Amethyst Scorpion

Which little birdie?

I mean, it's easier to track it if it's all in one message than if it was spread out over the course of 2 days, right? *Padme Face* Right?

Hm... who to vote for. Amber Vulture did well yesterday, and Coral Swan did great too! But Amethyst Scorpion has been training really hard, and Cream Tuatara seems so popular. Then again, Salmon Meerkat just seems like a swell fella.

According to Google, yes. And knees

Poor Indigo Weasel.

"Lemme put 5 boxings on Coral Swan in the Freestyle 400." "Go ahead and put 5 more boxings on Salmon Meerkat in the Balancing Beam while you're at it."

That would be very funny. Harder than it sounds to try and actually pull it off I think.

"It could be anybody's game Steve. Why I'm even putting my entire life savings on Magenta Albatross and Sage Kangaroo." - Sportscaster Roger "Well Roger, you sure won't be catching me doing that. I'm saving up for a trip to Miami this Fall!" - Sportscaster Steve

*Scorpion sounds*

I would like to vote for Amethyst Scorpion for the Freestyle 200. And to follow the trend, Coral Swan for the Balance Beam.

Let's do this!

A handful of herbs swirls back into the Hound and Hustle. Straight twigs, actually, rosemary stems with the herb itself stripped from them. They fall in a pattern on the floor, and Mihtig briefly pops in to arrange them into runes. Malmoc is half a block away when they are finally in a readable arrangement:

“Why do you think?” Malmoc said irritably, calling Mihtig to him off Aralis’ head. “Once you might have missed a claim to metals, but twice bespeaks an unwillingness to look that not even the strongest coriander can overpower. Why we are being so free with this knowledge, I really cannot say. But I am going somewhere to think about all of this. I invite people to recall the events that just happened, and look carefully, and smell carefully. Since we lost one of our only sources of protection, though, let’s make this night count. If the saboteurs have assassins, anyone could be dead by morning. Best to have something worth them killing you over before then.” He stalked out into the open night.

If only people were like herbs, and could be ground into a paste and smelt to determine their virtues, or lack thereof. Malmoc was waffling. The Jaist was wrong, so wrong, on many things, he believed, but did that make him evil? He still suspected he might be in league with Acks. The observer and Nibbles were beginning to unnerve him. Byrar was not to be trusted. The lurkers still lurked. They couldn’t all be in league together, could they? But no, for they were accusing one another. It all made so little sense to Malmoc, but he was willing to hear people out. He drew in a deep breath of thyme. People could not be crushed and smelt, but their breaths might yet betray their scent. These men and women would stand or fall by their words. “I would like to hear, from each of you, who you are accusing again, and why. Especially those of you who have not yet weighed in.”

Malmoc frowned. Why were so many jumping to the first conclusion that Hayden’s death was staged? Nibbles had his mind constantly on food (even if he under-seasoned it terribly) and should thus know that nobody eats himself unless desperate. Why would the saboteurs take action to try to gain a very small modicum of trust for one of their own, when they could further their numerical advantage immediately by committing to a serious raid or attack? If they were to try to convince the town of the innocence of one of their own, they would not have started with Hayden, the town drunk who had just murdered a man, but one of their more upstanding members. More likely they had gotten wind of his Allomantic powers. Malmoc hoped others in the village had the good sense to keep theirs quiet. While those with Bronze noses could always sniff out the mist-awakened, it would take them time, and any secrecy that could be kept till then may save the lives of those who could contribute most strongly to the town’s defence. And now Byrar was picking up the same line of reasoning. Rusts, Malmoc had tried to dissipate this wind before it blew this strongly. Were there not thirteen other townspeople in the inn? The child spoke more sense than any of the adults. Bless Sew. Mihtig had chosen well for her companion, when she wasn’t busy being the itchiest scarf on Scadrial. Malmoc rubbed more oregano into his nose to keep the smell of cat hair out of his nostrils. Strange, after so long, that it should still bother him. He was pleased with the girl’s observance, and hoped that she’d found something useful in her scanning of old memories. ( @Ivory Dragonfly) Another lurker towards the edge of the room of whom Malmoc did not much like the smell. Perhaps he trusted Hayden—that gave him more sense than many of the more vocal—but did he not have other ideas? If Chad continued to be content to hover below the town’s notice, something would eventually need to be done. Malmoc wanted to put his head through the wooden table at which he sat, and find an appropriate herb poultice for the subsequent headache. While Malmoc was also less than sure about the pair, at least they were not condemning a child for speaking common sense. The Jaist finally seemed to get it. He appreciated the man’s newfound willingness to solve, but was confused about his point on Sew. Why would the girl give Tyrian the rope with which to hang her? Malmoc swivelled to look at Acks. “What?” he asked. “An attack draws attention to Hayden, not the other way around. If he’d not been attacked, and spent the night safe in Tey’s guardhouse, they could’ve just deflected attention elsewhere today and been fine. It’s a poor attempt at deception since apparently half of Tyrian thinks it was a ploy to begin with. Also, Hayden’s Lurcher claims started coming long before he got into the spat with Alais. If he was a Thug all along, it’d have looked very silly if he’d been made to burn his pewter when Alais got the better of him. And you’d waste much more time making the village try to attack you multiple times—there’s no reason to burn his pewter in a false attempt on his own life. Sew is right. It just doesn’t make sense.” While Malmoc’s suspicion was still publicly on the Jaist, he wondered about the rest. The watcher in the corner (Falcon) had not given him the best impression recently, but he at least spurred the others on to conversation. He was now side-eyeing Byrar and Acks more than ever, and still wondered about the suspicion on the latter yesterday which had quickly dissipated. Nibbles, too, he was of two minds on. Behind the facade of silliness was an astute mind. What was it planning? He needed to think over this more.

Malmoc worked the paste into a fine pulp, letting the naturally moister leaves determine the consistency, but the arrangement he’d brewed up for the mayor was more flaky and thin. No matter. It would do what it had to. Tema was beginning to splutter and cough again, a few last chunks of phlegm dislodging themselves from his system and flecking on Malmoc’s coat. Good! He smelled ten times better already, and with his system clear, he’d be a much more effective leading voice today. None of the raw bloodshed of yesterday, after which Malmoc had almost curled up and retreated from things entirely. If only that fool Teys had realised that Tema was going to be just fine, he would’ve been able to do just that. But no, he was made to play doctor again, kneeling over the beleaguered mayor and dealing with the string of curses issuing from his mouth. Well, he supposed the purgative could get those out of his system too. The thinner arrangement would just alleviate the headache he’d had from toppling over in such a sudden fashion. Drama king, almost as much as Mihtig prancing around his bottles. Rusting cat could lend a paw. “Sir!” He put on his most cheerful front, which was still mumbling and uneven. “You’re in safe hands. The captain has left me with you to make sure there’s not a panic, and—“ Just then, Hayden burst through the door, a wild look in his eyes. Rust. Malmoc listened to the drunkard’s tale with some caution. He’d made sure to add a parsley infusion to the ale in the tavern while Teys had led the man away, which would hopefully slow Hayden down enough to keep him sober through the retelling, but from the minimal detail he gave and the lack of other witnesses, he feared the town would immediately fixate on Hayden again, and whether the closeness of the bar fight, and now this sudden attack, meant that he was the saboteur he so recklessly accused others of being. It was not a promising line of inquiry. His smell hadn’t really changed from the beginning, even if the liquor was beginning to be drowned out by the fear. True, a team of infiltrators who cared little for their own could have used him for a ploy, but far more likely he was an innocent, if a loudmouth, who had gotten himself caught in the wrong places and the wrong arguments. He was an obvious target now, and in a way Malmoc was glad Teys had been there—yet why would the infiltrators go for a man under guard? It bespoke a simplistic approach, or else a very confident one. He wasn’t sure which option he dreaded more. Regardless, Hayden should be allowed to stand or fall on his own merit. But there were other townspeople, and other problems. Where was that Jaist Priest? (Mauve Crocodile) He’d made a stir towards the end of yesterday, and he wondered along with the quiet man in the corner about his comments concerning Alais. He was also curious what some of the quieter people had to say, Chad and Kael and Ademorna ( @Amber Vulture @Chartreuse Penguin @Fuchsia Ostrich). Now that they were more present, perhaps they could elaborate more on where they stood. The trepidation he smelled in the air came especially powerfully from those three. It was messing with his sense of smell, as was…well, pretty much everything these days. Would the wind and ash ever be right again? Maybe not. Cleansing the town would be a good benchmark, and a starting point. But it would take more than all the hyssop in the world to do it.

Malmoc frowned at the Jaist. “That is…a misrepresentation of our conversation. Elder may teach your tongue to speak truth. I expressed an ongoing suspicion, but you remain the one whom I believe to be acting most strangely. Though consolidation of our suspicions will at some point be helpful, and Lysia is a more palatable choice for examination than Hayden, to me. Perhaps they both simply need an herbal remedy to clear their minds.”

“Ah. Shame.” Wait. Why was he asking this man for a kettle. He was supposed to ask the inkeep. Malmoc chided himself, burying his face back in Mihtig’s fur as she jumped back up on his shoulders, and left the strange lurking man behind. Wormroot help him, but he’d never smelt a silent man with so much to say, and positively bursting to say it at that. Well, no matter. He reached deep into his pouch for a fistful of lavender and threw it over the man as he walked away. That should set him straight. Malmoc nodded at Byrar. The shopkeep had a decent head on his shoulders. It seemed in all the unrest, nobody was making accusations that were quite substantiated—how could they, so early on?—but the sniping from the shadows was a pattern. Still, any voice was better than silence. Mihtig cocked her head, her eyes transfixed on the two apples in his hands. But they were narrowed to slits in suspicion. Malmoc looked at the proffered options, took both with his hands, and shoved them deep in his pouch. The red one tasted better with a lot of sage. With his life? Malmoc wasn’t sure he’d heard Alais correctly. Did the two go back that far? Hadn’t they just met? It was an odd comment, and he felt less sure than ever of the two’s relationship. Had he overheard two saboteurs in confidence, or else just a very naïve individual? Malmoc was grateful to see Lysia (Charcoal Hyena), whom he had noted earlier, speak up. He shared some of Byrar’s reservations, as no explanation of her prior silent presence was given, and she seemed to immediately smell out the one person with similar behaviour to her own to accuse. Not that Penguin’s response was in any way exculpatory. They both smelled strange, but in different ways. Yet clearly attention had moved on from them both. Malmoc smiled. He liked the little orphan Sew. He remembered Aella and Eliine, and he and Shemgil’s stewardship of them, so many ash-burnt ages ago. That had been an odd time. He had not been able to save them either. Best not to get involved too deeply with this one. But it hurt his heart to hear ‘dad’ again. He rubbed some more herbs in his pouch unconsciously, hoping they would clear his mind. As the rosemary and citrus filled his nostrils, he blinked and whispered to Mihtig: “You know, anytime you want, you can go get your scratches. There’s someone who might love you as much as Eliine.” Mihtig seemed to purr in agreement. Strange, that creature. He thought they didn’t do that anymore. He smelled again. The wind had changed. He was sure of it. But with the town the way it was, dealing with the saboteurs had to come first. Malmoc’s eyebrow shot up as the Jaist spoke. So, as accusations thickened, he joined the prevailing winds—and, not only that, but took the balance of voices from a near-even split to one in which Hayden now stood heavily condemned? The drunk had drawn bad attention, yes, but Malmoc would scarcely suspect a saboteur to be as blatant as he. It was unproductive, for the reasons all could now see: it did not take Malmoc’s nose to smell the simmering tension in the air. If the Jaist (Mauve Crocodile) thought a little more about his statement, he might ask why a saboteur would so blatantly look for information so early on. While a town drunk could afford lack of discretion, a small cell of infiltrators could not. Granted, ploys were always possible, but suspicion such as the Jaist’s was cheap.

Mihtig blinked at Malmoc as he entered the tavern. “Go on,” he said softly, pressing mint-laced fingertips into her coat, then tapping her back paws. She leapt from his shoulders to curl around those of the little girl and began smelling her. Malmoc thought for a second, then leaned down, keeping a hand in his pouch. “That’s Mihtig. You can pet her as long as you don’t poke. What’s your name, little one?” There was a smell to her too, but he couldn’t place it. Mihtig would know. If they still worked the way they were supposed to, she could have told him later. “Water? Even better. There’s a fire, there’s a fire somewhere…” Its smoke was already filling his nostrils. He glanced at the brazier in the corner of the room, then reached into his pouch. “Tea? Ah, but we need a kettle… No matter. They’ll have one. He knows my ways better than most, he does…” Malmoc looked around the room, sizing it up. Nearly everyone he expected would make an appearance there. Hayden’s form, not as slumped as he’d pictured it, running his mouth with Acks about Allomancy. That was an intriguing conversation, but probably best avoided. He’d had his run-ins with Acks too. They…tended to talk past one another. And whether the man had the powers he claimed or no, his scent was unsettling. Malmoc could recognise another man trying to move on. The question was, from what? If the air in the tavern was to be believed, many thought it was something sinister. He wasn’t sure if it merited the attention that the man was getting, though. At least Acks was present among them, and giving an account of himself. More worrying to Malmoc were the figures of those like Hyena or Penguin who seemed to see no need to speak, yet were still lurking in the corners of the room. True, there were some who shared his own reticence for speech, and the air of cordiality was still over most of the conversations, but surely men such as these had something to do, in word or deed, that was not merely observatory. ( @Charcoal Hyena @Chartreuse Penguin) Breathing in the air of the room, he noticed another man who was also watching, yet with a keener eye. Malmoc smelled wariness from this one, and his scent was not that of the rest of Tyrian. A newcomer then. It would be best if they were all on speaking terms. This was not his way, but he steeled himself to approach the stranger, hand still in pouch. He subtly unscrewed the jar of meadowsweet, letting it soothe him before he spoke. “Who are you, stranger? And do you have a kettle my friend here could borrow?” @Emerald Falcon

Malmoc started, hearing a voice addressing him. Shifting Mihtig’s weight, he looked up to see Byrar the shopkeep nodding at him. Falling into step beside the man, keeping one hand in his pouch, he simply hummed, muttering, “Gam, yes, well, none of us ever smell as we should in life…” That was Malmoc too. The ash still clung to him, in a way it hadn’t before. And the dampness of the mists, retreating faster than they should. Or perhaps it simply felt odd to be beside someone. His hand worked inside his pouch, locating jars. This one had the faint tinge of defeat about him, but didn’t they all? What would set it straight. Sage again? Or perhaps a dash of comfrey. It would be— No. He could control the impulses. He breathed in again, which was a mistake, the scents needing correction again, but he chose to focus on Mihtig’s fur, its warm smell anchoring him. He would have the strength of the feline in the coming days. He would need it. “The ash smells different,” he said instead. “Can you feel it? It’s sharp, not a blanket anymore, but a presence.” He felt his confidence swell. This was why he was here. “We have to figure this out, do you hear? Gam dying, the fires, the rumours. It’s not a change in the people. It’s a change on the wind.” He trailed off. “The wind…” It nipped about them, driving back the last of the mists. The townspeople should hear about this. He realised, belatedly, that his footsteps were taking him towards Tyrian’s inn. A sure place of reunion, if there ever was one, and men bothered by the profusion of scents and stimuli in a burned watchtower might naturally seek the familiar sweat- and ale-soaked refuge of the tavern. Malmoc liked it too. There was always much more to taverns than met the eye—and, if the stench of death was heavy there too, he’d start having bigger conclusions to draw. But the man’s question. It had been… ”Started this? No, I can’t tell yet. Mihtig could probably tell. But she never talks to me. Not anymore…” He stroked behind the cat’s ears. “I blame the mist-cursed Lord Ruler for this. Dead or no, he would know what this is. Would restore the old winds. But he hasn’t, or can’t, and now we’ve got to pick up the pieces, and somehow not get killed.” He closed his eyes, envisioning the tavern. The drunk, Hayden, would be slumped over the counter as usual—no matter how much mint and citrus Malmoc plied him with, it seemed the cloying alcohol fumes would cling to him till his dying day. He was useless, almost as useless as Malmoc himself, but not necessarily a saboteur for that. The usual crowd of gamblers and rabble-rousers too would be there—and, he supposed, the merchants so recently in town. He paused. Could they have brought the scent with them? But then why was it on the wind itself? He looked again at Byrar, surprising himself with his boldness. “We should talk first. And maybe see the rest of the people. Reckon they’re deserting this ash heap for now. How’s a drink sound? The ale is foul, and I don’t touch it, but nothing the right infusions won’t fix up for you…”

The scents of the fire were strong. Malmoc smelled the burnt oak of the tower’s once-strong beams, the pungent oil which had set the flames in motion, the sweat and confusion in the air as men dashed about in the ruins, looking for clues and shouting for their comrades to speculate and to reflect. He sympathised with them. There would be time enough in the coming days for all of that. But he was here to investigate, and the scents ran deeper than the overpowering ones. The sharp odour of blood, just a hint, but a threatening portent all the same. Ash in the air, a different note than the ashes of the building which lay before him. The fire of the ashmounts was different than any fire men made with flint or tinder. It always had the Lord Ruler’s smell to it, he called it, a choking air that seemed to try to snuff out all competing scents and blanket everything in its dull crisp musk. But today it seemed…sharper. Almost more aware. He took a sprig of rosemary from his pouch and crushed it, letting the plant’s fragrance waft up and cleanse his nostrils. He breathed deeply, then took the sprig into his mouth, chewing softly and thoughtfully. Mihtig stirred on his shoulders, got a whiff of the rosemary herself, and launched off, hissing and pacing around him. Stupid cat. Didn’t know what was good for her. But she at least knew scents better than him, so he followed her, watching the mists retreat into the air as the sun dragged her head above the horizon and shoved it through the ashen haze. Mihtig, though, had just walked up to the largest group of townspeople she could find, around Gam’s corpse. Malmoc looked at the man grimly, then, moved by impulse, flung open his bag and plucked out jars, setting them on the cool earth. He began to realise his earlier choice of rosemary had not been an accident, and he went to work, setting sprigs around the fallen man. The townspeople watched him uneasily. Even as the questions formed upon their lips, Malmoc worked. A bit of sage. Thyme. Lavender, and, of course, the earthiness of myrrh. It was soon ground into an aromatic paste, chasing away the smell of ash, the smell of sweat, the smell of death that lay on the crumpled body before him. He inhaled, letting it fill him, and his mind attuned a peaceful rhythm. Yes. This…this is why he came. Still moving by instinct, he went with the salve to anoint the corpse, but the guard had finally gotten over his bafflement. He stepped between Malmoc and Gam. “Look, you old crank. I don’t know what your game is, but there’s a murder that’s gone on. Take your cat and mumbo jumbo somewhere it’ll serve a real purpose.” He kicked at Mihtig, who simply hopped back on Malmoc’s shoulders. Malmoc smiled. This made sense. He couldn’t know, could he? They never did. The hermit instead rubbed the paste directly between the guard’s eyes, and he blinked, then cursed, pushing him back with a kick. But what did Malmoc care? The scents of death had left him. For a time. His work here was all but done. It was time to see what would happen in the town. For a less tangible smell was also in the air that dawn. It was the keen odour of fear.

We did, technically. More than happy to call it a draw (or a loss :p) given the circumstances though.

You were findable, I was just confident enough in my early read that I didn’t look. As Mouse might say… not reevaluating was a mistake :P.

Your exe tilted me in this game more than anything else I won’t even lie >> I took notes on why it was so bad I haven’t taken notes during games for years But anyway

This game is certainly one of the games I have played I probably will lightly o7 from here on out but it’s not actually related to my ridiculously confident Beagle read lol. Probably more on that in the identity revealed thread. Not like my identity is hidden that much though :D. Penguin MVP, was obv vil from D1 <3. But Beagle real MVP, was also obv vil from D1 Completely deserves to win this I had a hard few first cycles and a hard few last cycles but thoroughly enjoyed the middle. Twas a fun game all around.