Adamir

That may have been cheating, to an extent - sorry about that. I had written that as part of some Mistborn fanfiction a few months ago, but at the time it was filled with spelling and grammatical errors. All I did today was patch it up and make some changes to make it fit better with the rp.

I need to apologize for my inactivity recently; I've had studies to take care of, and I was three assignments behind on a few subjects. And I also need to apologize for the fact that I don't have enough hours in the day to keep up with my studies, social life, two Sanderson Elimination games and Heirs to the Final Empire. Which is why I am asking everyone to submit a list of three people; I will choose one list at random, and one person from those lists, to give my Breath to. If you submitted just a single name, then it would be pointless for me to give my Breath to them, as the Eliminators would know to avoid that target. And finally, thanks for not lynching me during the last few cycles.

More rp, you say? If you're going to do something, you might as well do enough to make Wyrm regret his request. Anders Farrsolin I - A Mistborn in Mind The strength does it to everyone. It corrupts us all, or at least those who embrace it. Although we dive right in to be swept away by the black waters of Allomancy, it is not easy to stay afloat. Our humanity is the coastline, the palm trees, the dry land itself. You put your humanity side by side with the fact that you're beyond humanity as a whole, coastline next to infinite expanse of ocean, and you decide being a litenmancer will be more rewarding. It appeals to you. You can't get away from it, so you dive in and swim out to get a better taste. To feel the strength sink into your form. For just a single price; everything. Everything that makes life worth living. The first time you dance in the ocean of mists, the power is ecstasy to your soul. It shocks you, shows you things you can't possibly understand but eventually do understand. One day, it just so happens you might decide you're tired of swimming, so you turn around, but the coast is gone. You don't swim back, because there is no way back. You are above and beyond other, lesser men. You can never look at a skaa and see similarity again. You can never look at a fellow noble without the right blood in the same way again. All you can see in those who are beneath you is that they are beneath you. I am Anders Farrsolin. Firstborn son and heir to House Farrsolin, one of the Prime Allomantic Houses, though not the most powerful nor the most respected. I open my eyes and gaze across the city. Voices are carried by the west wind to every corner of Seran; a thousand specks of red begin to dot the ground as skaa take to the streets. To me, to Mistborn in general, seeing skaa walking in the mist doesn't just seem odd - it is simply wrong. They should be cowering in their homes, trembling and keeping their shoulders bent, gazes lingering on the ground rather than dare to meet the eyes of someone so clearly superior... I force myself to reign in such thoughts. Humility, Anders; but can there be humility when you know for a fact that you are better than the skaa? Than most other noblemen? The skaa were not entirely satisfied with their rulership. Ever since the Burnings enacted by Mennet Farrsolin, my grandfather, there has been a small segment in permanent dissatisfaction. A hand taps me on the shoulder - Ebris Farrsolin, the 'overseer'. He failed to quell the skaa, and I hold as much a grudge as the next man. Its because of him that anyone with the last name Farrsolin has to be escorted through Seran. (Entirely because of him? Are you sure?) One of my Mistborn, Pollux, suffered that particular fate; the fool went out to a tavern when I forbade him drink, but didn't even make it that far. He had been a drunkard at only seventeen, tied to the bottle, and his death should have had more effect. But after you lose enough people, death becomes a joke played out too many times. My eyes, as they always do, glance to Ebris's hand. While I can only see the smallest hint of what I'm looking for, I know its there. His skin is burnt; patches of it resemble the stark white of rushing water as it falls. His face evaded the worst of the damage, but I can tell he sometimes has trouble moving. Thirty years, and the burns continue to hound him. 'Aleph wants to see you.' I nodded, then left the balcony. I navigated the corridors, realizing for perhaps the hundredth time how empty the citadel felt without Beskha and Bakuda, without Mother, Uncle Jorah or Aunt Cassandra. The place felt abandoned, despite the soldiers patrolling throughout the hallways. The empty feeling was shattered upon entering the throne room, where I held my military discussions. It was empty, save for a single figure, standing slightly behind the throne, a vague silhouette which I sensed more than saw. It took a slight squint to make him out, but everyone, no matter their attention, felt as though they were being watched. I had that feeling as well, even when this place was empty, before Aleph was recruited, with the eyes of my grandfather, and his grandfathers before him, a line that stretched back three hundred years watching me from portraits on the walls. 'My Fingers in in the East have nothing to report, nor those in Luthadel.' His voice was grating to the ear, something that suggested similar burns to Ebris Farrsolin. I cringed involuntarily, my gaze looking for something else to focus on, settling on a on the wall. Mennet, my grandfather by Mother's descent, stared back at me. Farrsolin blonde hair and sea-green eyes were his most striking features; though the genes seemed to have shifted between mother and son. Mai and Mennet are mirror images by most features, but my own hair is the color of week old straw rather than golden wheat on harvest, and my eyes are less sea-green and more storm-gray. While other Farrsolins, including most of my cousins, had slitted, small eyes, mine were almost always open wide, giving what I considered an intelligent appearance, and what others called 'haunted'. When you are in the same room as a man who kills skaa for amusement, you can't just make your excuses and leave. I took the more direct method of making a run for it, vaulting around a corner, loosing myself in a maze of corridors. The urge hit me, as it does every time I speak to that thing. I needed to head out, to get some fresh air, take a walk through the city, as if that would cleanse the filth from my soul. I stepped through a door into my chambers, throwing open the wardrobe and looking for the specific pair of clothes I left buried at the bottom. A minor lord's clothes, one which might raise suspicion, but most certainly not as insane as going in my current attire. I don't bother with my hair; I am far enough already from what the average peasant considers a Farrsolin in appearance not to stand out. Not quite blend in, either, but a peasant walking like a king would just raise questions. My acting skills don't really translate from suit to action. I try to move quietly; every now and then a member of the Watch strolls through the corridors. As Anders Farrsolin, he'd pass me by, trying not to look me in the eye. As a stranger he's never seen before, I'll either be executed on the spot or dragged in chains to Ebris. So I try to avoid them, stepping behind doors and corners, listening for their footsteps, burning tin to hear them a half dozen rooms away. Finally, I found what I needed; an unlocked window. I push it all the way open, then take off at a run and leap through, Pushing myself off a nail holding a painting to the wall behind me. I've made this jump before; and so I grip my knees as I land on the battlements. From here, I skirt around a large gathering of skaa, before finding a group of eight City Watch guards. They recognize me as a Lord, at least, if not as Lord Farrsolin. 'Captain!' I yelled. One of the guards, with a silver rimmed shield and helmet, stepped forward, answering my call. 'How can I be of assistance, Lord...' he trailed off, ensuring he never looked me in the eye. 'Hyram. Lord Hyram,' I said, giving the first name that came to mind. I thanked the Lord Ruler that he didn't look further and find the holes in my mummer's farce. 'And you can be of assistance by assisting me through this mob of... peasants.' I let all my distaste for the whole sorry affair find its way into the last word. That's the truth to being a good liar; the best lies are spiked with just the right amount of truth to make them believable. In this case it was all truth. The guards didn't speak; the Captain made a few gestures, and they surrounded me, spears extended, before starting a slow march through the crowds. Every man took a step back at the sight of those weapons, but lost interest after I had left them. 'Captain, you and your men can head back. The Watch needs your help. And I'll be sure to put in a good name for you with Lord Aders, Captain...' I trailed off in the same way he had. There's an art to good mockery. Make it subtle enough that they don't know its mockery, and try to look like a Lord; it helps prevent getting your teeth broken in. 'Captain Curnow, how would you feel about becoming Commander Curnow? And to the seven under his control, I could slip a word in for you as well.' One of them stepped forward. A boy of sixteen years, not far from my own age, probably never killed a man in his life. 'Sir... what do we need to do, for this, this...' Captain Curnow looked simply terrified in the heat of the moment. 'Gamble! Don't speak to your Lords without being addressed first.' He turned to me. 'I'm... I'm sorry about Gamble. He used to be a farmer, you see... Got no manners, these country skaa, M'lord.' (Deceiver. He isn't from the countryside, whatever his accent tells you) 'No, no,' I said, trying to suppress a laugh. 'It's fine. And tell me, Captain Curnow, were you addressed before you spoke to me to apologize?' His face paled. 'I... I beg forgiveness, Lord...' (Too much pride in that stance, even for a Captain) I couldn't suppress it any longer. I laughed, then spoke to him. 'Look, keep the East Door to the Barracks unlocked, and I expect all eight of you to be making sure it's completely clear of peasants until tomorrow morning, or until I come through. If you can manage that, promotions all around. Expect to hold it until the midday sun; I'm going to be a while.' One of Curnow's men whistled. 'All right,' I said, 'Everyone but Curnow and Gamble, come here.' I asked each man his name in turn. I meant every word when it came to promotions; it was always nice to have a few men loyal to you more than anyone else. I tried to suppress that feeling of glee at lessening skaa, then gave in and let a smile break out across my face. 'And keep it subtle, all right?' I said. 'If anyone finds out I was here, expect to shovel horse dung for the rest of your lives in an Erikell plantation.' A minor lord wouldn't have the influence, but I doubted anyone would call my bluff. I went by main streets; any man or woman, whether seeming rich or poor, had an equal chance of meeting the wrong end of a knife in a back alley. Eventually, I found a tavern to drown my worries in; House Farrsolin could wait, Aleph could wait, Ebris could wait. I had better things to think about at the bottom of a tankard. I walked up to 'The Bull and the Bear'. Even from outside the door, I could hear raucous laughter and the sound of a lyre. They had a bard, then; well, no evening is complete without wine, song and a few other things. Of course, here all I had was peasant's ale and a bard who played the lyre as naturally as fish take to land. Still, things could be worse. I stepped in, and a few glances went my way, but not that many. Walking up to the counter, I glanced over the manager of the tavern. He was unusually fat for his profession, and slowly balding, with gray hair; he seemed to be in his late forties, or perhaps early fifties. His nose protruded, more like a snout; pink flesh and small, beady eyes emphasized the appearance. In my mind, I re-christened him from whatever his name was. 'How can I help you, my...' the Pig said. 'Hyram will be fine,' I responded. 'For tonight, I'm not a lord; I'm a man looking for a strong drink, and I've been told you can provide it.' He responded more brashly than I expected of a man of his standing, or appearance. 'A child looking for a strong drink; but who am I to question a paying customer?' The Pig ended his sentence with a grin and walked away. When he came back a minute later, he had two full tankards of something that, while alcoholic, most certainly wasn't ale. I wondered if I had stepped out of my depth in ordering his strongest beverage, but I wasn't about to back out. The first tankard he gave to the man next to me, taking three coppers in return. The second he passed to me, before stating his price. 'One silver boxing, twenty coppers.' 'Daylight robbery,' I scoffed. 'This fine gentlemen,' I said, patting the man next to me, who was already evidently drunk, 'paid only three coppers; you are charging me...' I took a brief second to count. 'Sixty times his price.' I wasn't even sure if that estimate was right; still, I doubted anyone would bother checking. He put a hand back on the beverage. 'Now how about some paying customer,' he said, emphasizing the last two words, 'take this drink, as this boy wants a discount on his first real ale.' I put a hand back on the drink, which was most certainly not ale, feeling the familiar fury that came with misbehaving skaa. This man was too stupid to understand what he was doing. 'I wouldn't do that if I were you. I pay you the regular rate, minus one copper for severe emotional trauma, and you get no trouble.' I kept my voice level with his. 'Six silvers, you keep the drink and keep your teeth.' I was beginning to feel tempted to puncture a few holes in his skull with his own boxings. 'And two more coppers for daylight robbery. That leaves you with...' I pretended to count with my fingers. 'Absolutely no coppers, and minus one drink. You can leave it there, or you can reset the bones in your wrist.' I stared into those beady little eyes of his, as he stared into mine. And there it was; one small blink, and I grasped the Pig by his shirt collar, pulling him up to eye level, then flared pewter to lift him directly in front of me. 'No coppers, and you know what, I'd like another drink. On the house. And if you'd like my forgiveness, and if you wouldn't like the City Watch to burn this tavern to the ground and hang your family, you'll take that offer.' Less than he deserved as skaa. A few drunks turned to look at me, but most returned to their tankards. Finally, the Pig took his hands off mine, before scurrying away, and coming back with two drinks of what he stated was 'Lockhelm brew'. I took one in either hand and moved to a corner table. Resting my back against the wall, I began to drown conscious thought, sip by sip. This swill most certainly wasn't ale; it had hints of seaweed, and after the first tankard the world had already begun to float on low tides. By the time I was halfway through with the second, I felt as though I were on the deck of a ship on high seas. I could have dispelled it; just flare pewter for a few seconds, and everything would become clear again. But this was why I came to the tavern, hopefully to turn twenty-four hours into a blur and get that meeting with Aleph out of my head. I still wasn't sure what it was about him that made my skin writhe at the thought of speaking to him. With no drinks left in front of me, and unable to even get off my seat to ask for more, I began to look around. There was a woman whom the Pig seemed to treat like his daughter; listening in, I could hear the word 'father' mentioned several times from her to him. She began to walk away, towards my table, but not directly to it. Perhaps if my mind had cleared I would have seen what she really looked like; but when drunk, all women look equally attractive. Still, my mind ignored the fact that she was the Pig's daughter. She sat down on the table next to mine, grasping a bottle of Etorican White. So the pig did have wine here; I had just forgotten to ask. Well, too late now. I began to stagger towards her table, making it only a few inches every step. When I got to the edge of mine, the door opened. I could see the first rays of sunlight coming through; damnation, I had been here for more than eight hours. A well dressed nobleman stepped in, clutching a hand wrapped in bandages, before staggering, more in pain than from any drink, to the counter. The Pig walked over to him, and offered him the same Lockhelm swill he had given me; this time, some sympathy in those beady eyes, for only three coppers. Perhaps I had misjudged the man; but I wasn't one to care about resetting my opinions of others. He was still a Pig, and no amount of kindness would change that. The man next to the nobleman spoke. 'If you'd pardon me asking,' he said, forcing the words through a numb mouth, 'how'd you get that...' He grasped for the word, before pointing to the man's injured hand. 'A child,' he said, smoothing his voice, 'was beset upon by a dog. I got in the way before it could do any real harm.' I staggered to the counter, before tapping tin and looking into his eyes. He had suspicious eyes of a liar, but this once they spoke the truth. Still, the Pig's daughter heard his tale as well, and walked over to the seat next to him. 'Let me get you a drink, sir,' she said, giving him a smile. 'On the house.' The Pig looked like he was about to protest, but changed his mind. This was a man, I could tell, who was owned by his daughter; he would do anything for her, including give away his stock for free. So a moment later, he had a tankard of regular Ale, without any of that Lockhelm stench on it. The drunk who had first asked him ordered another drink, passing it to the nobleman. Soon he was showered with drinks for his sacrifice, and the Pig's daughter seemed to be transfixed by him. Finally, I decided to try and do something about it. (You're going too far. Stop, now) I waited until he got up to use the restroom, then staggered into him, knocking the man to the ground. My hand grasped his, and I burnt pewter for a quarter second, tightening my grip on his fingers and snapping one. 'Pardon me, sir,' I said, squeezing again. His kick met my stomach, and I flew back with a light Push on the doorframe, collapsing to the ground with a bit more melodrama than might have been necessary. I knew how this would look to others. A kind, helpful, if slightly rich man accidentally knocked over another fellow of equal status. He bent over to help the man, but the thug on the ground considered himself too high and mighty for some pitiful lord to help him back up to his feet. He turns violent at the prospect of being lifted back up. I stood up in a manner that implied both surprise, endurance and pain - a sudden loss of sympathy for the other lord, with no lost respect for me. The whispers had already begun. A few points I hadn't thought of, and almost every point I had listed, all of it condemning the nobleman and elevating me in status. I wondered when I would hear it, or from whom first; but there it was. The Pig's daughter repeated it to another woman, and mentioned the words handsome lord. The 'good handsome lord' tried to do a good turn, but instead exposed the other man for the brutal, traitorous scum he was. The Pig's daughter slapped him, before grasping the man's tankard and pulling it away. Shouts erupted across the Bull and the Bear; one man threw his drink, another picked up a stool and hurled it across the room. Soon, I was forced to stagger away from him to avoid getting pelted. After things settled down again, I angled my ear towards a few other drinkers. Apparently, I was a champion for the peoples' cause. Down with the Count, or Marquess, or Baron; the men here were so intoxicated as to forget which. Still, I had drawn too much attention. Sighing and turning my gaze from the Pig's daughter to the open door, I decided to head out. I stumbled through the streets, lost one of my two coin purses to some piece of filth in the marketplace, then walked through Captain Curnow's open gate. All eight of them were still there; their eyes were red and sleepless, and they had clearly been taking shifts. Still, at that moment I put my two eternal priorities first; looking out for Anders, and looking out for Anders. Rather than care whatsoever about what they had to put up with overnight, I hit the floor. Curnow caught me by the shoulder. 'Where to, Lord Hyram?' 'You... You're addressing a Lord... other way round...' I choked out. 'Look, My Lord, you're drunk. Now tell me where we can leave you.' 'My room, of course. Where else?' The drink was loosening my tongue, and melting my reasoning. Of course they wouldn't know. 'All right, but where? Which way?' He waved four hands in front of my face to check whether I'd fallen asleep or not. (Stop... Think before you speak) I ignored the Voice. 'Up the main stairs, left, follow the corridor to the end... Take a right turn... Third room on the left.' I muttered the directions. 'All right, then. Gamble, Emmer, grab his legs. Sable, help me with his arms. The rest of you, shut the door and return to your posts.' Four men gripped my legs, and four more gripped my arms. They hoisted me up and began to carry me. The paintings seemed to be holding mirrors alongside them; even their eyes had multiplied. It was as if a reflection were placed directly on top of the original object, just a few degrees to the side. We reached the door. Captain Curnow turned two exasperated expressions towards me. 'Look, Hyram,' he said, waving four hands in the air. 'You've led us astray. These are the Royal Quarters.' The drink really had loosened my tongue, I thought a few hours later. The next morning, I would promise myself that I would never ignore the Voice again, at least until it next inconvenienced me. Or I happened to be drunk, bored, or annoyed. (Stop... Think...) 'Recognize me, Captain? I'm your Lord Farrsolin.' I pointed to a portrait of myself on the wall. 'Now drop me on the bed, and be...' I was about to say 'be subtle', but staying awake an entire night simply by drink alone takes the energy out of one's limbs and Voice. My head fell back and I closed my eyes.

Emperor's Soul. I rest my case.

Because I have absolutely no life, and happened to be online when I got my PM.

I'll start with a poke vote on the one person we would never suspect - Lynchtarget the Innocent. Shallan, do you have anything to say to defend yourself from the accusation of committing the grievous crime of having a self-aware name?

They thought they had escaped the Evil. A new land, inhospitable, perhaps, but free from what they fled from. They were wrong. I propose that the Evil is, in fact, the Survival Shard - a Shard with no benevolent intent. We know nothing about what it does, except for a single, cryptic WoB (emphasis mine). This was in answer to the question "Give us the intent of a Shard we have never seen before." And so, I conclude that the Intent is in the answer; I propose the Evil is the Shard of Deception. A Shard which hides from even its own people, both to avoid Odium and because it is in the Shard's nature. Allow me to go on to my suspicions. Thousands of years trying to stay off the grid, hiding from Odium, and this is a Shard who doesn't have some overarching goal to keep the Shardholder sane. He doesn't intend to destroy everything, like Ruin. He doesn't intend to unite the Cosmere, like Dominion. Here, the man behind the Shard who just wants to hide, and who experiences untold centuries with nothing, nothing to do. Wouldn't that leave you unhinged? And so, he amuses himself with the people he created on Threnody. What would happen if he brought back a few of the dead as Shades, small Splinters of himself to anchor them. Of course, this isn't a Shard whose powers focus on creating/endowing, such as Endowment. And so we get the Shade, rather than the Returned. They are pushed away from people because they are Splinters of Deception. Deception cannot tolerate being identified. If we assume for clustered population centers and less than two hundred years since the first arrivals in the Forests of Hell, there are just too many Shades near people. If we take them to be the mindless creatures they are portrayed as, then they should wander at random, dispersing themselves across a wide enough area to make finding a Shade something remarkable, rather than something mundane. But they don't. Because even the Returned on Nalthis carry a few things back with them. Skills, the occasional memory. I believe the Shades are the same; they try to approach people because they remember what it was like being someone, but Deception rebels against being seen. They can never get too close... unless the Simple Rules are broken. If we assume that thousands of years left Deception mentally unhinged, we can also assume for paranoia. After all, Odium could stroll in at the slightest noise, splinter Deception and walk away. And so his fear manifests itself in the Shades. The Simple Rules. Never start a fire. Light, as logic dictates, can attract unwelcome persons. Never run at night. Sound, once again, alerts others to your presence. And finally, never spill blood in anger. This is, to me, the most significant of the Simple Rules, and the one clearly directed towards Odium. Anger and hatred, those are his domain. Entering it by spilling blood in anger could alert him to Deception's presence. Why else do Shades kill bloodlessly? They evaporate the blood, leaving only dust and their victim's skull behind.

I say this every turn, but here goes... I'll write some rp next generation, I'm completely out of ideas this gen. Swapping out Action 2, wherein I had originally decided to upgrade a farm. Action 2 Who: Lady Mai Farrsolin and her daughter Bakuda What: Arranging to marry Bakuda Mikhail Elariel, alongside arranging transfers of Farrsolin soldiers for a small amount of Elariel wealth as part of the contract. Where: Keep Elariel When: Action 2, Turn 4 Why: To solidify a long-term alliance

One month later - has the forum forgotten about this thread? Well, I will not let it die. I will keep pointlessly bumping it every 0.5 seconds until other people finish my fanfiction for me instead of me putting in any effort; and I will put in as much effort as it takes to get other people to do my effort for me. "Stormlight..." the voice whispered, "stormlight..."

"A dark time comes. My time. If it offends you. Stop me." -Jorg of AncrathRenar, Broken Empire Trilogy.

We've all been there. We want to write a big, dramatic scene, and decide that our characters must give big, dramatic lines to match the tone. The difference between me and Brandon, then, is that he is a published author and I am tossing out manuscripts like they've got the plague. Which is why the world was never subjugated to my bad-badchull dialogue. But even a genius like Brandon Sanderson can occasionally fall prey to the muse of bad one-liners/dialogue that slip through the editing process. I've got a few shining examples from the Stormlight Archive, but I'd like to open up with this. You sent him to the sky to die, assassin, but the sky and the winds are mine. I claim them, as I now claim your life. I would rest my case, but I feel a rant on the horizon. Picture that - starts ranting in Jim Sterling voice - go on, just picture it. This isn't a one-liner, it is a script from an early draft of Macbeth being uttered in the middle of a battle during which all the combatants stand completely still. Instead of, well, fighting in the battle, Kaladin is exchanging one-sided verbal debate against an assassin more concerned with killing Dalinar - whom he is doing nothing to protect by standing there taunting Szeth. Post the most cringe-worthy lines from the Stormlight Archive below - and please don't kill me... EDIT: I've seen some good arguments in the replies; for the first time in internet history, an internet debate has led to someone changing their opinions in a civilized manner.

Granted. Awaken to my Breath, serve at my needs, live at my Command and at my word. Pugs. You are forced to obey anyone who uses the word Pugs; stay out of the Reckoners rp. I wish that, now that I have been baned (is that a word?) off my account, I could transport my rep points to a new account using my mad haxor skillz (otherwise known as using ZenMate).

You get pardoned, then KnightGradient tracks you down and performs vigilante justice. I wish to stop wasting my life asking for boons and actually go out and do something with it.

Mistborn: The Final Empire Spoilers

Not sure if there is or is not a rule against having entirely anonymous actions; the thought just occured to me. Just in case, I'll summarize my actions here. I put them down with more details in a PM. Action 1 - Marrying Beskha to Votir Zerrung, alongside an exchange of Farrsolin Allomancers for Zerrung Wealth as part of the contract Action 2 - upgrading a farm Action 3 - upgrading a mine EDIT: By anonymous actions, I'm talking about actions that aren't put up as public; for example, if I only write the action in a PM, instead of in the main thread. EDIT II: I've added Wealth in the terms

Can we send our crew to get eaten by Chasmfiends in Borderlands? You haven't quite sold me on the idea. In all seriousness, I might check out Borderlands if this doesn't go anywhere.

What the guy above me was trying to say is "Welcome to the 17th Shard! Would you like a welcome cookie? Definitely not spiked with anything but nutrients, minerals, and just the slightest bit of soul-sucking blood magic."

@Macen Matrim, stop scanning for diagramists. Pick the person who looks the most guilty, and squire them; you will inevitably get a complete innocent without Radiancy with a Lightweaver Surge. Back on topic, are Lightweaver Surges at all useful for Diagramists? They already have a doc to conspire in, and thus PMs are useless for them. That, and they already know who is in which faction. Which is why I am saying there is no risk whatsoever in squiring someone this cycle. That, and if our Truthwatcher/Edgedancer cannot save you, we will still have a Seeker, albeit limited.

Is it against the spirit of common sense to ask for a STORMING TRUTHWATCHER/EDGEDANCER to defend Macen?

Well, you did stab poor little Smeagol, and have thus averted the events of Lord of the Rings. Not sure whether I should lynch you or give you a medal.

Don't you just love bandwagons? Note that I am completely lacking in context; I'll go over the previous night to find out why everyone suspects Renegade. But until I get a better suspect, Renegade. EDIT: Could someone explain the evidence before I put my vote down? EDIT II: So he openly confirmed himself as a Diagramist. That makes things convenient for my conscience.

I'll switch to something else, thanks.

Sorry for my inactivity the last few days - I've been on mobile data, and this game just about slipped my mind while I was juggling MR8, HttFE and two exams that I just put behind me. On another note, does the Ring provide Investiture Compatability? Is Sauron's power End-Positive or End-Negative? How would Shardic Investiture differ from Maiar Investiture? Okay, done overthinking. No targets at the moment.

Shar, God of Sacrifice, is signing up. His colors will be red and gold. The Warrior watches the little people below. A dozen nations occupy the same world, separated by continuously fluctuating borders. Great towers rise, mountains collapse, alongside and overlapping one another. Centuries pass. Ages. Eternities. The little people in the world he observes are fond of conflict. They collide in armies of both the living and the dead, fighting even when they are empty husks lacking even the Breath of their creator. Conflict is their creator. These are a people crafted by the fires of war, and the Warrior approves. The Warrior does not think as the little people do. Some gods measure in centuries, others millenia. He remembers a man from a reality he had long since grown bored with, as close to immortality as anyone on his world could reach. A man who measured time in continental drifts. To the Warrior, such measurements pass in moments. He casts his eye back to the world of conflict. It is amusing how they value lives that are not even worth consideration in the lifespan of even a lesser immortal. But immortals can die, the Higher Gods no exception. Adonalsium, the only coalition of deities in the Warrior's endless memory, had shattered, and with it the minds of the Adonai, left as husks to be gathered by the little people. One of them has split her power a million different ways, the wielder now little more than a vessel for the Intent. The Warrior pities the god who lost his consciousness. Humans are not strong enough to resist the Intent. Only the Entities could have hoped to act of their own free will. He remembers those he lost to Adonalsium. Preservation. Change, now known as Ruin. And Eden, revered by her world as Cultivation, stands above other lost friends in his thoughts. The world of conflict seems like a good distraction. He makes a decision. The world below is steeply divided by race; he begins by seeking out an avatar. A soldier, sacrificing his freedom and joining the Hallandren Legion to feed his family. Sacrificing his arm to save an ally. Sacrificing his life to hold off the enemy for a few precious seconds for his squadmates. The Warrior has seen what kinds of people Return on this world. But Hasdrubal will never Return. His heart will beat once more, but it will not be an amnesiac soldier who stares through those eyes. It will be a true God. The Warrior attaches a small pin to the corpse of Hasdrubal Va Saal. Memories, and an inhibitor for his powers. This world would not provide the distraction he craved if he maintained his power and knowledge throughout. When he Returns, the priests will leave the pin in his arm, out of reverence for their creator. He instills a small amount of his Will into the pin; if Hasdrubal tries to remove it, there would be pain to the point of agony. Everything is prepared. The Warrior wades through the Iridescent Tones. - Hasdrubal lurches awake moments from a knife-edge. "My Lord," the elderly priest stammers, dropping to one knee as he releases the knife that was about to cut out the pin. "You have Returned!" The Warrior kept an impassive mask, breathing in the rich senses of a human host. "Yes," he finally said. "I have Returned." "Do you... Do you have a message from the Tones?" "Yes." He takes a moment to calculate his next decision. A word these people would know, a word to encourage them to be civil towards him. "They gave me my name. Shash." "Shar?" The priest asks in confusion, tilting an ear. Hard of hearing, this one. The Warrior is in no mood to correct him. No, he must go and experience the rich sights, scents, sounds and tastes of this world from the perspective he now inhabits... The thoughts wash away as his memories flow into the pin. Hasdrubal's skin begins to change, turning from white to golden, hair shimmering into a brilliant sheen. For the briefest of moments, light physically radiates from his skin. Then it is over. Shar glanced around in confusion, wondering where he was.

Fifty thousand Breaths say Susebron will win. How about running a match with only users from the 17th Shard?