Devotary of Spontaneity

Only two nobles left between him and completion of the mission. This could have been completed much earlier, if it weren’t for the unfortunate accidents that had befallen his compatriots. No matter, soon Alethkar would finally be under Ghostblood rule, though of course no active member would be sitting on the throne. Everyone involved in this debacle would disappear, never to be heard from again. One of the other nine Highprinces would be selected as the new king, potentially a Sadeas. Ularid had heard the Ghostbloods maintained ties to that family, though he didn’t pay a lot of attention to politics beyond his goal of ousting the Kholins. Such a shame he’d been forced to kill Brightness Dedja, who’d allegedly shared the same goal. She’d have made an excellent scapechull for the murder of the entire Kholin family. Perhaps he would be outed as the assassin and be hunted down by the new king at the Ghostbloods’s order. Ularid couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t want fame or power, and at his age, even life was nearly worthless. He just needed to survive long enough to see Alethkar freed from tyranny, and to do that he had to kill Brightlords Jumae III and Straw. Ularid was confident in his chances. His skills as an artifabrian had brought him to this point, but it was his talents as an orator that would allow him to finish off the remaining obstacles. Straw still opposed him, as expected. The straw man was a near perfect likeness of Gavilar the Butcher. Ularid could barely stand to look at him without feeling the urge to blow his cover and strike him down. Even knowing that this was not the same man who had ordered the annihilation of his city and the homes of anyone else who dared resist his senseless power grab, Ularid could not help but feel sickened by the effigy’s presence. Especially because, if Straw could be believed, Ularid would have been killed by that Grandbow-wielding assassin had Straw not intervened. Any gratitude he might have felt was drowned out by his sense of duty and his emergent need for vengeance. He would settle this today. Attaching his longsword and a newly cleaned short sword to his belt, Ularid walked into the warcamp to challenge Straw to a duel. Straw was waiting for him in the middle of the camp, clearly prepared for a challenge. Ularid was not afraid, he had survived a full Shardbearer duel only days previously and a being made out of Straw should prove no challenge, even if he was working with Jumae III. This battle would not be fought with Shards, but with clean honest steel. Straw agreed with the unspoken sentiment, drawing a common blade from the table in front of him. Somehow running towards him on legs lacking in muscles or bone, Straw swung his first blow at Ularid. This effigy was skilled, Ularid thought, though far from the level of swordsmanship the real Gavilar had attained. Ularid deflected the first blow with a counterstroke from his short sword and plunged the longer blade into his enemy’s left shoulder. This caused no apparent injury. No blood poured from the wound and Strawappeared not to feel pain. This wasn’t completely unexpected, but Ularid was still not totally prepared for the riposte that slammed into his simple steel plate, denting it. He staggered backwards, resolving to be more careful. He would have to destroy Straw utterly to be sure of killing him. As Ularid set his feet in preparation for his next attack, Brightlord Jumae III strolled out of his tent, bedecked in the elegant emerald Plate that had previously belonged to Tleir and carrying the graceful curved Blade that Tintallë had nearly murdered him with. Ularid shuddered a bit at the memory, but Jumae didn’t seem to be immediately hostile. Indeed, the full Shardbearer was pointing his weapon at Straw. The Blade sang through the air and cleaved Straw’s now insignificant weapon in twain. Continuing its arc, the Blade swang into Straw’s right arm and rebounded, leaving no mark in the straw. Ularid stared at the impact site, loosening his grip on his weapons. Surely this man couldn’t be wearing Plate under there, and even if he was, the Blade shouldn’t have reacted that way. Ularid knew firsthand that in a confrontation between Plate and Blade, the latter gave way first. Whatever force blocking the Blade hadn’t prevented his own steel sword, and so Ularid drove forward once more with both blades. Ularid tragically dies here. The die had been thrown, the bets had been placed, and the knife’s arc was nearing its completion. Failure was the result. Actions, and reactions, provocation followed by provocation. Blades dancing in the daylight, glinting in the sun. Mraize took a torch to the room, lighting the various records alight, before tossing it to the wall. There was a reason the Ghostbloods holed up in one of the few wooden sections of the war camps. All traces had to be destroyed. Executions, and swords at dawn. Nightly gambles, and daily mistakes. He slipped out of the building, even as the flames slithered through it, the tongues licking his feet as he left. A sacrifice had been made, a battalion for a single soldier. The fire made his eyes into ruby spheres, the stormlight of malice filling them. He climbed onto his horse, taking in the destruction as it spread through the marketplace. It would provide a cleanser of its own sort. A tragedy of a greater magnitude to distract from the multiple of smaller mistakes. A broad sword to cover a prinpick. Desperate times whispered of its necessity. He took his horse to a canter, avoiding the soldiers as they rushed to quench the flames. He was soon out of the warcamp, and onto the cold stone plains. He slipped a spanreed from his pouch, and turned it on. The connection made, he wrote four words, “Target Eliminated. Evacuating Location” He pulled his hood high, and slipped away. Amanuensis has been lynched! He was a Ghostblood Artifabrian with a pain knife, a half-Shard, a reverser, and a spanreed! Vote Count: Aman(1): Stink Straw(1): Straw The Nobles have won this game! Jumae III (STINK) has been crowned King of Alethkar and Straw was appointed Highprince. Master Spreadsheet The Ghostbloods The Victorious Dead Player List:

The lack of correlation means a role claim doesn't provide any usable information. Without the possibility of determining what roles the elims are likely to have and not being able to coordinate or confirm privately, there's not a lot we can do in response to a role claim until the claimer dies. @Abstrusity, you'll want to post in this thread.

Danjen adjusted his lucky earring. He found that he could concentrate on his Soothing better while wearing it, and he would need all his power to convince the administrators to let him in. Soothing wasn't a long term solution unfortunately, so he dismissed his first plan of simply announcing that his own records had been found and then Soothing the suspicions of anyone who questioned such a lie. Danjen had gotten very good at Soothing this particular emotion after years of explaining the circumstances of his Snapping to doubting inquirers, most of whom could be persuaded to forget the incident entirely with a brief dousing of their curiosity. Having only one person admitted would raise persistent concerns that would require constant Soothing. Getting everyone admitted might work though. Perhaps the people who ran this school would decide to accept anyone with a gentle allomantic nudge, regardless of the missing records. Rumour was that a prospective student had recently died, and that her death might not have been an accident, and if so Danjen didn't want to admit anyone who might do that to others. Which brought him right back to not having a viable plan at all, since he couldn't tell who needed to be kept out and Soothing did absolutely nothing to detect the emotions of others. Anyone who made important decisions for the school was bound to be protected by a Coppercloud or an aluminium hat, so any plan wouldn't have worked anyway. Danjen sighed and headed away from the school's entrance. The main thing the initial writeup suggests multiple different types of a role, e.g two Coinshots with different abilities. There isn't a lot of room for feruchemical abilities if we have duplicates of allomantic metals, especially with the expanded era 2 metal set. The elim team is called the Determined Thugs, which is probably not a reference to their allomantic abilities. Having no apparent correlation between role and alignment means roleclaiming isn't a great idea, especially as we don't appear to have PMs.

Dedja had initially admired the Ghostbloods. They had consistently proven they weren’t afraid to confront the Kholins, and their campaign against Elhokar had filled her with hope that the entire rotten family would be replaced by someone with proper Alethi views. That hope was shattered the very next night when the Ghostbloods assassinated Brightlady Ellarel. The woman’s actions had been foolish, but she had not deserved death for the crime of trying to protect Adolin. Dedja remembered a time when she might have taken a dagger for Adolin, back before she’d realised that he was merely his father’s mindless pawn, who in turn offered blind devotion to the useless pretender to the throne of Alethkar. Any remaining possibility that the Ghostbloods were on Alethkar’s side were extinguished when they continued to pick off nobility instead of taking the fight directly to Elhokar and his axehounds. They could have secured alliances and helped install a leader who could finally defeat the Parshendi, but instead the Ghostbloods seemed to be content with making the whole country burn. That would certainly never do, and so Dedja endeavoured to find the remaining Ghostbloods, and if they could not be persuaded to target the true enemy, they would have to be destroyed. A week later, the number of nobles in the warcamps had dwindled alarmingly while Elhokar was still sitting high and mighty, almost as if these murders were merely a Kholin scheme to purge the warcamps of anyone suspected to have anything less than unswerving obedience. A second tattooed individual had been found dead earlier tonight, but if the deaths were part of a secret conspiracy then they wouldn’t stop until Dedja herself was dead. She saw no reason to wait for the murderers to come to her, and so she prepared to head out towards the Kholin warcamp and find out the truth. Just as she reached out for a small dagger, she heard footsteps inside her tent and quickly whirled around, blade in hand to face a dark robed killer wielding a short sword. “Have you finally come to kill me?” Her voice sounded more fearful than she would have liked, but she compensated by taking a step towards the masked intruder. The Ghostblood said nothing but drew a dagger into the left hand and flung the dual blades at Dedja’s throat. She managed to deflect the projectile from its lethal trajectory by crossing her arms diagonally in front of her, but the distraction gave the assassin time to close the distance between them and bury the short sword hilt-deep through her heart. Dedja dropped dead the ground, her final request that the Ghostbloods overthrow the Kholins for her remaining unspoken. Her hatred had burned for far longer than passion ever had, but in the end neither were a match for cold steel. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Far, far away, a man named Brightlord I.N. was experiencing the joys of freedom for the first time since he’d bonded with Tolb and been pressed into service. Here at the foot of the Horneater Peaks, he could finally live out his gardening dreams in peace. The land was suitable for agriculture, and the Ashyn plants were already growing quite well. The Highstorms like the one currently sweeping in were enough to provide the plants with water, and him with Stormlight that for the first time in his life could be used for his own purposes. He laughed delightedly as he inhaled power from his newly infused spheres. He could, at long last, experiment with the Surge of Transformation and perfect his garden. A shovel to dig up new places to plant, a watering can to store water from the Highstorms, perhaps even a greenhouse to focus the power of the sun. Sadly, Transformation could only work if one was prepared to use it, and no amount of stormlight could have healed the pulped remains of I.N.’s head as a boulder was thrown loose from the Peaks and smashed into him from above. Separated from Tolb for the first time in years, I.N. returned to the Cognitive Realm one last time for his final journey. Coda has been killed by the Ghostbloods! They were a Noble with a half-Shard, an Alerter, and a Spanreed! Rathmaskal/Young Bard has been killed by the inactivity filter! He was a Noble with a Pain Knife, Shardplate, and a Reverser! Day 7 has begun! It will end in approximately 46.5 hours, on Sunday 1 December at 9:00 PM EST. Any PMs that were created by Coda are now closed. Good Luck! Player List:

The cycle is closed!

I will sign up as Danjen, a soother who snapped at the age of eight when an assailant pierced his ear with a rusty copper pin. It took two weeks for the infection to clear up, but it was a worthwhile trade for allomantic power.

Araris did have a painrial at the time of his death, as we mistakenly let him hold two Tier 1D items simultaneously. The extra item has been edited into the writeup.

Ularid was exhausted. Physically, he hadn’t had to exert himself in combat for years, although the Plate had made everything easier. No amount of armour could erase the the sheer panic he’d felt when Tintallë had swung her second Blade to sever his spine, or the sickening shock of Tintallë driving her Blade through her own throat. Ularid found himself reliving those moments continuously as he sat alone in his tent that night. He stamped his foot angrily. He was supposed to be good at this. A master of wiping unwelcome memories from his conscious mind. These days, he managed to never think of how his former home had looked as it was being razed or the screams of the dying, soldiers and civilians alike, or- he shook his head violently and stood up. He needed to be outside, never mind the danger. Salas had just set, and Ularid could barely see anything in the moonless darkness. Instead, he was treated to yet another recap of the duel’s final moments. He began to sprint through the camp, heedless of any chasms that might be in the area. Running away never solved his lingering resentment towards Gavilar, but it did allow him to dodge the massive arrow that sailed through the air behind him. He froze, as incapable of motion as he’d been while in shattered Shardplate waiting to die. The second arrow whizzed right in front of his face, close enough to clip his nose. Only a Grandbow, or perhaps a ballista, could have fired a projectile of that size. Ularid’s old combat instincts reasserted themselves and he dove to the ground, hiding behind a nearby tent. Surely his attacker wouldn’t notice him or the slowly dripping blood now pouring onto the ground. Holding his nose with his left hand, Ularid slowly snuck into the tent, careful not to startle any of its occupants. All of them were fast asleep, and none stirred at the presence of an intruder. Slowly, he eased himself behind one of the beds, out of the line of fire for a bow. He drew his knife, prepared to defend himself should the assailant come to finish him off. He sat there for hours, crouched on his hands and knees waiting for an attack that never came until he collapsed unconscious as his weariness finally caught up to him. Sometimes, the quietest people live the longest, Brightlord Arilar mused as he watched the undercurrent of bustling activity in the warcamps, and I have been talking far too much recently. Certainly, it was unlike Arilar to place himself in what he dismissed as “real politics,” the changing of opinions, personal conversations, and generally dangerous intrigue which his masters seemed to relish with unwarranted enthusiasm. He was a silent observer, listening, listening, but never raising his voice more often than he had to. When he did, it was sharp, direct, and quickly forgotten—little wonder he escaped the notice of most, and could retain his position as an active listener with ease. His masters liked it that way. Spying on the Kholins was dangerous, and the ability to keep one’s head down was central in such a task. Yet he had broken from his usual pattern, this time. This time, his words would not so easily be ignored by his enemies. And the increased presence had done what for him? Put a target on his back. Arilar sighed, pivoting to face the too-noisy “stalker” behind him. His footpad started, but produced a short, sturdy sword in his right hand almost faster than Arilar could track. In his left came a throwing knife, which left his hand with equal speed. Arilar flattened himself, feeling the steel bend the air around his head—he had just missed that—and unsheathed his own weapon, scrambling to face his attacker. So the Kholins had found out about him after all. He chopped down with the two-handed sword he had, which the footpad barely sidestepped, and a corner of cloth from the man’s jacket came free, exposing the open skin of the shoulder. On it was tattooed three interlocking diamonds. Excellent, Arilar fumed, now the group that hates the king is after me. He swung his sword up again, this time to parry, and the two held that position for a brief second, swords locked. And then a sudden pain flared in Arilar’s side, and he looked down, feeling his sword drop from numb fingers. With his spare hand, the Ghostblood had taken another knife from his belt and plunged it into him. Arilar sank, dropping to his knees as his assailant straightened. “You’ll...never win this...you know,” he gasped out. “Whoever you are…” The figure’s hand flew up to the mask, tearing it off in one fluid motion. Recognition dawned instantly, and despite his mortal wound Arilar pushed himself to his feet. “You!” he bellowed. “How, after everything, could—” The sword swung again, almost lazily, and further words from Arilar’s head were cut short as it rolled to the ground. Aman was attacked by a Grandbow, but survived! Araris was killed by the Ghostbloods! He was a Noble with a half-Shard, a painrial, and a Spanreed! Day 5 has begun! It will end in approximately 45 hours on Sunday 24 November, at 9 PM EST. Good luck! Player List:

The lynch has a 0 vote minimum, so someone will still die even if there are no votes. Duel claims cannot be retracted.

This duel is formally recognised, All votes this cycle must be for either Elbereth or Amanuensis.

Chullracing was a dangerous sport. As Salas hung low in the sky, and Nalakor gripped his saddle, it was all he could do to stop himself from shaking. He had trained for this, practicing everyday since his brother’s accident. He needed to win this race, needed to use the emerald sphere reward to pay for Valtor’s treatment. He slipped his saddle over Dusty’s shell, before leading the animal over to the starting line. Both had been a gift from King’s Wit, who’d taken a liking to him after he had stolen his flute. He claimed to have stolen them from a top racer, but from what Nalakor could tell, the beast was nothing more than a work animal. That said, he’d formed a bond with Dusty. She had been his only friend since the accident, his only friend since the fire that ripped through Roion’s warcamp, taking his parents and leaving his brother comatose. Dusty had helped him through his grief, and taken him farther than he could have ever imagined. He was in the final for the Grand Warcamp Prix. The last race of the season before the weeping began. He was the only here because of sheer luck more than anything else, hanging on by the skin of his teeth. But, now? He needed to win. He rubbed Dusty’s eyestalks, slipping the animal a stonebud. Around him, the top racers from around the warcamp’s chulls were being carefully rubbed and oiled, as their drivers stood by, talking strategy with their coaches. On the next plateau over, the spectators sat, making bets, or watching just for enjoyment. Despite Chullracing being illegal, it was still one of the most popular forms of entertainment, and betting on, while heresy, only added to the fun. Nalakor hopped up onto Dusty, adjusting the saddle as he did so. He carefully began warming her up, walking her forward and backward, getting her used to both his presence, and the way he nudged with her feet. His lead system was homegrown he knew, nothing a true pro would use, but it may have been the only thing that could give him an edge. For while others were restricted to using one hand to steer, and only leaving one free, Dusty could use both to swing the long pole he lifted from a strap on Dusty’s side. The bat was the reason Chullracing was illegal. While one’s chull was doing the actual running of the race, it was the jockey’s job to take as many of his opponents down as possible. Needless to say, it was not a sport without mortalities, and when everyone was needed to fight in the war, needless harm was seen as a waste. The officials walked out from the spectator plateau, and onto track in proper. They carefully walked the length of the string that bordered the track, making sure it was both up to standards, 1000 paces long, and there was no foul play. As they did so, Nalakor turned to watch his neighboring racers, as they mounted their chulls. One was a young woman seemingly from the Reshi isles. He dropped his gaze and blushed when he realized her safehand wasn’t covered. On his other side was a tall and dark figure in a mask, some of the more prominent racers did such things to hide their identities. His chull was skinny and sharp, less like a chull, and more like the fin of a Skyeel. A whistle sounded, and the twenty-four racers lead their chulls to the starting line. An official walked down, checking to ensure that they were all in fact behind the line. The man, stepped back to the edge of the line, pulling out a simple whistle. He blew once, signalling the racers to ready. The audience drew to hush, eyes watching the main event of the evening. Nalakor felt himself tense in anticipation. In the distance, Salas was making its final descent, a small crescent hanging over the finish line. A long whistle sounded, cutting through the air like a shardblade. Nalakor kicked Dusty into motion, rocking as the chull began to move forward. Around him everyone was doing the same. A bat slammed into his back, knocking the breath out of him, and nearly knocking him from his saddle. He whirled with both his body and his back, and met the eyes of the Reshi woman, even as her pole met his own. He flipped it around trying to do one of the simple patterns he’d taught himself from his father’s spear training. She was too fast, blocking him at everymove, even as her other hand pushed her chull faster. Dusty let out a trumpet responding to his desperate attempts to simply run away from her, even as Nalakor took another hit from a different racer, the sound matching his own. The man was taken down quickly, but by then the woman had taken advantage of Nalakor’s distraction to land a punishing blow. He slipped, feeling himself begin to tumble from the saddle, his leg hanging over space, held on by his arm on Dusty, and his left. Storms it hurt. They were matching the leaders of the pack now, though whether Nalakor would even make it the next 5 paces was yet to be seen. He let out a prayer to the Almighty, begging for strength. The Reshi woman lifted her bat to finish him. And was taken out from behind, the masked figure capitalizing on her distraction. Nalakor wrenched himself up, his arm screaming from the pain, and looked around him. 500 paces to go, and he was. He was in the lead! It was only pure instinct that saved him. The masked figure’s bat was swinging towards his head, and only a flick of his bat saved from a near instant knock out. His arm rang with the blow, and he grunted. The masked figure bat whirled then came into strike again, and again, Nalakor barely blocked it, batting it away, this time using both of his hands. He still winced, but it seemed that both arms could take the impact. In his peripheral vision he could see, 400 paces. The masked man’s chull had caught up to Dusty, and it trumpeted, sounding like the grinding of metal. Dusty hissed in return. The bat came in again, then again and again. Nalakor’s arms were beginning to ache with the sheer stress of blocking the thrice cursed blows. 300 paces. He let out a sob, the two chulls were neck and neck, even as their riders fought. He was squeezing with his legs as hard as possible, wishing there was someway to tell Dusty just to go a little bit faster, but nevertheless the two animals continued to match each other’s pace, seeming to almost to want their jockeys to fight, seeming to want Nalarok to lose. An especially powerful blow rattled his already numb hands, and then another knocked the bat from his hands. It tumbled to the ground and was lost. The race was lost. The audience screamed. Desperation filled Nalarok’s mind as he realized there was only seconds until it was over. Until his brother was dead. In that brief moment, he flashbacked to the night of the fire, when Voriav had saved him, leaping to push him out of the way of a doorway, and hurting himself in the process. And Nalakor knew what he had to do. He leaned right, towards the figure, then leapt directly at him. He seemed to hang in the air forever, time slowing down as he saw the masked figure’s shock. He slammed into the figure with all of his body weight. They never stood a chance. They slipped off of the back of their mount like a bag of lavis grain, dropping their bat to grab the side of the saddle, hanging on with only a hand. Nalakor himself began to lose balance, standing on a chull was nearly impossible when they were walking. Next him, Dusty still ran. Good faithful Dusty. He took a breath, then leapt back to his mount. A hand gripped his ankle pulling him down. The figure had pulled themselves enough to grab him as he leapt. He felt himself swing in the air, hand grasping for something, anything. They felt the saddle strap and clutched them tight. He lay, stretched across the abyss between the two chulls, the figure pulling at his ankle with all their might even as he held on with his. He kicked with his other leg, slamming the foot into the figure’s hand. It hand slipped, and it was enough. Nalakor pulled himself, exhausted. He looked up to check how close they were to the finish line. They crossed. First. The audience roared, and he sagged. He had done. He could save Voriav. He could see his brother again. Brightlord Nalakor smiled as his chosen chull barrelled across the line, earning him one of the largest returns he’d had in a while—all from a shadowed man who still did not identify himself. But his spheres were on the table in front of the finish line, so despite his weakened state Nalakor wasted no time in nodding to the arbiter and sweeping his winnings into his purse. “Sorry, friend, and thank you for playing the game,” he offered the shadowed figure, who had shown no reaction. He did mean it—he got little enough business, having to bribe officials into looking the other way when he did conduct it, and any participants were appreciated in such a violent and bloody sport as this. “Better luck another time.” The man’s lips were drawn in a thin line, dramatised by the light of the red sphere by which Nalakor was seeing, but he nodded and began collecting his things, heading away from the pens. Eyeing the retreating figure, Nalakor backed up himself, pretending to fumble with one of the chull’s straps as he waited for the visitor to fade into darkness. You didn’t survive as long as he did in this sort of business without some underlying mistrust, unfortunately, and the bruises he had would take long enough to heal without his accruing new ones. Nalakor sighed, moving the exhausted beasts back to their pens, to lie down with their other companions who were lowing quietly. Tending to the beasts, in the end, was remarkably simple—not much could be required by normally docile and tempered animals—but it was his only trade, so he kept to it with a vigour which infused even the changing of water and food for the pens with meaning akin to a sacred ritual, a way of giving the ordinary importance. His chulls were perhaps the best cared for in the kingdom, and he intended to keep it that way to keep bringing in the lighteyes who enjoyed such sport. Keeping it that way also involved another precaution. Over the door to the pen, a heavy razor blade, attached to a rope pulled taut, lurked. Hidden behind a design in the ceiling, and further concealed by virtue of nobody having ventured inside his pens except him, it was the perfect security measure—if the rope was placed across the doorway from the inside, an opening of the door would send that blade falling to cleave in two the one who opened it. He armed the trap, yawning already, and went to his mattress in the middle of the pen. He did not often sleep in here, but would tonight—with the spheres he had on hand. a trapped door looked increasingly appealing to guard against intruders, and he doubted he retained the strength to make it back to the warcamps after his drubbing from the masked man. He yawned contentedly, and was asleep in seconds. Nalakor stirred, started out of his sleep by a noise near the wall of the pen. A...hammering? It was lighter than that, he thought, but certainly he had heard the stone being worked at. Someone was trying to enter the pen through the wall! No doubt it was the masked figure, seeking to recover the spheres lost in the race. His body on fire, Nalakor managed to stand, feeling a vague dread as light filtered into the dark pens through a hole in the wall. Around him, chulls snorted, shifting in their sleep, but mostly too dumb to rouse themselves fully. Peering from the curtained corner he was in, Nalakor could see a man’s silhouette block off the light, and enter the building, sword out in the dark of the pens, looking for him. He bit back a scream. There would be only one way to evade him—getting out the door quietly enough and then shouting for help before he was murdered, to apprehend the intruder. He might lose his spheres, but he’d keep his life. Masked by the bleating of chulls, the beasts themselves, and the pitch darkness of the far side of the pens, Nalakor edged along the side of the pen, feeling frantically for the panels of the door. The intruder was now in his corner, searching in vain among his sheets, and Nalakor’s hand grasped the doorknob. A rush of delirium came upon him—he had escaped—and he threw open the door. The sweeping motion would be his last. Even as he opened his mouth to cry for help, Nalakor’s eyes bulged at the sound of a catch being released and a rope suddenly recoiling, losing its taut arrangement; after all his escape plan, he had forgotten to disarm his own trap. The heavy blade above the door fell like thunder, cutting off the last scream of its victim, and Nalakor was no more. There had been a lot of deaths taking place at night recently. That didn’t stop Kay from wandering outside on a whim on this third night since Sebarial was attacked. Precedent was no predictor of future occurrences, after all. The moons were dim, but light was not needed to carry the sound of bellowing chulls through the unight. Kay found herself walking towards the noise. Chulls were usually quiet at night, and so the increased volume was unusual. The cause of the chulls’ alarm was immediately apparent. A clustered mass of the giant crustaceans were entangled at the end of a flat expanse of stone marked off vertically with string on either side. The Almighty had selected one empty-saddled chull to trumpet aggressively and snap out at the other chulls, none of which were sure how to proceed. Confused, the herd, all of which still had riders, shuffled around awkwardly and bellowed questioningly. Furious, the riderless chull charged forwards at an impressive 2 meters per second. This time, the other chull were able to scuttle out of the way as the rogue chull in the direction of a nearby plateau. Kay turned to follow the chull’s trajectory and saw that the spectators did not look concerned at the animal’s behaviour. Kay’s jaw tightened as she saw some of them were exchanging spheres. Racing by itself could be an honourable way to invite the Almighty’s judgement. Attempting to predict the outcome of a race was blasphemy of the highest order. Even the other Devotaries could see that much. Angrily, Kay headed after the chull, easily overtaking the lumbering beast. Her journey to the plateau was interrupted when the enraged chull reached out one of her giant claws and grabbed Kay by the waist. Though surprised, Kay remained calm as the chull led her not to the heretics flaunting their disrespect for the Almighty but to a fresh corpse still bleeding on the ground. Undoubtedly the man, Kay recognised him as Brightlord Nalakor, had been murdered by someone who valued money over the Divine. With far greater care than she had been shown, the chull picked the dead man up with her other claw and began the journey back towards the camp. Kay made no attempt to resist what must be the Almighty’s design as the three of them returned to safety. Striker has been killed! He was a Noble Spy with a half-shard! Drake has posted, and so will not be killed. Rath has been replaced by Young Bard. Day 4 has begun! It will end in approximately 46 hours, on Thursday 21 November at 9 PM EST. Please upvote Snipexe for the thrilling account of Nalakor's last race. (Fifth speaking: Please upvote both Devotary and Snip for coping marvellously after I dropped the ball unexpectedly.) Player List:

Kill types were distinguished in LG20, so we decided to specify kill types in this game. If it isn't clear, Fura was killed by the Ghostbloods and Sart was attacked by a Shardblade. We didn't look hard enough to see that the identities of survivors were not disclosed in LG20, so we ended up giving away too much information.

Ellarel would not be attending the feast tonight. All those months worked and spheres saved to purchase a havah styled in the latest fashion and an appointment with a hair stylist squandered in a matter of hours by a few suspicious nobles. The medics had not been able to attend her immediately, as they were busy tending the more life-threatening wounds of Kholin soldiers injured during the day’s fighting. Still, Ellarel was a lighteyes, and within a few hours her broken bones had been splint and a bed provided. The attending medic assured her that she would be walking again in a few weeks. That was several weeks too late for Ellarel. Tonight had been her best chance of getting to meet Adolin, but now that opportunity had passed. Perhaps she could apply to be a scribe for the Kholins. They had been willing to take care of her injuries, so at least they knew who she was. She resolved to try once the Ghostbloods were crushed and her broken bones healed. Perhaps the Almighty would smile on her once again. The medics had let her keep the knife she’d used to kill Brightness Hymnyes. The blade was still too bloody to put back in her safepouch, so the weapon lay on the bed next to her unbroken arm. Ellarel replayed the memory of piercing Hymnyes arm in her head, imagining that she would do the same to the cowards who had attacked Highprince Sebarial. She barely even noticed when a young man wearing Kholin blue strode into the tent, escorted by four members of the Cobalt Guard. Adolin paused when he saw that one person receiving medical attention was not a member of the Kholin army, or even the Kholin warcamp. He walked closer to her bed in the corner of the tent. “Where did you sustain your injuries?” he asked. Ellarel jolted upright, making her head swim and sending blinding flashes of pain shooting up her broken arm and leg. She had gotten to meet Adolin Kholin after all! She tried to take in every detail through blurry eyes. His crisply tailored Kholin uniform, newly donned after the day’s battle. His exotic blonde-black hair, the same colour as hers. His piercing blue eyes, looking directly at her. The closest member of the Cobalt Guard, swinging a knife down towards his neck. Ellarel screamed and grabbed the knife with her left hand, pain momentarily forgotten as she leaped out at the traitorous bodyguard. Alarmed, Adolin stepped out of the way, narrowly avoiding the strike from behind. The Ghostblood’s blade kept going, embedding itself deep into Ellarel’s heart. The last thing she saw before being whisked away to Shadesmar was Adolin rushing off to apprehend the assassin. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “I must congratulate you, Darrel,” the smooth voice of Arrdel came to Domand’s ears, his accent refined and perfectly in tune with the strange speech of Roshar—then again, he was a native. “You came here yourself to ensure that a conflagration was stirred up. Well, you certainly succeeded, but this hardly seems to be the work you intended.” He chuckled softly to himself, rubbing his hands together against the chill of the night air. Domand inclined his head gravely as they walked on, a shadow to the casual eye, though inwardly he seethed. What was Arrdel doing away from his tasks in Marabethia? And how did he think he could maintain the paper-thin glass of Alethkar against the repeated hammer blows of the coming Desolation? The stupidity of the Alethi elite could hardly be pinned upon him. “It will have to do, Arrdel,” he spoke aloud. “My subterfuge has united the country, in an odd sort of way, but any unity is better than none, and while they did unite in fear and not fraternity, the former will often produce the latter. You know why I do what I do—Cultivation watches this planet, but indirectly, and a challenge from the Father of Hate may break her in the end. The only way to stop Odium’s attack is deterrence. And for that we need a Unifier, one which I intend to create out of this mess, who can pick up Honour and thrust Odium away from this system, before he causes more harm than he already has.” “Drive him away? Like the Oathpact?” Arrdel retorted. “It is a frail patch on an old wound. Eventually, we will need to let it scar for it to heal at all.” Darrel looked at Arrdel, aghast. One of the ASWA’s most significant triumphs in thousands of years—the Oathpact keeping Odium bound to Braize—was a “frail patch?” “You overstep yourself,” he said flatly. “Honour and Cultivation can and must check Odiun’s growing strength. I care not for how it is done, so long as it is. However, if you believe an immediate war with casualties in the millions will solve Shardic disputes properly, then perhaps you do not belong in this group anymore.” Arrdel’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing more. “Let us hope that you are right, and that the Ghostbloods provide the distraction and the unifying force we need for this, then. For now, I must return to Marabethia. I must say, I have missed you in the field of work lately—it is good to see you getting your hands dirty now, instead of the Council of Seven. Peace be with you and your works.” “And also with you and yours,” Darrel whispered into the cold night, pacing his way back to the stone bunker in his solitary camp. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Elandera was killed! She was a Noble with a Pain Knife! Day 2 has begun, and will end in approximately 47 hours, at 9 PM EST on Friday 15 November. Spanreed PMs begun during the Night may be used at Day; however, new ones may not be created. Also, questions about your items are best asked at a time not equivalent to two minutes from rollover. Thank you for your cooperation. Good luck! Player List:

The only* differences from the LG20 ruleset have been specified, so there are no secret rules. This does mean that no PMs can be created until N1 at the earliest.

The current signup deadline is 20.5 hours from now, yes.

The plan is to have an exact rerun of LG20 with the original rules for that game if we don't get enough players.

I will take a spec doc.

Rath, how long after rollover did you submit a redirect action on me? One of the first time Hats prevented the lynch was just bad luck with my base failure chance(which really should have happened at least once to Hats, as a 20% failure chance over the last several lynches), but the other times were my fault. I kept forgetting that redirect actions resolve chronologically and not submitting my action immediately when the cycle opened.

The EO should have chosen a side, since needing to survive two additional cycles is an unnecessary risk for not too much gain. If the EO chose Discovery, there's at least four elim lives left with at most five villagers, which seems almost insurmountable. Killing Itiah makes sense, since he was mostly cleared for lynching Alvron over Venture C2. If Bard was evil, Stink might have had a good chance of being killed, but he wasn't. I don't know if elim!Elandera would vote for the same person three times in a row; I don't remember that being a common voting pattern for either alignment.

Well, we can go for Rath then, as the other elim doesn't seem willing to vote.

Venture(2): Elbereth, Elandera Bard(2): Stink, Devotary Elandera(1): Rae If the elims do have vote manipulation and Venture is evil, Alvron could have saved himself by voting for Wilson instead and having Venture not vote. Even as a 3-2-1-1 Alvron-Venture-Wilson-Bard, a vote shift could have reduced Alvron's chances of dying to 1/3. I can see a confirmed death as being better than a 2/3 chance of losing an elim in this scenario, though Alvron probably would have wanted the tie. Rollover appears to be inconvenient for enough people that vote manipulators are unreliable, though both Bard and Venture were around to see the end of the C1 lynch. Wilson's death could be the elims trying to get rid of the reform spy, but that wouldn't explain DeTess's death. Killing the spy early probably helps the elims so long as they're winning or hemorrhaging members with at least one in a position of trust, which isn't necessarily the case at this point. The spy voting on the same elim twice in a row would be a bold move that might draw the elim kill as it did for Wilson. Killing her over Elandera if Venture and Alvron were both evil would still make more sense with that motivation as Alvron would be confirmed evil. In summary, I have no good ideas. I think either Bard or Venture is more likely to be evil than Elandera. All of them have defended Alvron or at least criticised the lack of reasoning for the C1/C2 lynches on him. I guess I'll vote for Bard to make another tie.

Go for Rath again? Or try for the Founder this time? Someone's going to die this turn, at least.

Alvron(2): Stink, Wilson Venture(2): Elandera, Alvron Wilson(1): Elbereth Bard(1): Devotary I don't feel withholding a vote is suspicious so long as the reasoning is there and a vote eventually does get placed. I'm not sure why Wilson kept her vote on Alvron when he became a viable lynch, but there wasn't really anyone else up for the lynch other than a confirmed villager so it wasn't to protect a teammate. The fact that nobody attempted to save Alvron does help my opinion of him, as there's a decent chance of an elim arbiter and Bard and Venture(supposedly, though despite being ~5 hours afterwards Venture didn't note DeTess's vote change) are the only living players who definitely saw that Alvron was no longer tied for the lynch. I would be more likely to think you were evil if Bard was evil, though outright stating he wouldn't vote for you is a bit blatant. Elandera is going after Venture again, the latter of which might respond soon. There did seem to be a reason for Venture's vote though. I won't be back before rollover, so I'll have to see what sort of lovely vote changes happen in the next six hours. I don't particularly like Bard defending Striker, then supporting Striker's lynch over Alvron while voting for someone else. If I voted for Bard though, I would be doing pretty much the same thing. Ah well. Taking a tie closer to rollover and expanding a vote base will hopefully help more than trying to cement one of two lynches.

The spy and handler still have to be listed as either Heritage or Glory, otherwise it will be really obvious who they are.

I didn't feel like I had anything productive to say last cycle, and I still don't have any useful thoughts except that apparently the Spy and Handler are listed as either Glory or Heritage. Alv and Striker both died early in part A, and I didn't want to vote for either of them, but I also wasn't paying too much attention didn't see anything noteworthy about Stink, Rath, and Venture. DeTess's death does prove the elim team was shuffled up to some degree, so nobody attacking or defending Striker was worried about concealing the fact that the composition was the same. The kill might be something elim!Itiah would do, but not a lynch-worthy possibility. Despite last game's ludicrous number of arbiters, and the fair chance this game has a similar quantity, we only have one instance of vote manipulation that I can see where Venture's vote was moved to Stink. It could have been Bard, but I don't see why Bard would have changed his vote but not his action. Rath didn't seem to be in enough danger to require saving, though I have seen village vote manip!Rath save himself just in case(LG59). If it was an elim manipulation, they didn't think Alvron needed saving.