was simply like this: I do not like rail-roading. Past a certain point, I have figured it to be extremely ineffective. My tossing in Slaughter would have been my casting up my hands in surrender and saying, "Fine. You want to play this as a standard Village-Eliminator game, I'll oblige you and I'll forcibly rebalance the game for this." This was the second mistake. Once I drew the line, there came a point when I had to confer with Gamma and we had to agree that I had to actually do what I'd threatened to do so, or risk being simply utterly ineffective as a GM by throwing out pointless warnings that got consistently ignored. I regret the two mistakes that led to these circumstances. These two, I take responsibility for, and I apologise for. To lead to the main clarifications I am making this post for: 1. It would be unreasonable and foolish of me to expect people to not go for the Mega-Faction at this point. As I have clarified, by the point I threw in Slaughter, it should be pretty clear that I withdraw all objections to any Mega-Faction plans. This is me forcibly rebalancing everything for it to be a standard Elimination type game. Tldr; if you want to Mega-Faction, so be it. I'll run with it. 2. A number of people have asked me if I'm aware this paints a huge neon target on Discovery's heads. Yes. I am aware of it. This will not be a problem. And honestly, there's no need to worry. I have expressed at many trying points during this game that I believe it very unlikely that I will intend to GM a game again. More vociferously, I have informed the dead doc that I do not intend to run a Faction game ever again, and that I fully intend to castrate myself if I ever run a Faction game again. So, y'know, that's pretty fine with me.
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I believe I have already clarified what the sword does, by implication: Regicide is a Shardblade added to a player's inventory. It allows the wielder (well, technically any member of the Faction) to make an unblockable instant kill. As in MR1, like Slaughter, this crunches through double lives, the delayed death of a Diplomat, and a role-block and a Resealer's protection. There is a reason I was hoping to leave Slaughter as a threat and a warning, rather than actually having to go there. Alas...
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MR7: Cycle Nine - The Consolations of Metaphysics A man sat at the stone platform at the base of the lighthouse, fishing. The ocean waters were as dark glass, reflecting the black expanse of the starry sky above. In the distance, there were many other lighthouses; glimmers of light in the darkness. There were many other boats and platforms. Shapes moving. The man whistled a tune as he waited, patiently. Nothing bit. Perhaps there weren’t even any fishes. In any case, it was not the fish he was waiting for. Finally, after an interminable period of time, he heard splashing. He set down his fishing rod and stood up. In the distance, he could just faintly make out a tiny glow that was not a distant lighthouse, but from a lantern affixed to the prow of a wooden rowboat that was getting closer and closer. There were two people in the boat: a lighteyed woman, who was rowing, and a tall, thin man with pale eyes, who glanced around him, confusion writ in his features. “Sister,” he greeted, as the boat glid in towards the platform. She tossed him a loop of rope; he caught it deftly and tied it about the wooden post. The rowboat bumped to a halt. “You took your time.” She glanced at him, her single blue eye icy. “He did,” she said, gesturing to the passenger in the boat. “He usually does,” the man said. “But then, he usually dies. A hundred and thirty times, to be precise.” “Were you keeping count, Brother?” “Weren’t you?” he winked. “There’s very little to do around here. I was talking to the fishes.” “There aren’t any fishes here, either.” “I know. But sometimes, it does to pretend there are. Belief, my dear sister, is a more potent weapon than reality itself. The mind can only bear so much reality—in bits and pieces, as it were. In fragments. We go through life skimming the very surface—and sometimes, we catch the faintest glimpse of the shadows that lurk beneath.” “Within limits,” she said, lips pursed. She regarded the man in the rowboat critically. “Eventually, it all tends to run out.” “Why, Sister, you’re particularly optimistic.” She glanced at the man in the boat. “Is he going to move?” “Oh, he will…” said the first man. “Eventually. There’s only so much you can do, before you put one foot down, and are forced to either spend the rest of eternity looking a fool or to carry on walking by putting down the other right in front of it.” “We picked the fool, then. For a fool’s task.” “He lived. The others didn’t. All hundred and thirty of them. It was the one constant, wherever we looked, until it wasn’t.” “And the king dead.” She added, a beat later. “Long live the king. For what good it’ll do them.” “I’m sure he makes a perfectly splendid king,” the man said. “In a hundred and forty-eight lives.” “And in the others, he’s dead, slaughtered, a Shardblade thrust through his spine, occasionally garrotted, and very seldom simply stabbed by a more ordinary knife. Very sad.” “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? In all of them, one of them kills the other. Brother slaying brother, life after life. On such myths, a city was built. Or perhaps it was the dream of a city, which explains a great deal about the pass we now find ourselves in. Or perhaps we simply haven’t looked hard enough.” “You still haven’t convinced me around to your way of thinking, Brother. One of them always kills the other in two hundred of the observed outcomes. The only prediction a rational being would be entitled to make is that this is continues to be the case in the two hundredth and first.” The man clambered out of the rowboat, clutching onto the wooden post for support. “Where am I?” he murmured, haltingly. “This doesn’t make any sense. I killed—” “Another constant,” the woman murmured. “You’d really think a killer of kings would feel less guilt about his deeds. Enough blood on his hands to bathe in.” “I know you,” the man said, frowning at the first man; the one who had been fishing on the pier. “You were him. The King’s Wit.” “At your service,” the Wit said, with a florid bow. “But how?” The Wit smiled. “What if,” he said, leaning forward, beckoning the man who had been a Ghostblood, an assassin, and a killer of kings with a conspiratorial gesture. “What if I told you there was a way to be good again?” “Absolute rubbish.” “Oh, come, now, Sister,” the Wit said. “After all, he longs for it. It’s perfectly understandable as a motivation: redemption. How else do you explain what we’re doing?” “We’re averting something far worse,” the woman said. “The biggest variable of all.” “Exactly. We’re undoing a mistake. That’s redemption for you.” “Redemption is a state of mind,” the woman replied. “An act of a guilty conscience. There’s no guilt here, no wrong. We’re simply fixing things. Making them the way they should have been. Not all shoulds are ethical ones, Brother.” “Enough are.” Wurum Heron, King of Alethkar, First of His Name, Protector of the Realm and Herald of the Storms heard splashing. It was, he thought, most unexpected. He opened his eyes to find himself in a wooden rowboat, adrift in a dark ocean beneath a sky of hanging stars. “Where am I?” he muttered. His head pounded as though he’d been hitting the wine a little earlier than usual and it felt as though there was a thick fog in his brain, eating through his memories. “So you’re up. You’re in a boat. Obviously.” The man answered. Memory, like the fork of lightning that splits the overcast sky in a sharp, incandescent bolt. Wurum sat upright in a single flash and tried to summon Regicide. “You!” he breathed. “I remember you. You’re dead. I killed you.” The Blade coalesced in his hand in a single moment—point directed at the assassin’s throat, beaded with faint condensation. A heartbeat later—so the assassin’s heart was beating slower than his—a second Blade, identical in every respect to his, dropped into the assassin’s outstretched hand. He used the flat of his Blade to push away Wurum’s Shardblade. “It’s not possible,” Wurum said. Flatly. “I’m a dead man talking to another dead man,” Khas said, “So let’s agree to renegotiate our definitions of possibility for the next few moments. There are some things you need to know, and there are some things I'd like to hear about from you.” He let go, and his Blade dissolved away. Wurum narrowed his eyes but did the same. “Talk, then,” he said. Khas smirked. “I had a feeling you might see things my way,” he said. “Well, then. It all begins with the lighthouse…” Asterion sat in a corner of the Frozen Moon, one arm bandaged and put in a sling. He looked up as the door to the teahouse creaked open and someone slipped inside. He wasn’t particularly remarkable: a tall man, with pale eyes, who had, of late, come away from a grim task that had to be done. “You’re late,” was all Asterion said, as the man picked his way across the crowd of patrons frequenting the teahouse and sat down across from him. “Sorry,” the man said. He didn’t look particularly sorry. “Cross-universe travel isn’t the easiest thing.” He slipped a package onto the table. It was long, and thin, and wrapped in brown paper. Asterion looked at it. “That it?” The man shrugged. He said nothing. Asterion picked up the package, and carelessly tore it open. Inside lay a long, thin, sword, unsheathed, with a curving crossguard. He picked it up, carefully, by the hilt. The pommel stone winked; it was a pale amber, like a cat’s eye stone. He was careful not to touch the edge. “This isn’t the sword,” Asterion said, at last. The man shook his head. “It isn’t,” he agreed. “This is Regicide.” He eyed the wagon-driver, with his pitch-black cloak, and sighed. “Do try to bring me back my sword without too many dents and scratches, will you?” He got up, nodded to Asterion, and left. What did all players in this game say to the god of death? NOT TODAY! In addition, it has come to my attention that a GM can only issue so many warnings and have them disregarded before they are compelled to act, lest their word be essentially regarded as being useless. I have spoken to the impartial mod for this game, Gamma, about the issue, and we have settled upon this: A new element has entered the game. An unspecified member of the Discovery Faction has had the sword Regicide (essentially Slaughter 2.0) added into their inventory as Gamma doesn't want to lend out his own sword -.-''' The sword is to be regarded as Slaughter in every conceivable way except for the lack of a feed. The unblockable insta-kill remains the same. Thank you. The cycle has begun and will end at 11PM SGT on Friday, 17th July, 2015. Have a nice day and happy slaughtering!
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The Cycle is now closed, pending the write-up and PMs. Please bear with me; no further actions will be accepted.
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"I HAVE HAD IT WITH THESE ************* GOATS ON THIS ************* PLANE!" --From the PG-9 version of 'Goats on a Plane' "The goat is a lie." "Goat got your tongue?" "Watch your back, shoot straight, conserve ammo, and never, ever, cut a deal with a goat."
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I have said this once, I have said this twice, and thrice, until I am thoroughly sick of this. I have given all due public warning in the thread, and now I give everyone one FINAL warning. This is a Faction game. You have your win conditions. Attempting to meta-game with your win conditions and to treat this as a Village-Elimination game will be met with appropriate action. Perhaps it may be that it seems this is an empty threat as I have made several warnings before this. Very well. Know that should this last warning be ignored, I will give Discovery Slaughter, and I will give them Wilson. This is your final warning.
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1. Leonidas I 2. Pleistarchus Name ten different species of dinosaurs. (You don't have to give their scientific names, I'm perfectly happy with their regular ones.)
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"A goat, a goat! My kingdom for a goat!" --Richard "Goat" III
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What is the most resilient parasite? Bacteria? A virus? An intestinal worm? A goat. Resilient... highly contagious. Once a goat has taken hold of the brain it's almost impossible to eradicate. A goat that is fully formed - fully understood - that sticks; right in there somewhere.
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MR7: Cycle Eight - The Fire of Redemption The mood in the Frozen Moon had turned restive, that night. Wenshon had broken up two fights earlier that evening, and had Kwai physically throw the miscreants out. The table often reserved by members of the Moderation Faction was empty; a glaring reminder of how many of them had fallen in the ongoing faction struggles. The door creaked open and one or two patrons drifted in, glancing around, uncertainly. They headed, at last, for the Moderation table and sat there. Kwai rinsed a few clay cups under running water and watched them. There they are, he thought. Moderation had misstepped—greatly—to be this weak. The other Factions had seized on an excuse and ravaged the Faction, like hungry wolves. Or vultures. Another scene from the painting slowly taking shape in the cellar of the Frozen Moon: Ashim, playing chess, his eyes dark with admonishment. His opponent’s face could not be seen. That was, itself, the trick: shadows and light. An artist moved in both; knew how to deal with both. Did a faction remain the same after so many had passed through it and from it? He wondered. Moderation was an idea, Kwai realised, rinsing the cups, drying them with a rag. It was a dream, a set of precepts that had to be held in the hearts of its members. And, of course, it was a faction. He stacked the cups carefully and placed them in the storage cupboard. It was a political association, that strange tenuous link between the realm of ideas and the realm in which ordinary men like himself lived and breathed, bled and died. There were so many new faces. He watched, stoked the fire, and let the long-spouted copper kettle heat. More patrons meant Wenshon would shortly call for more water, to keep the tea flowing. It was one of the many dances, he thought, noting the diminished cries from the Heritage and the Glory factions. Once, they had gathered to denounce members of the Discovery Faction. But enough blood had been shed to give the lie to their words, and now they thought of nothing so much as being the first to put the knife in the other’s back. It was, he reflected, something that Arbiter Kaleva would’ve been the first to point out. Kaleva. The cup cracked; a sharp sound. Wenshon shot him an annoyed stare; Kwai ducked his head, playing to the persona of the quiet MaiPon server, Shao. He found a broom and dustpan and swept away the shards. It was, after all, a still night—with just a few clouds in the courtyard outside, and the moon gleamed, full and round. And he could sense the restlessness in the air, and knew there would be blood. The food at the Frozen Moon wasn’t half bad, Eo decided, despite their startlingly bad taste in drinks. Boiled leaves in water wasn’t much to write home about. But the dumplings were, surprisingly, good. Bits of minced pork and water chestnut, wrapped in flour skins and steamed lightly made a crunchily satisfying snack. It was, really, if anything else, a decent last meal. She coughed, brought her hand up to cover her mouth, and glimpsed something scarlet as she pulled it away. She looked at it. Blood. It was, Eo thought, resigned, only a matter of time. She was awfully tired. It was cheerfully optimistic Cation Vinid, wearing an armband in the bright colours of the Glory Faction who first found Eo slumped against the table, unmoving. She shook Eo, lightly. There was no response. Finally, she grabbed Eo by the shoulders and pulled her up. Eo’s jacket was soaked through with blood. “Wenshon! Shao!” she called out. “Eo’s hurt!” Wenshon was over in a few moments, moving with a quiet efficiency that Cation had noticed days ago, even if she’d never commented about it. “Out of the way,” he ordered quietly, and shooed her to one side as he pulled open Eo’s jacket. He shook his head at once. “She’s dead,” he said, aloud. Silence had fallen, in the Frozen Moon. Some patrons were creeping out of the door. Others maintained a careful distance from the proceedings. And members of the Glory and Heritage factions were gathering around the scene, ominously quiet. “See?” Wenshon said. He pointed to the bandages on Eo’s chest. “Looks like a chest wound. I’m surprised she managed to survive for this long, without access to Resealer aid.” Someone called out, “It was a Glory kill!” Cation Vinid blinked. “I just found the body!” she protested. “I wasn’t responsible for it!” The mood—teetering on the brink of something unspeakably savage a few moments ago—broke. Two of the supporters of the Heritage Faction charged Cation, one of them wielding a bottle of smuggled rice wine, the other armed with nothing more than a knife. Cation stood her ground and met both of them. She hooked the leg of the first man and brought him down with a quick sweep, snatched the wine bottle from his hand, and promptly performed a quick step-dodge, past the slash of the knife and smashed the wine bottle over his head. The man staggered, and she firmly hit him with a knife-hand chop to the wrist, grabbed his falling knife, and with a quick flick of her wrist, drove the knife right into his right eye. The Heritage man went down and stayed down. The other was beginning to stir. He’d regained his feet and tried to make a grab for her. She allowed the movement, let him draw her in, and then smashed her forehead into his nose. Cartilage smashed in a welter of blood, and his howl of pain was muffled by the outraged cries from members of the Heritage faction. Cation broke his grip, smashed an uppercut into his chin, and then drove a sharp knife-hand punch into his throat. He went down, wheezing. She picked up one of the stools and smashed it over him. He went still. Breathing hard, Cation Vinid smiled. “That went pretty well, didn’t it?” she said, aloud, to no one in particular. Someone grabbed her from behind. She lashed out, driving her elbows back until she connected with something soft with a muffled yell from her assailant. Thin wire looped under neck and twisted and pulled and pulled. She fought. The world went dark. Bortholemew the Blind was out drinking. It was a clear night, and the sky was a map of constellations. “Is that any good?” someone asked. Bortholemew thought about it. “Eh,” he said, at last. “Could be better.” He offered the wine bottle to the stranger; a tall, thin man, with pale eyes. “Care for a drink?” The stranger took it. “I’m never paid enough for this,” he said, gravely. “But I don’t make a habit of mixing business with pleasure. Perhaps another time.” Bortholemew opened his mouth to ask a question. The Blade that burned through his spine and burned out his eyes was the only answer he ever received. “Why?” the stranger mused, staring at the body of the man. He shrugged, and took a long pull from the bottle of rice wine. He dismissed the Blade, allowed it to dissolve to mist. “Until you have been disgraced, you cannot know the fire that burns for redemption.” Eo was a Diplomat! Cation Vinid was a Striker! Bortholemew the Blind was a Striker! The Cycle will, unfortunately, still end at 11PM SGT on 15th July. I apologise, given the delay on this one, but I really don't want to drag things out for longer than necessary.
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Am back is not druink, cycle will now be closed. Please be patient while I get the orders sorted out to try and avoid something like last cycle's cincident from happening again. Thank you for your patience and have some soothing music to ease the wait.
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So, Phat. Care to explain to the rest of the class why you seemed to know something big was about to go down, even before the write-up was posted? Hmm? Edit: Sorry, got my games mixed up. The Wyrm Inquisition will currently withdraw, pending review and accusations of crossing the streams. Phat.
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GM Announcement! Unfortunately, I have managed to very thoroughly screw up the results of the last cycle. It has been brought to my attention that I have incorrectly recorded the status of one player. I am sorry guys, and I take full responsibility for the mistake *bows head in GM shame* Here is how I am going to handle this: 1. Pixie has now been marked as dead. She has been set to 'View Only' within her Faction doc, and for all intents and purposes, has pretty much died since the cycle began (which was supposed to be the case.) 2. I have sent her the dead doc link, and she will not be voting in this cycle, nor taking further actions. 3. Henceforth, let it be known that Pixie was an Arbiter (Forged). Thank you! Please resume your plotting and scheming and so forth
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Kyril Heron #4: Night Conversations The glass window was open, letting in a touch of the cool night air, laced with the mists. Kyril glanced up from his work on the House’s ledgers. His father, he thought, had been more than meticulous when it came to bookkeeping. He intended to be the same. He sipped from the hot cup of tea on his desk, and winced. There was something to be desired about the stimulant. For all it helped him feel a little less tired, he could, he supposed, simply have burned pewter. Could pewter even do such a thing? Cause a person to keep on going long after they should’ve slept? The thought was mildly interesting, but he had other things on his mind. He wondered how his father had managed. Certainly, it seemed that the list of things that needed to be done dragged ever on. Managing the House’s assets, attempting to improve their profit margins, seeing to the state of their workers and servants… The post occupied a corner of his in-tray: stacks and stacks of envelopes. Personal correspondences from contacts who had known his father, fellow House Lords and Ladies…he even caught sight of the pressed seal of House Urbain amongst the lot, and shook his head wearily. There was just so much to be done, Kyril sometimes wondered how he’d ever get properly caught up. Because he had to, of course. He was the House Lord now, and so he would just have to manage. The duty was his. Balancing the accounts for the month was tedious work, as he had to check the tables against the records sent from his agents in Luthadel. In the middle of his work, Kyril thought he heard a faint flapping sound. He looked up. Mist curled, outside his window. Cautiously—it was still not second nature to him, for all he’d been reminded countless times he’d been born to this power—Kyril burned tin. His senses sharpened; the mists seemed to reach out, drawn, into the study (his study, now) and turned faintly translucent. He caught sight of a shape, crouching outside in the darkness, as if balancing on air. “Hello, cousin,” Wystan Heron said, smirking. “I’d wondered how long it’d take for you to notice.” He thought of burning bronze, and then changed his mind. It was probably a sustained Steelpush that held Wystan, now. Or perhaps it was an Ironpull. Kyril wasn’t sure. He’d never been particularly good at either metal. “What are you doing?” he wanted to know. Wystan shrugged; an expansive gesture. “Testing Keep security,” he said. “Most of the men aren’t particularly used to us, still.” He frowned. “I’ll have to work on that, eventually. Probably won’t be long before the other Houses come to play.” Kyril pressed his lips together and finally nodded. “Do as you see fit,” he said, and was about to turn back to his work when Wystan spoke up again. “Do you know your wife’s a lot better than you are at this?” Kyril blinked. “I’ve seen her at practice with some of the other House Mistborn,” Wystan said, wistfully. “Compared to you, she’s a natural. Of course,” he added, cheerfully, “Anybody’s really a natural, compared to you.” “Thanks.” “I aim to please.” More soberly, Wystan said, “You know my feelings on the matter, Kyril. These powers are our birthright. And if we don’t learn to wield them properly—” “You know my feelings on the matter,” Kyril replied, repeating his cousin’s words. “I have other matters that require my attention.” Don’t think about it. Don’t. A coin snapped in through the open window. Kyril flung himself to the ground, almost immediately, upsetting the chair. A trickle of gentle warmth at the base of his throat. He pressed his hand to it. It came away faintly stained with just a bit of blood. “God, Wystan!” he snapped. “What are you playing at?” Wystan just looked at him. “It could be an assassin’s coin,” he said. “A thrown knife. A crossbow bolt. Anything, cousin.” Kyril sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. There were two options, he thought. Always two. A House Lord walked the knife’s edge, could not be seen to brook such behaviour. But Wystan was his cousin—they’d trained with their abilities together, for all that Wystan took to them more obviously than he’d ever had. Don’t think about it. “Your objections have been noted,” he said. “And God help me, Wystan, you do something like that again and I’ll see to it that action is taken.” “Don’t note them,” Wystan retorted. “Do something about it. Ask that lovely wife of yours, for goodness’ sake.” His voice softened. “Kyril, we’ve got your back. Lord Ruler knows, you’ve been doing good by us as the House Lord so far. And none of us wants to see this come to an end. Just think about it, will you?” “I will.” With a flap of his mistcloak, Wystan Heron shot up into the night and was gone. The cut was tiny and the bleeding had stopped. He’d nicked himself worse, shaving. Kyril sighed and returned to his work on the accounts. Wystan, he thought, always had a way of bringing up the things you didn’t want to have to deal with. Did that make him a good House Lord? Discounting well meaning advice because it didn’t sit well with him? While he discarded the thoughts as being irrelevant to the task at hand, Kyril knew that the unease Wystan had left him with would not be dealt with as easily.
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Would appreciate a link to the spec doc as well, please Sitting this one out, for sure. MR7's put me so far behind on my thesis I dread to see my supervisor.
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Point of order: you said, (and I quote) "I am Kasimar, Darkeyed Voidbringer, brother to a murdered brother, and I will have my vengeance--in this life or the next."
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MR7: Cycle Seven - The Killing Time The old man drinking tea at the Frozen Moon would not have been at all remarkable, had it not been for the bandages on his ribs. Or the fact that an innocuous-seeming cane leaned against the table leg—within easy reach—and that his eyes were constantly flicking around the room, scanning for any signs of danger. Kwai poured the tea and moved on to another table, where a boisterous group of Heritage Faction members were carousing. He left them, and brought a platter of freshly-made dumplings to the lone member of the Moderation Faction, sitting at a third table. The mood in the Frozen Moon, he thought, was never predictable. Tonight, it spoke of danger. The neutrality of the Frozen Moon had been long respected. He wondered for how long that would last. Clear ponds never did, he thought, all of a sudden. That image remained with him, sharp in his mind. A clear, still pond, disturbed only by a cast stone. Shattered. The Heritage Faction only looked back. The Glory Faction only looked forward. And Moderation stayed on the sidelines, too afraid to dirty its hands at all. And Reform— He heaved a quiet sigh. What else could somebody do, in such tumultous times, except to ride the whirlwind? The door to the Frozen Moon creaked open. Somebody stepped in. He recognised her, at once. Tall, and even the civilian clothes she wore couldn’t disguise her military bearing. She glanced around the room, located him, and strode over, barely bothering to approach the counter and place an order. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. Kwai watched as she handed him a slender tube; bamboo, polished, in the lantern light. He accepted it, ducked out behind. Wenshon watched him. He knew, Kwai thought. He must have seen one of these, in his day. In the warmth of the Frozen Moon’s kitchens, he felt for the seam, worked it open. The bamboo tube popped open, revealing the piece of paper nestled within. He worked it free, unfolded it, and read it. Even here, working in the Frozen Moon, Kwai would later think, the world of the Rose Palace—with all its subtleties and dances, with all its hidden dangers and eddies and crosscurrents—could still reach out to sweep you in. Did a man have any choice over it, really? How he wished to be remembered? How his name would forever echo across the pages of the historian’s annals? “What is it?” That was Wenshon. Mutely, Kwai showed him the note. Very slowly, because his bones ached, and there was the hint of a cold nip to the air this night, the old man stood up, left a few coins on the table for Wenshon, picked up his cane, and moved slowly towards the door. Leaning on his cane, he pushed on it, and headed out into the night. Tap. Tap. Tap. Polished wood against stone. Several men and women, who had been nursing cups of untouched tea for the better part of the evening gazed after him, and without saying anything further, all rose and left, after him. As Ynla Ka saw it, there were two choices. He could choose to live as a hunted animal, to forever peer over his shoulder into the shadows for knives in the dark. Or, he could go about his daily business, walk to the Frozen Moon for his night’s cup of tea, and simply be cautious. He chose the latter. There were few people about, at this time of the night. Most labourers were resting, or at a nearby teahouse. Some thieves went about their business, but perhaps out of deference for his age, or out of a sense that told them he was dangerous, they ignored him. It was, Ynla thought, best, for everyone involved. He tapped bronze, just a little. The night was beginning to wear on him, and even the hot tea couldn’t keep away the exhaustion that hovered at the edges of his mind, like a looming pall. Fatigue dissolved. He listened, carefully, and tapped just a little hearing from one of his tinminds. He needed to be careful about his filled metalminds. Some took a long time—and a great deal of inconvenience—to fill, and he knew he’d need every edge he’d get for now, when the Factions and their knives and their paper-thin smiles were coming for him. The night and all its sounds burst into stark clarity—but Ynla was not listening for the cries of the water-sellers or the sound of wagon wheels. Instead, he was listening for something else: the distinctive sound of booted feet tramping down the street, after him. He loosened the sword in its cane-sheath, cautiously. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought. The boots drew closer. He leaned on his cane, more for theatrics than from actual need. He was not, Ynla thought, feeling particularly frail today. The assassins hesitated, confused. But they were a team of professionals, and soon they had surrounded him, weapons drawn. “Good night,” Ynla said, nodding to them. “Did you know,” he said, conversationally, “I used to be a young man, but a Forger turned me into an old man?” The assassin in the lead blinked. “Actually,” Ynla continued. “It’s what I tell everyone.” He stopped storing atium and tapped it. Age, long stored, returned to him: the strength and vigour and swiftness of youth filled him in an instance. He stood straighter and taller, and tapped just a little steel and zinc. The world turned to slow honey. There was an assassin on the rafters, he thought. The sloping, tiled roofs of the Imperial Seat made it difficult to sustain a chase there, but assassins would seek to occupy that space. The assassin was, even now, reaching, as if through congealing glass, to his bandolier of throwing knives. Ynla stepped behind him, casually grabbed him with a tight forearm about his throat, and turned him, placing him in the line of fire. The first crossbow bolt flew true. Ynla was moving, even then. Time like ice, unspooling, like a ribbon. The second bore a butcher’s sword. Probably poisoned, Ynla thought. It was rising, slowly, too slowly. His own sword was drawn, now, and gleamed thinly in his hand, like a shard of the moon’s light. He ran the woman through, whipped back his sword to snap it clear of the body, still moving, still in motion, time still like the thick wild honey from the country hives. There was a sharp cry. There was no second bolt. Part of Ynla’s mind registered that as strange. The repeating crossbow favoured by assassins was of military-issue and popular because what it lacked in accuracy, it made up for in sheer quantity. A few heartbeats later, a body slipped off the sloping roof and fell to the ground, dripping with blood. The wound was not obvious. Ynla moved to the third assassin, disabling him with a palm strike to the throat, followed by a reverse-slash to slit his throat. The fourth had drawn his sword and was swearing sulphurously. He hadn’t expected that, Ynla thought. Hadn’t expected his prey to have fangs of his own. He held on to that thought. The fifth assassin swung, too slow, in what was a textbook slash at Ynla’s midsection. Ynla was dodging, dancing wide around the blow and— Snap. His sword glanced off the assassin’s ribs and snapped, leaving him with a hilt and half an inch of broken shard. He swore and shook out his hand, still stinging from the impact. Don’t stab for the ribs, some swordsmen warned. Good men broke their blades this way, sometimes. It had been an old sword, but a good sword. He feinted and flung the hilt shard at the assassin’s face to distract him, and delivered a series of fast punches to the man’s midsection. The assassin doubled over in pain, and a crushing throat strike put him down for good with the sound of smashed cartilage. He faced the last unarmed, bent over to dodge the diagonal slash, when— Time ran out, and so did the last of his zinc and steel. He should’ve stored pewter and gold, Ynla thought, but he’d run out of them surviving the last attempt on his life. Too late for regrets now. The last assassin blocked his punches with a contemptous ease and kneed him in the groin. The next moment, her fingers blurred and a palmed throwing knife embedded itself in his throat in a flash of motion and pain. Not enough, Ynla thought, choking on his own blood. Too late. He didn’t see the hooded figure descend from the rooftops or the hand that wrapped itself over the assassin’s mouth and the blade that jutted out from her throat. Didn’t hear her dying gurgle. In more than one way, he was not the only one who was too late, on this day. Ynla Ka was a Blasphemous Scholar! The Cycle has begun and will end at 12AM SGT [=GMT+8] on 13th July, Monday. (Yes, I'm aware of the changed time and have elected to institute it, both to be fair to all, as well as to accomodate my likely delay on Monday due to RL! Future cycles will be back to normal.)
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Got back not long ago, cycle is now closed, write-up is currently being produced. Will be posted in a bit, with PMs to follow.
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Kyril Heron #3: Burned Letters Dear Mama, I find myself writing to you, even now. I should stop doing so, but Elise has encouraged me to continue. So, here I am, still writing, even now, twenty years after your death. Father never really got over you. I remember the way he pressed the leaves from the garden plants between the pages of that thick, leather book—the one he wrote in. It was the plant you loved, Mama. He never allowed the servants to dig it up and replant it, even after it had become an old, withered thing. Is he with you now? I wonder. There’s little to tell us of the days before the Ascension: the days you and Father rarely speak of. In any case, I suppose it matters little, now. What lies before us is the future. I am worried about this future, Mama. A House Lord’s burden is a weighty one, I’ve come to realise. My worries are only compounded by whispers…whispers of ambitious plans from some of my fellow House Lords. I never wanted this, Mama. I only wanted to be left alone; for House Heron to flourish in peace, and to leave well enough alone. The affairs of other Houses should little concern us. It is, I think, what Father would’ve wanted as well. It was his dream, even in his older years, alone, without you, writing in his study. But is it what you would’ve wanted of me? Trying to find a way out of this wilderness of tigers? Elise. I write to you, Mama, because the pain of your leaving is still fresh, still a new wound. Because of all the things I want to tell Elise, but my tongue holds back. Because even now, I think of you and wonder what you would think of me, trying to run this House, trying to do everything duty demands of me. I think I like Elise, Mama. I don’t know what else I can say. I know love was never planned—it was never part of this entire business, when I married Elise. I think we are starting to warm to each other now. I enjoy her company, Mama. I hope it’ll get better. Give it time, you would tell me, no doubt. ‘Have patience.’ I am trying, very hard. She’s very different from me. She’s strong and sharp and so certain, and sometimes, I wonder which of us is the House Lord. Sometimes, we fight, and then we don’t talk to each other for days. We try to keep this quiet, of course, but I suppose the rest of the House knows. I don’t know what else I want to tell you. I still miss you, every day. I miss your grace, and your strength and your wisdom. Your son, Kyril.
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You mean naming and shaming you wasn't effective? And yes, it does. Basically, you guys get an extension up to whenever I get back and can close the cycle. At this point, I would estimate it'd be delayed by 1-2 hours, but I could be wrong, depending on how much work I have to put in. Edit: If the delay is really bad (my overtime is being put in because of a conference and we know how these get...), then I will likely just ask a chosen representative from the dead doc to close the cycle for me and edit in the write-up later. That's another possibility
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Timecheck: There is just over 24 hours left in the Cycle! Also, this is advance warning: due to RL issues possibly interfering, tomorrow's rollover may be pushed back by an hour or two. The same goes for Monday, due to job issues. I'll be working late, and so will only be back home and at a computer later than usual. Please be patient. -Kas
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MR7: Cycle Six - The Edge of Discord Kwai studied the mural beginning to take shape before him, in the light of the hanging lantern. It wasn’t quite right, he thought. He’d only begun to fill in most of the details, and he’d spent the previous night painting in an artistic frenzy. Inspiration, he might have called it, if not for the feeling he was being driven by something deeper. Something that mattered. It was justice, of a sort, perhaps. Just as it was justice that he would be known for killing an Emperor, not for the transcendent beauty of his verses, nor for the sublime quality of his paintings. He did regret that last painting. He regretted many things. There was Cang Lu, drinking tea calmly in the pavillion. A touch of jade in his cup, for depth, another shadow to his eyes, to make it appear as though he was gazing serenely into the tea leaves in his cup. A heron wading in the clear pond, untouched now, by the mud of the world. A splash of emerald for the Green Xienbei; the hilt of a sword peeked out from behind his cloth coat. Both hands rested on the wooden railing—he gazed out into the distance, but there was the hint of restlessness in the painting, a sense of pent-up motion. Stillness and dynamism: the two anchors to the different ends of the painting. And there was last night’s addition: a man, dark-haired, with clear, light eyes. Different from Cang Lu as the night was from the day. Kneeling, that had been his first thought. But no. It was inappropriate. Instead, here, he stood, apart from the others, near the very centre of the mural but not quite. He held himself erect, head proud and kingly, leaning on a large sword, lovingly detailed. Touches of blue paint around the edges gave it a faint sheen. The figure leaned on the sword—ground the point against the barren earth. The eyes, though. He hadn’t quite decided. Perhaps they should be closed, against the darkness of the world. Or perhaps they should be open; challenging the viewer. Difficult, when he hadn’t quite grasped the feel of the man. The creak of the cellar step announced the visitor. “Coming to see what I’ve done?” Kwai asked. “You’ve been busy,” Wenshon acknowledged. “And I was curious.” He descended the last few steps, and drew level with Kwai, and then fell silent. “It’s incomplete,” Kwai said, quietly. “The colours, though,” Wenshon breathed, transfixed. He held out a hand—tentatively—almost as if he wanted to touch the painting, and carefully drew it back. “It’s still wet, isn’t it?” “I just applied a layer of fresh paint,” Kwai agreed. He could not have said what drove him to paint this mural depicting the patrons of the Frozen Moon. Their fates flashed in his mind: Cang Lu vanished; murdered, they said, no doubt at the behest of Arbiter Urskevan of the Glory Faction. The rambunctious pirate, Hreo, killed by several crossbow-wielding Strikers at once. Wai ZhierSen, murdered by Strikers. Waimin, assassinated, lying in a pool of his own blood in the Golden Mean. We are all subjects of art, he thought. From the highest king to the lowest peasant. He must’ve said that aloud, for Wenshon snorted. “Peasants don’t interest buyers are much,” he pointed out, pragmatically. “This isn’t for sale,” Kwai said. “This is art as it should be: the responsibility of the artist, the creation demanding to be let into the world, distilled through the crucible of inspiration and need.” He shook his head. “What’s the word on the Rose Palace?” Wenshon shrugged. “The Factions are about to exterminate Discovery,” he said, acceding to the change of topic. “Their Arbiter is protesting, of course; disowning the scholars as a splinter group. They won’t be raised to the Rose Throne anytime soon, but it was always a long shot, anyhow. Moderation’s all but given up: Arbiter Renzu’s nowhere to be found. It’s really Heritage that’s leading the push for the Throne.” “Frava,” Kwai said, the word both a sigh and a curse. “Arbiter Frava’s ambitious,” Wenshon agreed. “But everyone already knew that. I’d say she’s already won; Urskevan just doesn’t want to admit it.” “What?” “A spymaster’s got to keep some secrets, wouldn’t you say?” He returned to studying the painting. “And that was the nomad who got killed the other day for desertion. Bad business, that.” He was pointing to the Green Xienbei. Kwai nodded. “He tipped well.” Wenshon laughed. “Of course you would remember that.” “Among other things.” Wenshon said, “Well. There’s one thing you should know. Word’s come from the Rose Palace.” “Gamman, isn’t it? I suppose he’s taken over Reform completely.” “Yes,” Wenshon agreed, mildly. “With Kaleva’s death, there was no one to check Gamman’s ambition.” “What would you have me do?” Kwai said, wearily. “It’s done. They’re long in their graves. I’m an artist, now, not an assassin.” “Sometimes,” Wenshon said, “The future is a work of art; born in blood and pain and a dagger’s blade. Wouldn’t you say?” Kwai thought of the blood, of the slaughter in the streets, of the man who lay dying in a pool of his own blood, the nomad cut down for desertion, the vanished Cang Lu and said, “I don’t see anything worth saving.” Wenshon said, more gently, “I know.” Kwai picked up his brush again, traced a streak of vermillion through the air. Blood, he thought, with more blood to come. Or the first flowers of autumn. The cold was in the air, now. The cold days were arriving. It had been a day for many regrets. Ableah Edr massaged the tension out of his cramping shoulder, as much as he could. His departure from the Moderation Faction had been, for all things, less than cordial, and he quietly regretted that things had not worked out. He shook his head, tiredly. Faction politics made less sense, the more he looked at it. Moonlight, through the open window. There was a poet of the Empire, once, who had written verses to break the heart about the moonlight—silver frost on the ground—and memories of home. Ableah thought about him now, and many other things, but mostly, of departed friends. “You’ve gone all quiet again,” said the voice. He stood up, walked over, and picked up the halberd from where it rested against the wall. Discord grumbled, “Oh, sure, ignore me. Keep ignoring me. What’re you going to do without me? Oh hey, I’m not even getting paid for this, am I? What if I told you I had secret powers that I’d let you in on if I got paid?” “Is this a question or a statement?” Ableah wanted to know. He moved into the Middle-Even stance, the most balanced of them all. The red tassel beneath the protruding crescent blade bobbed with the movement. He flipped the halberd about and thrust, extending out and stretching. “Yes,” Discord said. That was always her answer to ‘or’-questions, Ableah thought. Then again, it was difficult to expect anything different from a halberd—the typical weapon wielded by infantry and occasionally, cavalry in the Rose Empire—that had been Awakened with the command ‘Troll people.’ Privately, Ableah considered the cousin on Nalthis who’d first experimented with Discord to have been a rather twisted individual. “Are you expecting trouble?” “Yes.” “Would you like to know if there were soldiers at the door?” Ableah whipped Discord through a swift sequence, windmilling the shaft of the halberd in a series of fast strokes designed to repel a sword-wielding attacker, and then a disarming thrust. “Yes.” “Ableah, you’re not being very entertaining tonight.” “You always say that.” “You’re no fun! That’s why!” There came a crash from the door, followed by a few screams. Ableah smiled, and continued the sequence, shifting from Middle-Even to the Control-Spear stance, Discord’s point thrust low. Control-Spear positioned an infantryman to respond swiftly to a foe wielding a polearm. Of course, most Strikers eschewed polearms, preferring the slender sword—the gentleman of weapons, some pugilists had named it. Others preferred the curving, broad-bladed butcher’s sword. Against either of these, Discord had the advantage. “Ableah?” A second series of screams. So the Strikers had decided to come in force. The first set, Ableah thought, would’ve been from the tripwire. The second set would’ve been those who’d disturbed the acid. He smiled. He hadn’t the slightest intention of going down easily. “Ableah, you’re ignoring me.” “Yes.” “I troll people,” Discord said. “I do not get trolled.” “Yes.” “Ableah, you can be such a pain.” He sighed, whipped Discord about in a lightning-fast spinning strike meant to wrench the weapon from an attacker’s hand. Then about whirled the shaft of the halberd, smacking the intruder in the shin, flinging them to the ground, or at least staggering them, before they took the point of the halberd in the throat. Two Strikers stormed into the room. The one in the lead was bleeding; his boots were smoking as the acid ate away at his boots. The one bringing up the rear was limping, and struggling with an Awakened scarf that had wrapped itself tightly around his neck. His eyes were bulging and he was whimpering. “I didn’t think that’d actually work,” Discord commented, surprised. Ableah met the onrushing swing of the sword blade, hooking the sword behind the crescent blade of Discord—just where crescent met the jutting spear-point—and then he jerked, yanking the sword from the man’s hand. He twirled Discord about negligently, smacking the Striker in the head with the shaft of the halberd. “Bet you thought I’d hit you,” Discord taunted the fallen guard. “Sorry, no!” He transitioned to the reverse Pierce-Sleeve stance and stabbed the fallen guard in the throat. His counterpart was gurgling and had dropped to the floor, helpless. Ableah considered him for a moment and then left him to die. Two more Strikers burst in. He’d run out of traps, then. Ableah shifted to Hanging-Sword stance; an open stance, inviting attack. The two of them glanced at their compatriots on the ground and then carefully advanced on him. The braver of the two led the way; a simple, measured swing, testing out his defenses. A flex of his wrists levered the halberd slightly, enough to tap the sword out of his way. He smiled at them and waited. “Oh, Ableah?” “Hmm?” “I just thought I’d tell you,” Discord said, cheerfully. “There are soldiers here.” He sighed. “Yes, I know.” “Also,” Discord informed the two Strikers, “Would you like some apples? I have apples. For the best swordsman.” The Strikers ignored Discord and advanced on him, attempting to flank him. He allowed the first to attack, hooked into the sweep of the butcher’s sword, and then whirled about and shifted to Group-Sweep stance, dumping the first on his back. But the second was already upon him, trying to press him. Numbers were of some help to the swordsman when dealing with a polearm-wielder. Ableah smashed him in the ribs with the butt end of Discord and whipped about to intercept another blow from the first Striker, who had regained his feet. He took a step back, moved—just for a moment, in front of the open window. “Ableah?” The first bolt that smashed into his back took him by surprise. The second did not. By the time the third and fourth and fifth crossbow bolts slammed into him in a welter of pain and blood, the world had begun to go dark at the edges. The window was open, he remembered. He’d forgotten. Discord slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. “I did tell you so,” Discord muttered. There was no response. There never would be. Ableah Edr was a Reform Spy! Lolnope he was a Blasphemous Scholar. Cycle Six begins now and will end in 48 hours, on 11th July, at 11PM SGT [=GMT+8].
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Yes, I know I'm late. Sorry about that. Got caught up with RL. I'll try to have the docs closed and the write-up up ASAP, then deal with the PMs. Just uh, cool your jets or something, Chief! Cycle is now closed, ICYMI.
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One further clarification: A Diplomat does not have two lives. They're a delayed death role. You can hit them twice; you can be excessive and hit them five times (thank you, Wyrm)--they will still take an extra cycle to die. This is unlike the Teullu Warrior. tldr; delayed death =/= has two lives. Carry on with your usually-scheduled mass murdering. Edit: This cannot be prevented by role-blocking a Diplomat.
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Because no one reads the tags, I thought, and I decided to name and shame the people who send in late orders for the lulz and so they won't do it again
