Kasimir
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Sort of, yes. That some words evoke to me a certain sort of feel, a certain sharp clarity, and they're quite powerful. That happens with descriptions, even poems. But just no images. I'd have to try hard for flickers.
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I have NOT confirmed that there exists any alliance of any sort. I am merely reminding all players that they need to play to their existing win conditions. I admit, I am partly regretting that ruling now, especially the difficulties it has caused Joe and some other frequent transfers. But whether or not I regret it, it is immaterial. All the same, I consider it even more impractical to be consistently changing rulings within the game. My main aim at this point is to therefore: A. be consistent, B. to uphold rulings in a manner that will be fair to players such as Joe. And this means that I will expect players to uphold the same standards of behaviour that they have been held to. As a result: My prior ruling on win conditions stands.
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I would prefer to not have to weigh in, but I've seen this mistake made too many times. This is a Faction game. Members of Moderation do not win if Discovery wins. Neither do they win if Glory wins or if Heritage wins. At this point, considering what certain former members of Moderation have put Joe through, I will remind all players that you should be playing to your current Faction's win condition, and not counting on being bribed over. Your win conditions do not change until they do. To play otherwise is to be exceedingly unfair to certain players, particularly Joe, who have been treated in certain ways for intiially refusing to play to his win condition. I have already told Moderation that I am not against giving Discovery Slaughter and letting them go to wild if players continue to attempt to break the game. I reaffirm this commitment. Thank you. -Kas Edit: I have been informed--rightfully so--that not everyone is familiar with what Slaughter is. It is an Awakened Sword in the first incarnation of this game, capable of a double kill, one of them unblockable and instant.
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MR7: Cycle Five - The Fall of Kings The Gardens of the Sun was strangely deserted when Wurum entered. He hesitated at the doorway. The lantern indicating that the place was open for business had been doused. That itself was unexpected. Even the neighbouring brothel and gambling den had gone silent. He didn’t like the look of this. He held out his hand and summoned his Blade. Ten heartbeats later, Regicide dropped into his waiting hand. It was somewhat difficult to manoeuvre into the cramped space of the teahouse with the Blade ready to hand, but he managed it. No one was there. Where had the others gone? Cautiously, he took one step forward. And then another. Had they left a note? All of a sudden, he heard a rustle. A shape detached itself from the shadows, strode forward, resolved into a man. “You,” Wurum said. He recognised that man. Makabaki, most likely: dark-skinned, with just the pale crescent on his cheek. He wore black and silver; not unlike a military uniform, and thick gloves, with stiff cuffs. And his eyes were cold. “Yes,” said Darkness. “Me.” He swept his hand out to the side. A gleaming Shardblade materialised in his waiting hand. Wurum eyed him and fell into Ironstance, Blade held overhead in a two-handed grip. The last time, he thought, they’d fought and destroyed the old wing of the palace. Granted, he’d wanted it remodelled, but he didn’t really want it all damaged by a Shardblade duel. Clever words and the intervention of his guards had saved him back then. There was no one now. He didn’t know if his fellow Scholars (did Wurum even know Scholars?) would be able to confront Darkness. He was all alone (except for the storming screaming in his head, the one that never went away.) Ready to die. Teeth bared, Wurum Heron embraced death. Darkness brought his Blade up, assumed Stonestance. Even now, Wurum thought, there was still room for astonishment. Things changed. The world surprised you, even at the end of all things. “No more words?” he taunted. “None for one such as you,” Darkness said, unperturbed. “You’ve hidden for long enough, King.” No contempt, despite the emphasis he placed on the last title. “I have broken no laws,” Wurum said. “You have no more claim over me.” “I had to look very hard,” Darkness replied, “To discover an indiscretion.” He nodded; a perfunctory gesture that might have been grudging respect. “You have lived a very clean life since your pardoning yourself. An act permissible by Alethi law.” “Why, thank you.” “However.” Darkness’s voice was even, clean like scrubbed ice. “Soul Forgery is a criminal act by the laws of the Rose Empire. A slip you should not have made.” “I’m not even a citizen here.” “That is no excuse,” Darkness said. “Justice is blind. Justice is patient. And finally, justice will have its due.” “Not,” Wurum said, “If I have anything to say about it.” Both of them moved, all at once. Their Blades met; Darkness slashed, Wurum parried, using the powerful swings of Ironstance to beat aside Darkness’s blade and to attack his midsection. Darkness anticipated that, somehow. He reversed direction, blocked the blow, and hammered the pommel of his Shardblade home. Pain. Wurum staggered backwards, crashing into a table and sweeping off the tray of unattended teacups that was there. They clattered to the floorboards and broke; shattering. He struggled to regain his equilibrium. The strike with the pommel had unbalanced him, and there was a trickle of dampness above his right eye. He felt for it. A cut. Darkness’s blow had laid open the skin. “First blood to you,” Wurum said. “But that’s all you’re getting.” Wordlessly, Darkness struck again. Wurum forced his Blade aside, using brute strength. Ironstance was about force, he thought. Stonestance about immobility. That cost Darkness now, as their two Blades sliced through the table like a heated knife through yak butter. That last thought was not Wurum’s. He retaliated, hammering his own pommel strike home, was somewhat displeased to see that Darkness didn’t react at all to having the blunt end of a Shardblade smacking him in the ribs. In the next moment, Darkness had freed his Blade from the wreckage of the table. He swept down towards Wurum, faster than a normal person should. Wurum steeled himself against the incessant screaming and brought up his Blade to block, but found himself stumbling backwards against the onslaught. Came to a stop. His back was to the far wall of the teahouse. Darkness advanced. Inexorable. “King's killing blade—blade killing kings.” -Collected 10 seconds pre-death. Subject was a nightsoil porter from Telmont. Sample is considered to be useless, despite the elegance of the ketek. Two lives. He remembered both. One was a dream. Perhaps both were. The man who had been Cang Lu remembered words penned down a long time ago by a dreamer, a philosopher and a sage. A man once had a dream he was a butterfly, said the sage, and when he awoke, he no longer knew if he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a man. The man who had been King Wurum Heron of Alethkar, First of His Name, Protector of the Realm and the Herald of the Storms remembered, for no particular reason, a dying man’s eyes and his last words. “He’s coming,” the assassin had cried out, just before the Shardblade bit into him, killing him. “He’s coming for you. Darkness.” He looked up, into the emotionless eyes of the man. Darkness. He knew, then, what the assassin had meant. His arm was bleeding. The wound had reopened. Tiredly, he brought his Shardblade up. He could not fight the inevitable, he knew. But he could not (would not) kneel and wait for the deathstroke to come, either. “Why?” Wurum asked. The Makabaki looked at him, the way he would’ve looked at a weed in a garden that needed pruning, thought the part of him that was still Cang Lu. As if he was simply a distasteful task that had to be accomplished. “What you are is detestable,” the Makabaki said, at last, the words clipped and emotionless. He held his Blade in Smokestance, but did not yet advance. He considered Wurum for a long moment. “You do not even know what you are, do you?” “I’m King of Alethkar,” Wurum ground out. “First of His Name, Protector of the Realm, and the Herald of the Storms. I’m not going to beg.” “Just as well,” said the man. “Justice heeds no pleading. You do not even know what a Herald is.” The Blade screamed and he fought to keep to his stance. The fight was wearing on him. “What, then?” Wurum demanded. “It is beyond you,” the Makabaki responded. “Just as the abomination you are is beyond your comprehension.” He closed in. In Windstance, Wurum parried the first blow, and beat off the second. Blood dripped down his hand and over his eye, but he knew he didn’t have a moment to wipe it away. It was, however, a distraction he did not need, on top of the screaming. Always the screaming. “How do you deal with it?” he whispered. “The screaming?” Darkness forced his Blade up with a negligent twist of his wrist, and with horror, Wurum realised he wasn’t going to be able to bring his Blade down in time to defend himself from the next blow. He threw himself to the side. Darkness’s Blade buried itself in the wall. If it had been a regular sword, that might’ve saved him. But this was a Shardblade, and Darkness retrieved it as easily as though he’d only sliced silk. “It is what you are,” Darkness replied, at last, his words as clinical as ice. “Surgebinder. Incipient Radiant.” His mouth twisted in an expression that might’ve been cold distaste, if the man felt any emotion at all. “Criminal. You dabble in arts that might return Desolation to the world. You must be stopped.” He was trapped, behind the counter. It was always going to end this way, Wurum thought. Blood dripped. So tired. The assassin, the killer of kings had been right, in the end. He laughed. Strange, to hear his own laughter, over the screaming. He raised his Blade. Darkness’s Blade came down. Beat his aside. Fell. Burning. The world turned dark. Ended. Cang Lu was Wurum Heron, King of Alethkar, First of His Name, Protector of the Realm and Herald of the Storms a Troll Blasphemous Scholar! Cycle Five has begun and will end on Thursday, 9th July, 11PM SGT! [=GMT +8] Note: The ketek was Wyrm's, not mine. All credit where it's due
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The cycle is now closed. Stay posted for the write-up and PMs, once I finish killing some last-minute voters painfully and slowly.
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Noted. I'll just save myself the trouble by putting everyone as having voted for dowanx and close the cycle now. Stay tuned for the write-up in about two hours...
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Timecheck: Under three hours remain in the cycle. Please get in your actions while you still can, and please, can we try not to leave them 'till the last minute for the sake of my sanity? Hmm? >>
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Wow. I didn't realise that. It sounds like me, but not quite. It takes a lot of effort for me to think in images, and I just can't really do that often. I guess I get rare images, very rare, if I concentrate hard--like, remembering if someone was left-handed or right-handed by pulling out a memory of them scribbling on the whiteboard with their left/right hand. They're more flickers with no real texture to them, I suppose. You sort of know, but there's no real depth to the image, not like what you get when you're looking at something right in front of you. I can't do that for books, and like you, I tend to just glaze past descriptions unless I focus. The words help, though. While I can't get a coherent image, the words...the sound and feel of them...they help me when writing >> Not sure if that makes any sense. I don't know if that makes me aphantasic :S
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Kyril Heron #2: The Peaceful Gardens “My father said it used to be all different,” Elise said. Kyril looked at her; this stranger he’d married. “So did mine,” he replied, eventually. The garden in Keep Heron was a small one; grasses carefully trimmed, with smooth, round stones placed in an aesthetic meant to be pleasing to the eye. A few shrubs broke the monotony, and the only luxury his father had afforded himself the small, running brook. “My mother used to love this garden,” he said, at last. “My father had it built for her. He said it reminded her of the days before the Ascension.” “We don’t know very much of those days, now,” Elise replied. “Do we?” He wasn’t sure how to interpret that challenging gleam in her eyes. “No,” he said. “I suppose not.” “There were flowers,” Elise said. She glanced up, almost involuntarily. “The sky was blue. No ash.” He looked up, following the direction of her gaze. It was hard to envision what such a world might’ve looked like. He’d seen a painting in his father’s study, once, as a boy; of a grassy meadow beneath blue skies, a field with plants and the strangest colours. He shook his head to dislodge the memories. “It is what it is now,” he informed her. “Don’t you ever wonder what could’ve been?” Elise asked him. He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Why not?” “It’s best not to think of what might’ve been,” he said, stiffly. “My lady.” “My name is Elise,” she informed him. “You should really start using it.” “Elise.” “Why is it best?” They looked at each other; Kyril exasperated, Elise refusing to back down. Finally, he responded, “I do not consider it fruitful to look back at the past, m—Elise. The future should be what concerns us, now.” “The future,” Elise repeated. “And for that, we’re married.” “I have my duty to my House to consider,” he said. “As do you.” “Your House is mine now,” Elise reminded him. “You know that.” “Yes,” he acknowledged. It was difficult, but he finally tore the words from his throat. “Elise. I know you probably didn’t want this, but for better or worse, we’re together now. And I…I hardly know you. But I want to get to know you better.” “Because you have to?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Because I want to do right by you,” Kyril agreed. “And…I think I would like to. To get to know you.” “And you picked this garden to have this conversation?” Kyril was quiet for a time. Elise snuck a peek at him; he was, she noticed, playing with something in his pocket. He said, “Yes. I was…hoping you’d like it.” “Not really.” She looked at him. “But I could learn to.” “My father once told me that the first step to love is friendship, and so is the last. It’s what’s in the middle that’s left.” He drew in a deep breath. “I hope we’d at least be friends.” “Can a House Lord afford friends?” “I don’t think he can afford not to.” Her nod was a small gesture. He took her hand, hesitant. “Shall we?” “I suppose we shall,” said Elise, as she led the way back into the Keep.
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The sun beat down on the arena, and the screams and chants of the crowd only intensified as the gladiators strode out. From the Moderation Faction came Ableah Edr, sculpted body gleaming with oils, clad in a loincloth and sandals. He held the sword in his hand as though he didn't know what to make of it. Crouched by a catapult was Bortholemew the Blind. His beard had been scrubbed until it was as white as snow. "Still got to make some calculations," he grunted, tinkering with the catapult. By popular acclaim, he had been declared the Glorious Champion. Next, Adamir of the Heritage Faction entered the arena. His thin robe clashed with his sandals. "You can't do this!" he cried out. "I'm a scribe, not a gladiator! I know ten different languages!" The last champion entered. His clothing was casually shredded, and he carried a huge blade, metal beaded with drops of moisture that dripped down into the thirsty sands. "Then you can curse at us in ten different languages," King Wurum of Alethkar, First of his Name, Protector of the Realm, and the Herald of the Storms said, cheerfully. He grounded his Blade, point-down in the sand, and leaned on it. "Well, gentlemen," he said. "Shall we get to it? Or are we going to take all day?"* *Nice try, but no. Get back to your regularly scheduled killing, thank you.
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So noted. I suppose I'll have to change this game to Gladiator Elimination. Please stand by to receive your new role PMs...
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Kyril Heron #1: A Candle By Which To See Kyril sat before the open coffin, waiting, watching. The candles in the Keep hall seemed to flicker, to elongate. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. It wasn’t the time for tears, he thought. Even in his vigil, there would be eyes watching. There always were. Did you ever get used to this? The impossibility of utter privacy, even in grief? It wasn’t, by all standards, a bad end. He’d come into his father’s study to see Wallace Heron sprawled over a stack of reports on his desk, eyes closed, a peaceful smile on his face. He’d known, then. His father had been terribly old. It was one thing to know his father would one day die, leaving the House to him. It was another thing to experience it. His shoulders shook. He kept his lips pressed together. No tears. Now was not the time for them. He wondered if there was ever a time for them. How did he think of his father? Wallace Heron had, before anything else, been a businessman. Somewhat distant—he’d often made trips to the surrounding territories once they’d been conquered, trying to establish trading partners and connections. They hadn’t been that close, Kyril knew. So why did it hurt? You’re not crying for the man, he thought. Realisation, in a sudden illuminating burst. You’re crying for what you never had. For what you always wanted. Did it matter, what he wanted? He was the heir to House Heron. Once he left the Keep hall in the morning, he would be Lord Heron, in name and in truth. Was he ready for this? The world didn’t wait, Kyril thought, for a man to be ready. It didn’t care about what he wanted, and he wasn’t even sure he knew what he wanted. But he had his duty, to his Lord and ruler, to his House, and to his wife. Eventually, he would have his duty to his children. As he gazed at his father’s coffin, still waiting, still keeping vigil, Kyril Heron swore he would never turn his back on his duties. Action One:
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Point of order, Wyrm--I've clarified the Teullu Warrior can protect from the lynch--and they kill a random player who voted for the lynchee. The Forger can also protect from the lynch. That's about it. Please carry on, Dunkelzahn. This has been most amusing
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1. Prior rule clarifications 2.Clarifications from Cycle Two 3. Clarifications from Cycle Three Clarifications from Cycle Four: -Is Wyrm a Shardbearer? Does he have a Shardblade? Can he kill with it? PAFO. -What happens if a Diplomat scans a person killed during the same cycle? The same thing as if the Diplomat scanned a dead person. They get no result. -Unlike MR1, there is nothing in this game capable of insta-killing a Diplomat. They will always have a delayed death. This applies to both (S) and (J) Diplomats. -If I am a Forger, can I use more than one Essence Mark at a time? And can I take an action with the Essence Mark in the same cycle that I've used it? Hmm. Here is where flavour and the game mechanics diverge a little. Yes, you can use more than one Essence Mark at a time, but remember you can only use each Mark once. In addition, yes, the action takes place in the same cycle. So you say something like "I want to use my Hunter Essence Mark and kill Gamma." -Can the Teullu Warrior protect from the lynch? Yes. So can the Forger. In the case of the Teullu, they kill one of the random people who voted for the lynchee.
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MR7: Cycle Four - The Wretched and Divine The storm that blew in on the Imperial Seat was one of the worst anyone could remember, flinging clay tiles from roofs and battering at scraped-paper windows. The two men who waited out the storm in the cellar of the Frozen Moon glanced at each other, warily, with only a flickering paper lantern by which to see. “Tell me why you did it,” the first said. The second man looked at him. He said, “I’m no stranger to faction games.” The first said, “Ah. I understand now.” He smiled, amused. “It was you, all along. You were one of Kaleva’s sources.” “A long time ago,” the second man acknowledged, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the wall. “I’m retired.” A soft chuckle. “And of course, if you happen to hear anything of particular interest…” The second man dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Old habits die hard,” he admitted. “And I repay my debts in full. He asked me to give you a place to lie low for a while.” The first man would only very rarely admit to being startled. He was now. Shi KwaiRan said, slowly, “You would expect me to believe he knew, even then?” Wenshon shrugged. “Believe what you want,” he said. “You wanted my reasons. You have them.” Kwai shook his head. “No,” he said, aloud. “I think there’s more to it. You shielded me from the Strikers. Only a brave man or someone tired of living does that.” He looked at Wenshon, taking in the thin white scars along the man’s arms, the unremarkable face, the competent air with which he carried himself. “You were one of them, weren’t you? A long time ago. And then he gave you a way out. That’s what you mean by being no stranger to faction games. You were—” “—used,” Wenshon said. “Just as you are, now.” Kwai said, “Is it being used if I chose to do it?” Wenshon held out a hand in an open gesture. “You tell me,” he said. “Do you think you were anything more than a tool in Gamman’s hand?” Kwai looked away, at the walls of the cellar. In the silence, there was a loud clap of distant thunder. He said, “These walls are far too empty.” He looked back at Wenshon. “I have some paint, if you’d let me.” Wenshon thought about it. It didn’t take too long, at all. “Fine,” he said. A peace offering. Another man sipped his last cup of tea as the storm raged in the Imperial Seat, rattling the shutters of his home. It was, he thought, the final gift, from a dead man. He looked at the leaves settling at the bottom of the celadon cup, and, very deliberately, let go and stepped away. In the silence that followed the snarl of the thunder, the cup dropped to the floodboards, and shattered. The sound was no less loud; no less sharp than the thunder, than the persistent drumming of the rain. It was a gift from one dead man to another. The man walked away, without looking back. Somewhere else in the Imperial Seat, a man played a game with himself. He moved the painted wooden pieces on the board, gripped the board, turned it around, and then moved the pieces of the imaginary opponent’s. Thunder split the night, almost, but not quite masking the sound of splintering wood. As the Strikers burst into his study, swords drawn, surrounding him, Ashim simply looked at them and smiled. It was, he thought, in the end, a beautiful game, played by children. Lightning flashed; the bright sheen of a sword-blade. In the downpour, the door to the Golden Mean swung open. The proprietor glanced up from where she was balancing the accounts, startled. Only a fool or a desperate man, she thought, would brave the storm to enter the teahouse. As it was, the man in question was neither and both. The room spun around him as Waimin staggered into the Golden Mean and collapsed, the last of his strength deserting him. “Sir! Are you—” he dimly heard the proprietor asking him something, and managed to mumble a response. He felt—distantly—deft hands parting his jacket and heard her gasp as she saw the bandages, soaked through with blood. “This…” he slurred, “Where I belong.” He took her hand in his, pressed it to his heart. “Understand?” he demanded. She nodded; her face seemed to blur in and out of his vision. “Y-Yes…you need help. Fei! Get me a Resealer!” “Too…late…for me…” he gasped, and then, in the empty teahouse, with none but the proprietor by his side, he was gone. A man walked in the storm, unperturbed. It was, he thought, one of life’s unspoken pleasures, to feel the rain on his face. “Well, then?” he said, aloud. The assassins following him did not speak, as they surrounded him. He felt a sharp flash of pain, and discovered a crossbow bolt had punctured his left shoulder. He gripped it, ground his teeth together, and snapped the bolt off. Pain, like nothing he had known before. It fogged his vision red, and then finally receded. Rain, and blood, dripping. His blood, he thought, running in tiny swirls in the rainwater on the pavingstones. It had, after all, only been a matter of time before Arbiter Urskevan hired assassins to kill him in retribution for his discovered treachery. Though, Cang Lu wondered, can a man even betray something he was never loyal to? It was, alas, an academic point. Deliberately, he brought out the Essence Mark from the pocket of his trousers: the one he had tinkered with, slowly, for the past thirty years. It was an open question if something like this should’ve even been possible in the first place, or so his fellow Scholars had argued. They’d fallen silent when he’d shown them the results of his research. Soul Forgery allowed you to reach across lifetimes, to draw on experiences you’d never had, memories you’d never lived, skills you’d never learned. Could it reach across worlds? He bared his bicep, inked it in his own blood, and stamped down, locking the seal into place. Two lives, two histories, two worlds. He was Cang Lu, scholar, spy, traitor, and friend. He was Wurum Heron, spy, noble, and, eventually, the King of Alethkar, First of his Name, Protector of the Realm, and Herald of the Storms. One life faded. The other did not. Wurum Heron let fall the bandage and held his hand out to the side, concentrating. Ten heartbeats. Each of them steady. He threw himself down to dodge the next bolt, and pushed back up onto his feet and backed away from the assassins, cautiously. He unnerved them; that, at least, was something. The kingkiller’s Blade appeared, then, coalescing as if from mist into his hand, the metal beaded faintly with drops of water, indistinguishable from the rain. He was not a swordsman; he had, for the most of his life, favoured the bow rather than the sword that was his birthright. But now, Wurum fell into Windstance and moved. He could not falter. To falter would be to die. They had him at a disadvantage, without Shardplate, with their crossbows. Screaming. In his head. He didn’t know if it was from the assassins, or the Blade itself. He ground his teeth together, willing himself to ignore it. The Blade swept through an assassin’s arm; he dropped his sword. Wurum’s recovery to guard stance brought the Blade in place to cut through another onrushing attacker and then he smashed the pommel into the face of a third. The sound of smashing cartilage was strangely satisfying. They moved as though they were taking part in a perfectly choreographed dance. He could not afford to be hit, so he simply did not put himself where the blows landed, moving away and striking out at them with his Shardblade. They came at him. They fell. They died. There was no blood; all the blood was his. A knife raked a line of pain along his shoulder, but he turned, snake-swift, and slammed his elbow into the woman’s neck, forcing her back, and then killed her. He’d felt the Thrill before. This transcendent state of battle was not it: it was something else, something different, even as the lightning flashed and the thunder roared. He fought harder and better than he had in his entire life. The dance faltered, came to an end. There was no one left to fight. The assassins were all splayed out around him. His breath puffed out in the air, like mist. Wurum Heron fell to his knees and just enjoyed being alive. Ashim was a Bloodsealer! Waimin was a Diplomat! This Cycle has begun and will last for 48 hours, ending on Tuesday, 7th July, at 11PM SGT! [=GMT+8] Player List
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Timecheck: Slightly over an hour remains in the cycle, ladies and gentlemen! Please remember to get your actions in!
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So, I'm Kas, and I mostly frequent the Sanderson Elimination section, but I do read the other stuff--I just don't post there very often Anyway, a bunch of people have been asking after the identity of this anonymous graphic artist who makes all these stats banners that people have been sporting. That would be me. I chose not to come forward because: A. I don't have 1337 Photoshop skills. What I know comes entirely from my misspent youth in fandom B. I have a lot of things at the moment, mostly from RL (three part-time jobs, though I'm quitting one, and a thesis.) But anyway, Haelbarde (or, the M'Hael) is a novahot bannermaker, and so I dropped him a PM and he has kindly agreed to team up with me! This way, we can get banners for people done much faster! So, if you want a stats banner, drop us a request in this thread and we'll see what can be done! (Technically, there's no reason to restrict this to SE, and we'd probably be open to other requests as well. But given the original provenance and my limited time (at least on my part), I will unfortunately be prioritising SE stats banner requests. I hope for your understanding and patience. ) Here is a helpful rubric for giving us an idea of what you want: 1. Player name - Some players prefer truncated versions of their player names. Please let us know which you would favour. 2. Stats - To save time and prevent miscommunication, please let us know what the stats you want reflected on the banner are! 3. Player titles - These can be anything from roles you had that you particularly enjoyed, to an event that happened in a game (e.g. in my case, Kingkiller because of LG5.) Normally, we'd take 3 player titles. 4. Colours - Please let us know which colours you favour! Kas normally ends up using 2-3 colours while making a banner. 5. Symbol/background - Please let us know if there are textures, images, backgrounds or brushes you would especially like us to use Requests should tackle each of these elements in order for us to be able to meet them. And don't worry; we'll be happy to tweak the banner to get you something you like That's about it from me. I leave the M'Hael to add anything I might've forgotten. -Kas Edit: Current Banner Queue: 1. Gamma Fiend - Kas 2. Orlok (Not yet) 3. Seonid 4. Quiver (HttFE) 5. Winter Bannermakers List: 1. Kasimir (Kas) -Status: Busy 2. Haelbarde (Hael) 3. Mailliw73 -Status: Unavailable
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Timecheck: There remains under 24 hours left in the cycle. Thank you.
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If I have to call this 'Wyrm Talk', I'm quitting now, Dunkelzahn. Just so you know
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No, it was a lone gunman
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1. Prior rule clarifications 2. Clarifications from Cycle Two Cycle Three Clarifications: -If a Rememberer stamps a Sibling with the Arbiter role, does this prevent the Sibling from being bribed out? I am going to have to rule no, in order to be consistent with the ruling on the Bloodsealers. Faction transfer and Rememberer stamping occur simultaneously because they are within the same priority-bracket. The effect is that neither can affect the other, and the result would be that the Sibling would find themselves an Arbiter with their new Faction for the duration of the next cycle. -Do kills happen simultaneously, or can lynching a Striker prevent them from killing? It cannot. Once again, all kills take place within the same priority bracket and are ruled/considered to happen simultaneously. -I’m just clarifying that the Teullu does not automatically kill a lyncher if lynched unless they specifically choose to protect themselves; removing one of their double lives does not trigger this.
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MR7: Cycle Three - The Gathering Storm The histories would later record that in the last year of his twelve year reign, the forty-eighth Emperor of the Eighty Suns, Yazad, had been murdered as he lay sleeping in his chambers by a MaiPon assassin. They would record, with equal meticulousness, the murder of Arbiter Kaleva by the same assassin, as he drank tea in his quarters. The assassin—a painter by the name of Shi KwaiRan—was, by all indications, never found. Strikers flooded the Imperial Seat, blocking each of the arched gates and stopping and questioning all travellers, but there was no sign of him. Equally, they combed the teahouses and shops of the city, even bursting into homes, but for all they searched, the only conclusion was that Shi KwaiRan had vanished into thin air. This, too, the histories noted. There are, however, some things beneath the gaze of even the historians. Little things, such as a humble MaiPon merchant, killed because his name sounded a bit too much like the assassin’s. There were, of course, other considerations. He had tried to resist arrest and had tried to flee, and what loyal citizen of the Empire would do so? All these stories and more, slip by, unspoken, connected by the slenderest of scarlet-stained threads in the great tapestry depicting the death of an Emperor. On the day following the death of the Emperor, the patrons of the Frozen Moon were unsurprised to discover that Wenshon had acquired another server; a MaiPon man who kept his head down and seemed unruffled as he cleaned cups, poured tea, stoked the fire, raked leaves and did the myriad of little tasks that needed to be doing in a teahouse as respected as the Frozen Moon. Servers came and went, all the time. And it wasn’t uncommon for the MaiPon to seek jobs in the Imperial Seat, whether as servers or labourers. This, too, the histories did not record. The Frozen Moon, for all its custom, was nothing more than a mere footnote in the annals of the Rose Empire, and the employment of the establishment was, almost certainly, not a matter of historical import. As the Factions began bickering and cutting deals and the citizens began to worry about slaughter in the streets, the Frozen Moon remained an oasis of calm in the middle of the tumult. Partly, it had to do with Wenshon’s policy of Faction neutrality. Everyone knew that the Frozen Moon was neutral ground: a place where Factions could meet and converse civily, even if they were planning to stab each other in the back in the next heartbeat. On the other hand, members of the Heritage and Moderation Factions knew better than to walk into the Sun’s Radiance. The proprietor was an ardent supporter of the Glory Faction, and it was rumoured that the Glory Faction were already clamouring for their blood. For these reasons and more, most of the faction members could be found, sipping cups of tea, eating dumplings, and eying each other warily in the comfortable confines of the Frozen Moon. “Aye, look, me hearties,” said one of them; a pirate, from the looks of him. He’d eschewed his tea for a hip-flask of rum, and seemed to have been indulging for most of the night. “I’d bet me knuckles tha them Discovery Faction curs bought off the knave as sent the Emperor hisself to the Locker!” He scowled and cracked his knuckles. “Tha be no way to do it, and I say we keelhaul these yellow-bellied eels!” There were a few ragged cheers at his statement, but no one seemed particularly inclined to say much more. Bortholomew the Blind, a wild-haired man kicked back off his chair and had opened his mouth to reply when the door to the Frozen Moon was flung wide open. Strikers, all wearing the Imperial colours and the flaring sun sigil, stormed into the teahouse. The woman in the lead spoke up first. “Nobody move,” she said, her voice only a tad less frigid than her eyes. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, and she wore it with an air of quiet competence. “Lieutenant Zu. Secure the exits.” The Striker in question snapped her a quick salute and obeyed, taking a team of men to block off the exits to and from the Frozen Moon. “Can I help you, Captain?” Wenshon asked, surprisingly calm, for all that a team of Strikers had invaded his establishment. She looked at him. “You know what has happened,” the Striker Captain said, simply. “A MaiPon assassin has infiltrated palace security and slain both the Emperor himself and Arbiter Kaleva. We’re under orders to search the teahouse to make sure he isn’t hiding out here.” Wenshon shrugged. “Be my guest, Captain,” he said. “Never let it be said that I obstructed Imperial justice.” The Strikers ranged through the Frozen Moon, searching each of the patrons. In a few cases, muffled protests died down quickly as the Striker in question threatened to draw steel. A scuffle quickly broke out, and soon, one of the patrons lay bleeding on the wooden floorboards. Wenshon sighed and gestured to his server to clean up as the mess as another two Strikers dragged out that recalcitrant patron. “Who is he?” the Striker Captain asked, sharply, looking at the server in question. Wenshon shrugged again. “Shao,” he said. “He’s been working for me on and off for the past fifteen years.” The server did not look up as he knelt, scrubbing the blood off the boards before they could dry and create a bigger mess. The Captain said, “He looks a lot like the assassin.” Wenshon replied, “His paperwork is in order, Captain. I have his entry papers and his employment papers, and I’d be glad to show them to you if you just step this way.” His voice hardened, just a little. “Competent help is difficult to come by, Captain. I’d appreciate it if your Strikers stop scaring off my customers and servers.” The Captain chewed on that for a few, tense moments. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll have a look at those papers. If I’m unsatisfied, that man goes with me.” She cast a last, backward glance at the altercation as a man who wore green face-paint was quickly identified as a Striker who hadn’t shown up to work for days and was swiftly executed by his compatriots, and then dragged out of the Frozen Moon. Through it all, unperturbed, the server scrubbed at the floorboards. Elsewhere in the Imperial Seat, there was the sound of something unusual. Something that didn’t belong in the Rose Empire, much less on Sel. As a shimmering circle of orange light blazed to life in the skies, there came the shrill screech of a train’s whistle, reverberating through the blocks and the teahouses of the district. Wai ZhierSen was walking through the emptied streets, muttering to herself, something clutched tightly in her fist. “How could he know,” she murmured, lost in thought. For that reason, and several others, she didn’t notice the circle traced out in light in the skies until she heard the voices. “Are you ready?” demanded the first. “Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes!” “Took us long enough to find her.” The second speaker, at least, was male; with a gruff voice. “Wasn’t even sure we’re in the right time anymore.” “Oh, come on, before she gets away!” Puzzled, Zhier glanced up—just as the second speaker said, “Ready and launch!” A shower of sticky amber maple syrup drenched Zhier, all at once. Sopping wet, with her hair plastered to her face by gooey strings of sweet viscous syrup, Zhier had barely time to let out an exclamation of shock when tiny flakes of glitter drifted down from the sky, clinging to the syrup like glue. Soon enough, the MaiPon woman was sparkling all over—just as a smattering of beard hair drifted onto her, like white eiderdown. A few murmured curses. “I think the payload’s faulty,” said the man. “You think?” the lady replied. “She isn’t going to get it now!” “Keep your skirts on,” the man retorted. “Ah, there it is! Launching beardnut!” A hail of baked, chocolate-dipped beardnuts, still trailing long strands of white beard hair cascaded down onto Zhier. “Enjoy your beardnuts!” This, it seemed, was most definitely not her week. This last section of the write-up was brought to you by special and explicit request from Bort and Burnt, back from before MR7 was scheduled to begin. I hope this meets your expectations. Jain was an Arbiter! The Green Xienbei was a Striker Captain! Wai ZhierSen was a Resealer! Hreo was a Resealer! Cycle Three begins now and will last 48 hours, ending on Sunday, 5th July at 11PM SGT. [=GMT +8]
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The cycle is now over. Any actions past this point will be considered null and void. Please stay tuned for the write-up and the PMs will be sent out shortly. Edit: My clock is fast. If you have anything, you have two more minutes! Edit 2: Now, and forever, this cycle has ended. It is too late. No going back.
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There is under an hour left in the cycle. Get your actions in while you still can!
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That would actually be me. I haven't stepped forward for obvious reasons: see, RL, GMing, etcetera. I'm doing so now because the M'Hael has amazing graphics design skills, has agreed to team up with me, and we've decided that two people (any further volunteers welcome!) would get the task done faster Stay posted! We'll inform y'all once our thread in the Creator's Corner is up and start taking requests.
