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Elenion

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Everything posted by Elenion

  1. I'll edit it up to 4; I hurt it with my last post.
  2. Ah, @WayneSpren. First my enemy, later my ally with Mr. T. Let's get this rolling. Heal Surgebinding, hurt Dakhor Allomancy-5 Feruchemy-8 Hemalurgy-5 AonDor-5 Dakhor-4 Awakening-5 Surgebinding-7 Forgery-5 ChayShan-5 Old Magic-4 Voidbinding-5 Smedry Talents-3 Oculatory Stuff-5 Epic Powers-5 Rithmatics-5 Channeling-5 Bloodsealing-5
  3. I'll let it represent itself by the results. Anything more might tip off Jeskeri roles as to what's going down. I will assure you, however, that non-Jeskeri players will have nothing to fear from this plan, while Jeskeri players will have everything to fear from it. I think that his ability triggers anytime he dies, and that a lynch was simply the most straightforward way for him to kill himself. Your plan's a gamble, and my life is at stake. Is this an extension of the plan I proposed or is this something different?
  4. @Assassin in Burgundy Nicely done. If the others are having writer's block about coming up with a backstory I might be able to help.
  5. If you remember the spelling, you're worthy enough to steal my info!
  6. Almost. Numuhukumakiaki'aialunamor.
  7. Harmony: I think he would be a little more helpful than Hoid. Hoid would be more likely to make fun of you and walk away. Would you rather be a Dustbringer or a Lightweaver?
  8. Taravangian will rise again! (sorry, Bleeder) 9. Bleeder- 1215. Taravangian- 88
  9. Welcome to the 17th Shard! Have the customary upvote.
  10. Ashkelon kept his hood up, obscuring his face. Although his Dula features wouldn't have appeared too out-of-place, he concealed them in an attempt to look as imposing as possible, in order to keep any would-be bandits away. He couldn't be robbed... not today, not while he still carried It over his shoulder. He turned and looked at the duffel, making sure that it was still there, even though its sizable weight was assurance enough. He searched for reputable housing: pick something too rich and he'd make himself a target; pick something too poor and those at the inn might become suspicious if he couldn't act the part. And he couldn't act poor very well: he had lived his life in elegance on a Dula Senator's salary, up until he had traded his previous life for It. He eventually rejected his previous logic and chose an inn that conspicuously was in monochrome: something that made it stand out from the multicolored street outside. My enemies wouldn't possibly suspect that I'm in the most-easily-found place around, he thought, even though the reasoning exacerbated his headache. He could reason when he wanted to, but he was tired from his travel, especially with It in the bag weighing him down, and the fatigue from the journey had given him a headache. He walked into the inn, and noted that the inside was as conspicuous as the outside. Reaching into his pocket, he deposited enough coins for exactly one week. He could have paid more, of course, but he decided that it was better for it to be assumed that he didn't have that kind of money. He also didn't leave a tip, that was for personal reasons: he hated the idea of giving someone else more of his money than necessary. He found the idea of tips especially abhorrent. He lugged his single duffel upstairs and into the room he had been assigned. He immediately pulled down the drapes: an uncovered window was an invitation for thieves, and thieves he hated even more than tips. They were the two T's that he hated: thieves and tips, symbols of corruption, anarchy, and generosity, all of which he hated with a vengeance. Ashkelon wondered for a second: What will happen to my company? The moneylenders don't know that I've sold out to the syndicate. But he didn't think of that too much: empathy led to generosity, and generosity led to tips and thieves. He opened the duffel, taking out the few things he'd brought with him. He took out each, examined them, and set them aside. The ledgers of his moneylenders came out first, taken so they would have no proof that there was once anything in the vault. Next was the money from the vault itself, because even though he sold the business to the syndicate, he didn't really count last month's profits as part of that. Third out was a gold-plated crossbow. While it was not very effective, anyone who crossed him didn't know that. Last came It. He had got It from the syndicate in exchange for selling his business. He had carried the briefcase inside his duffel for most of the trip, and it was It that had made him so paranoid about robbers. He opened one clasp, then another, then a third. He had sold his entire enterprise for It, against the wishes of the stockholders, directors, and the employees themselves. He opened the briefcase and leaned back as he smelled the money inside. @Assassin in Burgundy
  11. Never read any Reckoners yet, so I can't help you there. Thanks! I'm not much for writing stories, but when it comes to one-post backstories I love doing that. Have another one, this one from LG24 (give me a second to find it):
  12. Thanks! I almost always role-play characters with sub-moral motivations, and I've always wanted to try out the vengeful lover archetype.
  13. It was twenty years ago when Norshon was born: the pampered son of a local ruler. Educated from his youth in the ways of court intrigue, he was brought up to become a noble. But the deeds he would go on to do would be far from noble. When he was only ten, Norshon met her, the daughter of the town merchant. She was beautiful, intelligent, rich. She became his world, his everything. Even after barely meeting her, Norshon knew they were destined to be together. The only problem was: she never thought the same way. At the age of sixteen, Norshon endured the agony of watching her court another man, the son of a rival ruler from a neighboring fiefdom. Norshon knew what was going to happen, but when the news of the upcoming marriage came, it did not hurt any less. Norshon's grief overcame him, shaped him. It was then that Norshon taught himself to burn. He kept his ability, and the other he discovered months later, secret. Norshon turned seventeen, and the wedding day drew near. He couldn't stand it, couldn't take the pressure of watching the woman he loved so desperately be married off to another man. That night, there was a terrible fire. The groom was killed, the night before the wedding. Norshon was never suspected. The next few weeks were a blur. Norshon was now the best candidate to marry her, and she even appeared to love him. He had everything, until the Darkness took it all. The Midnight Essence killed everyone he knew. Norshon tried to save her, but all he could do was to save himself. I will find the things that came that night. I will find the things that took her from me. And when I do, I will watch them burn.
  14. Great, and I'm totally cool with the delay. Should I write up a character now or wait to flesh them out until the game begins?
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