Melon Dingo

Kel, I much appreciate the meme of me sliding into the hedge Homer-style. The rest were amazing too, but I loved that one. I’ll have to try and make some of my own.

… what do you mean half the dead doc was made while I was the only living Elim

Heh heh. He heh heh heh heh heh! That was fun. Although I’ll admit it’s nice to be free of the voice of Scimon Tlag. Would have made saying “I don’t want PMs” a lot easier and all that. Most of my thoughts either require a bit more brainpower than I have (I was very personally busy today) or my identity (which is probably quite obvious, unless you’re D3 Axolotl, in which case… no, that’s not who I am), so they’ll wait. But I will say I had a lot of fun both being the Last Bastion of RP and the Last Bastion of the Curse of Tyrian Falls, with the reckless abandon that I’ll always cherish. I don’t know how long until I got bored of it. Oh. And I love the idea of Guestbooks - my only worry is there might become ideas of how certain accounts act (ie Dingo being the RP-apathy one), but that’s not something that I’m super worried about in practice. And @Coral Swan! Glad we had some fun together. I actually got to have a character develop in real time, which was fun. A shame Ruin started leaning on him too hard. But seriously, thanks for the fun and RP (and letting the Village Mistborn put their eyes somewhere else). …. rusts, there actually was another Village Mistborn. I was sure that was a bluff. Or Penguin being far too sneaky.

“I’ll also note the Rhino’s vote appears twice,” Scimon Tlag said. “And touché, Mouse. Touché.” ”Well, I have to go. I hope my presence brought some joy into your lives. And if you want anything from my cart… a donation would be nice. To someone. The Jaists would be preferable.” Apathy. A little longer… or perhaps not. ”Praise the Ja!”

Scimon Tlag looked at the faces accusing him. Like he had said, there was little left to say. But as much as his apathy begged otherwise, he couldn’t just go back to his work and pretend the sword wasn’t hanging above his head. ”Azure Mouse. I am sorry. And I’m sorry I can’t say more. But you’re right, I’ve not said enough.” ”Praise the Ja.”

Scimon Tlag nodded. They were right. There wasn't much he could say. He did wonder if Mouse gave them nothing, then what exactly he was going to give, but it wasn't like he had any idea. He had been around more. Then there was the game. He could raise his voice to preserve oneself, but Dyring had the chance to be... persuasive. He didn't doubt he would. So perhaps... not. Then there was the note from Zebra. It wasn't from Quartz. That didn't really interest Tlag. Poor business. Then... that was it. Unless something changed. But Scimon Tlag couldn't change anything. Praise the Ja!

Scimon smiled at Chartreuse. They still seemed... it was strange, he'd thought he'd connect stronger to others. It wasn't connecting to Aethex, but it was something. "Let's just say I made several decisions when several things changed. When Su died, when I... learned there was more to life than selling and buying. Or at least selling and buying material things. I still haven't figured that out. But I think I've figured out that I'm willing to be here and figure it out." His face darkened. "And... the other Mistborn. The Spiked one. That mess... let's just say it brought up a few memories in ways I hadn't liked." He smiled again. "But that's neither here nor there. I don't mean to hide, and I don't want to just sit and be apathy, and I don't want my complications being excuses for what I should be changing," he said. Little emotions. Let it grow. "I don't know if I can change that right now, but it's been too long of saying, so here I am trying." "Perhaps we should make it official, eh? Azure Mouse?" No, that wasn't it. "Maybe not. That's a jump. Maybe I can find something to step it off, but I doubt it. I'm a Dingo, not a parrot. Part of the problem." "Praise the Ja!"

Scimon Tlag had pause. Three choices. Four, technically. But not very many in total. The Mouse, the Axolotl - also known as Dyring - and himself. Well, he didn't have much to say in his own defense. Neither did Mouse. Dyring was well liked by people in town, and that choice disappeared quite quickly. Tlag was a face in town that no one could really recognize. Mouse simply had no face. He could start to act. Drop his face. Pack up the cart, stop trying to treat everything like a business transaction, channel that small piece of him that acted out of generosity. But, that was against the point, was it not? The point he was, unconsiously or not, trying to make. Why he stood out for being the only one to act like there was a village still standing, and not a group of people standing in a circle throwing hatchets until someone told them to stop. Well, he wasn't the only one. Jerrien was there, although he was new. Dyring was there, although he didn't seem to like Tlag much. Quartz was there, but they stood in the circle, occasionally dropping their hand to grab a flask without dropping eye contact. Besides that... there wasn't much. So no, Scimon Tlag would not drop his face. He liked it too much. As for the apathy... it wasn't really his choice anymore, was it? It was an unfortunate day for this to happen, as he'd wanted to try to help. But unfortunate days were all the more common these days, and he couldn't let that get in the way. There are things worse than death, and at some point asking for mercy sounds like asking for pity. So Scimon Tlag would work with the hand he'd been dealt, the hand he'd partially dealt himself. He'd speak against Mouse if he needed to. He don't know if he would, but he had to guess. As for the rest, there were no open questions for him to answer. But Scimon Tlag would stay and he would stay in those open. It had been a long day.

Scimon gave a large grin to the somewhat newcomer. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Jerrien, but I might be able to clear things up a little," he said. "I want to talk here, in the open, day or night but not in whispers where only a few of us can see. I also want to talk with Quartz. They haven't given me their name, so I call them Quartz because most of you do. They were one of the few Jaists in this town, and I want to ask them about the Ja, what they're drinking and where I can get some. They're also a Lurcher, which is why I imagine some individuals have whispers with them, but that's not what I'm looking for. That help a bit?" He cursed silently. In all the chaos he'd forgotten a few times. "Praise the Ja!"

Scimon Tlag shrugged. "I want to talk to Quartz. Not the Zebra. I don't want to get to know the Lurcher, I want to know him. Why he followed Su. Why he continued. Besides, talk out here... it's heard, and has records." "And..." he scratched his head. "I don't know his name. Just the Quartz and the Zebra. He doesn't talk about himself much. Makes initiating conversation a bit awkward."

Scimon Tlag read the surface of the note, then pocketed it unopened. "You assume, Penguin. I don't want to talk in the shadows with notes and whispers. Whispers lead to secrets. I want to talk out here." Quartz had been attacked tonight. He still hadn't found him, or found him enough to really interact. He knew of him, knew his iron, but he didn't know him. Why he drank, why he followed Su, why he of all people managed to continue his life in Tyrian Falls. "Who are you? Are you Aethex, the Jester? Are you Chartreuse, the Leader? Are you Penguin, the Thug? Or perhaps a mix of all three. Well... I am not three. Not anymore."

Scimon Tlag was listening, a bit. But he'd also found something to do - try and mix some of his paints. Well, the paints were mostly food dyes, but upper-class nobles used those as paints on some foods sometimes. Regardless, he was too busy to talk right now. At some point, someone handed him a note. Signed. Well, Scimon Tlag didn't want to trade notes right now. If someone had something to say, he'd be here for them to say it.

"Ah!" Tlag was glad for the chance to fall into his former, more boisterous self. "The name's Scimon Tlag. Travelling Merchant, among other things. Sales have been a bit light, considering... well, you know. Sabotage. Still have a few bluemelons left. And you?" Then he asked the question. Who is Jaw. "It's 'the Ja'. And he's..." Tlag paused. A moment. Another. "I don't really know." How could he explain? He had an idea of the man who Su had worshipped, his charisma, his teaching, but who was he? Who was he now? Did he guide the voices of those fallen though that not-death, guide them to their loved ones before their final goodbye to the Beyond? Did he guide Tlag, despite the grief, despite the pressure, despite the apathy? He didn't know. But suddenly he had a better idea. "The Ja was a man who lived a long time ago, and taught... that you don't have to be afraid to say what you believe. No matter what other people think, or say, or do to you. He was killed for it. Many of his followers were killed by the Inquisition. But they continued to believe, that the Ja would watch over them and guide their lives if they lived, their souls if they died. So they kept preaching, and they kept dying, and they kept up hope, because they knew that whatever happened to them they'd end up in a better place one day, and no one could take that from them. And after the Lord Ruler fell, the Inquisition all but vanished, and they spread... well, someone here was a more fervent believer in the Ja. Su. And he was a Mistborn, and I always figured that those tended to worship themselves, so he must have found something right. But he's gone now. And I took up the message, I guess," he finished. No bolt of lightning came to smite him for his heresy, so he continued. "What the Ja is, I don't know. But he gave Su strength. I'm hoping he gives me strength. To say what you believe. Even if that sometimes means saying nothing at all." He paused to walk away, then stopped. "Also they say 'Praise the Ja'. A lot. At least as their goodbye, sometimes with each sentence. I haven't quite got that far yet. Could I ask your name? Praise the Ja."

Scimon Tlag nodded. So Tyrian Falls had lost the trail. Recoverable. But... unfortunate. Tlag clenched his jaw, trying to keep the other emotions from bubbling over. The Rhino suddenly came a bit more alive. Hard to put that into words, but it was always hard to put that into words. "Hello, Rhino. Nice to meet you. I think the Penguin's the only one universally trusted - Su checked them with bronze, and Kellehrt carried that message. Both of those are dead, but we know... we know they were both innocent and capable. Others... well, I'm not the one to ask," he trailed off. Su. It had been a while. Maybe it was time to make a new impression. He smiled. "Praise the Ja!"

Scimon Tlag's headache was getting better. That was good. But the saboteurs had killed Kellehrt. Tlag didn't find himself mourning as much as the deaths of Su or Riggs, as even Kellert himself seemed to expect to die last night. But he wished they could have spoken more. He'd been a good leader, even if one that Tlag hadn't followed. Maybe Kel was still around. But something about the broken smith's eyes told Tlag that he'd go quickly away from the Falls to find out what was on the other side. Anyway, the last bullettin to arrive was from Kel. And it accused the Heron, Tivend Elons, of being one of the saboteurs. An accusation that even Elons gave the barest of resistance to. It made some sense, and Kel's words were trusted. But Scimon Tlag still remained, no voice coming to his lips. Apathy. That's what Kellehrt had said. It seemed in his absence Aethex had decided to agree. Tlag still wasn't sure that what he felt within was apathy. He'd taken a class in painting, once. Had dreamed of becoming a travelling artist, scribing books, painting pictures, singing songs. That dream had fled long ago into the mists, but the barest bones of the lessons had stayed. Colors was the first lesson. Finding them, mixing them, using them, admiring them. But the lesson he thought of now was this: If you take all the colors on the wheel, and mix them together, you get black. Not a true black, but one that worked often better than blacks from basic charcoal. One that couldn't be distinguished from the "real" black. One that functioned just the same. Perhaps emotions were similar. Different emotions combined in different ways, but tangle too many together, force them into too small of outlets, compress them, fuse them... apathy was the result. Not a true apathy, but one that couldn't be distinguished. Not even by a Tineye. Tlag wasn't sure what it is he felt. He had his secrets, his motives, his dark places, but before coming to Tyrian Falls he could count on one hand the number of lives he was even indirectly responsible for ending, and now everyone in town was set out to hang a Heron. Too many desires. Too many feelings. Too many colors. And in the end... Heron would die just the same. Perhaps that was what true apathy always was. What true blackness of the soul. No, his voice would not join this call for Heron. Scorpion. The old hazekiller. The first voice to call for Heron's death. Trusted from such calls in the past. It wasn't a real lead. Rusts, it wasn't even a real suspicion. But he'd look. Scimon Tlag would look, because no one else seemed to, because it was at least somewhere else. Maybe he could finally have a chat with Quartz after this. Or Aethex. Who really knew. Maybe the Ja. He might know. Praise the Ja.

Scimon Tlag yawned. He was getting over his minor hangover, thankfully, but still a bit exhausted. He could make himself a bit more presentable though. A Coinshot. Well, they knew there was one around town. One deciding to be a saboteur... now that was interesting. But the others had already gone through a lot of reasons why it was possible. Feels like saboteurs would try their best to get one of those all the time, but that wasn't really under their control. Even in Tyrian Falls. Tlag shook himself. Okay. Presentable. He still couldn't find Quartz. Or at least get a chance to talk to them, learn a real name. But they were a bit more accessible now, now that the town had been cut down to size. A morbid way of thinking about it. But a way decently close to what Tlag knew. What else was there? Kellert. Finding a suspect. Tlag liked that style, but it was still difficult. There was a lot to go through. Votes, clues, decisions, momentary voices, some of which meant something. Tlag had read through some of the court transcripts. It was like reading a shipping contract: it had depth, and weight, and moments that made you smile in victory or just plain joy, but also nothings to sort through and... sour spots. Although perhaps a court proceeding's sour spots escaped the analogy. The recent ones, then. Again, a lot had been gone through by the others. If he had to put a note down... the Scorpion. Not so much suspicion, but the fact that not many eyes were on that one. Scimon Tlag, he knew he wasn't the most helpful around. He had a business to maintain, and he didn't have the same attitude about togetherness that Kellert or Dyring had. He could understand it, of course. But Scorpion he had trouble understanding their trust. Maybe he needed to look earlier. Maybe not. But it would do for now. Did he want to kill Scorpion... Scimon Tlag paused a moment. Then shook his head. No, that train of thought could wait until morning. A day without foilleaf should help, a bit. That was a strange plant. What... ah. The Penguin. Strange name, but met a strange fellow. A Jester? That... really didn't explain much. But they were trusted by the circle, and the circle wasn't much of a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a circle anymore as much as a Stop. Scimon Tlag blinked. What... ah. The Penguin. Strange name, but met a strange fellow. A Jester? That... really didn't explain much. But they were trusted by the circle, and the circle wasn't much of a circle anymore as much as a... a broken circle. Tlag scratched his head, but a better analogy was evading him. Regardless, the Coinshot Saboteur had been a part of it, so they were spreading information faster than a cavalry charge. Penguin was alright. It seemed they had some questions for Scimon Tlag too. Well... maybe he could help answer them. It was a bit too late tonight, but the Penguin would be here tomorrow unless something was terribly wrong. He could have voted, it was true... rusts, those first few days were so long ago. The more recent ones it wouldn't have made a difference. He should probably tell them all that. Then he looked down and saw the pen and paper in his hands. Had he been writing the whole time? Erh. Whatever. 'If you need to buy, or need to ask... hours aren't on the wall because they're inconsistent, but come to Scimon Tlag's and I'll see what I can do.' 'Praise the Ja.'

Scimon Tlag rubbed his head. He'd wanted to do something. Erh. Maybe he'd put something in that tea after all. He had wanted to help. That was it. Well, that didn't seem like it was happening. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow. The day that never came. Tlag hadn't found a way to sell more time yet. "Praaaise the Ja,"

No drink, then. That was fine. Dyring was right; he hadn't done anything, and that didn't look like it would change. But Scimon Tlag still felt a twinge of sadness hearing the brief toast from the inn, the joy at finding another saboteur. Both emotions soon faded; the inn to its meloncholy for the general dead, and Tlag to his... he didn't know what it was. Apathy. Kellehrt had said that. It fit him decently. Tlag walked a block or two over, then took out a small flask. Foilleaf tea wasn't alcohol, but it did help calm his nerves. It usually sold well. Buying the recipe of that Terriswoman had cost an arm and a leg, but it had paid off quickly. Sharpened the brain, she'd said. It certainly seemed to. Tlag figured it was at least mildly addictive, but what wasn't. He took a few sips. At some point Kellehrt stumbled out of the Inn, sitting down on the porch, staring into the dark at something only he could see. Tlag didn't meet his gaze. He was one of the ones who didn't seem... didn't seem... erh. He took another sip. Didn't seem so gone. Or so gone from the events of the past few days. Whatever had broken that one had happened before the news of the koloss had come. Before Riggs had died, before mayors were attacked in the dead of night. Kellehrt went off. But not before Tlag heard him call his name, a name. For him, for others, those who hadn't been around enough to celebrate in the victory feast. And for the Coinshot. Did Tyrian Falls have any need for Scimon Tlag? They hadn't wanted to buy from his shop. Everyone who'd seemed vaguely connected to him had died. They'd be really gone by now, except maybe Su. Who knew what a full Mistborn was capable of. Who knew what the Ja was capable of. Tlag sure didn't. He took another stuff. Erh. He should have added a little pep to it. Tlag knew a few of those names. Hadn't met any of them, so not much he could say there. Tlag hadn't advocated for the death of anyone who hadn't wanted to die themselves. He didn't see a point of changing that tonight. Tomorrow... Tomorrow is another day. Perhaps then you'll have something to say. Scimon Tlag paused, then downed the last of his foilleaf. It helped, a little. But he needed more than a mild stimulant to decipher that. He needed to get his mind off things. It was putting off a problem that was getting increasingly close, but Tlag couldn't deal with it right now. If Tyrian Falls needed him tomorrow, then maybe he could be there. If it was his last chance... well, perhaps Su would be there to talk to. And he needed to find a drunken Quartz. "Praise the Ja."

Su was dead. Scimon Tlag found himself standing at his cart, but nothing was on the table this time. He just stared. There was talk of his death, of course. What a shame it was that the Mistborn of Tyrian Falls had fallen. But it was always that - that their Mistborn was dead. Not their Su. All Su’s death meant was that their nights were quieter. They weren’t exactly in mourning. Su was dead. Tlag mourned, though, in his own way. Nothing to sell. Just stood and watched the increasingly rare passers-by. Giving a “Praise the Ja” to each one. He still didn’t really know what to make of that, but he hoped that if Su was watching, it would make him happy. And if the Ja was watching, maybe it would make them happy too. Su was dead. Eventually his thoughts turned to Riggs. The first one to die. Nobody said his name in mourning anymore. Tlag found himself barely remembering it. That had to change. Su was dead. He stepped forward, forward, and went to Dyring’s Inn. Su was dead. ”Hello, Dyring,” he said, finding a stool and giving only a brief glance to the other patrons. “I need a drink. And to find the other of Su’s friends. The drunker one. Quartz, or whatever he calls himself.” Su was dead. ”Praise the Ja.”

Scimon Tlag's ears popped up. Did someone say "marketing"? He shrugged. He didn't have much to do the rest of the day. He'd turned in one ballot for Charcoal Hyena, had figured he might as well. But maybe it was time to branch out his sales. If that didn't work, well, he had a few other ideas. Praise the Ja!

Scimon Tlag didn't set up his cart today. It was strange. Three days ago, someone was found dead, and the village was thrown into bloody chaos. Today, someone was found alive, and the village was thrown into the same state. For good reasons, considering the living one claimed to be a murderer, but it was strange. He'd been right, last night. This town wanted these saboteurs gone, and it didn't seem to care how many corpses piled up in the process. That bothered Tlag more today than it did most days. It still didn't bother him much. Still, as he wandered around town, the town was empty. Everyone was at the meeting house, either arguing or saying their piece on the floor or whispering in one of those not-so-secret rooms. Tlag had never really enjoyed that business. Merchants of death could make good money, but Tlag hadn't seen the appeal of killing someone when you could get their money. And messing with words in dark corners led to merchants of death with unnerving accuracy. He knew that far too well. Scimon Tlag figured he should show up to that meeting, at some point. He'd already gotten a few hushed invitations; they'd be more forceful soon enough. But for now, he did want to hold out some hope that the town would try and act with a bit more normalcy. Buy some things. Sure, the dying would continue, in dark alleys and dark councils. But people could walk the streets, look at melon carts, and try and make life a little better. Pretend the town wouldn't be overrun for a little while. Pretend the crops wouldn't die out for a little while. Pretend the world wouldn't end for a little while. Or maybe the point was that if life was so close to ending, then why live it so long pretending? Tlag paused. That was a different way of thinking about it. One he was a bit surprised he'd thought of. It was a little ironic, considering the current state of the town. But it was a good one. He smiled. Maybe he'd go to the meeting after all. Or maybe not. He could wait a little longer. Praise the Ja!

"Praise the Ja!" Su's voice rang across the town. A half-hearted and yet heartfelt reply from one of the more recognizable drunks followed, along with a more emphatic statement from the rest of the town who was already on edge. Scimon Tlag was listening, though. He'd been their all day, most of the night, maintaining his little melon cart. Well, maintaining the cart had proved easy. The beautiful, colorful, carefully arranged display of melons lay untouched on the planks, and the jugs of tea were just as heavy being stored for the night as they had been in the morning. The village would rather feast on cheap beer and blood. They'd found one of the saboteurs. The Spiked, that's what they'd been called. They were dead now. That was good, Tlag supposed. The chaos of the first two days had been a boom for popularity, if a bit badly capitalized on, but it couldn't last that way. This wasn't a stable town. Lord Ruler, this wasn't even a stable planet. The mists, ash and koloss were seeing to that. Maybe the Empire would be saved, but this town would be overrun by those blue-skinned behemoths. Either the occupants would escape to deal with the dying lands, or the saboteurs would rip them apart from the inside. But Tlag didn't feel like sticking around for either of those eventualities. Being filled with coins, cut down by farming tools, or squashed by a koloss blade were... bad for business. Trying to escape was a similarly poor idea. What did that leave? The usual plan was to play both sides, then get out before they all figured it out. Well, they'd already made sides, and waiting to the last minute led to a koloss's gullet. So Scimon Tlag had, for the fourth time in his life, absolutely no idea what to do. Su had an idea, though. Maybe Tlag could find one. "Praise the Ja," he said. He didn't shout it to the mists for the world to hear, but he didn't make it a whisper for Su, either. This wasn't just about making a sale anymore. He wanted to say it, and he wanted to be heard. The moment passed. Not entirely; the seed of possibility was still there. But there was also the issue of his food cart - it was covered, but left alone too long and the ash would get on the open slices. He carefully placed the halves on top of each other, then bound them with a few strips of fabric to keep them together. They all fit in his cart a bit too nicely for his tastes. He paused, then looked at Su. He wasn't even wearing shoes. He was standing on a box, just now finishing a speech the world seemed to hate. And he was smiling. Scimon Tlag usually had a rule about using his own merchandise, but maybe he could let it slide. He took out one of his nicer-looking coralmelons, walked over to Su, and set down one half on the box. "Thanks," he said. "Praise the Ja." He unwrapped the second half of the melon and started walking away through the ash.

The Tineye Proof part is breaking my brain a bit, but the rest makes sense. Well, not that much sense, but enough sense. Meerkat. Melons, anyone?

Scimon Tlag was very confused. The village of Tyrian Falls had thought they'd found one of the sabatours, the ones who used Spikes. But now it was claimed to be a plot. Once again, the world was coming apart in the chaos. Which meant it was time to start selling some of the weirder items. "Anyone care for any refreshment? Check out Dyring's Inn for more traditional wares, but I have a few more exotic items!" Tlag had quickly set up what amounted to a food cart, although the portability was a bit obvious. Across the top were a variety of jugs with various teas, a set of thin clay cups, and a tray of sugar cubes. Along the side was also a large tray with various fruits; some citrus, some slightly withered apples, but the centerpiece was a magnificent display of melons. Melons were rare in the Empire, as their insides were one of the few sources of color in the ashen plants. Together they made a display of vibrant reds, greens, oranges, and blues. "Watermelon! If you're hungry and thirsty at the same time, it's the food for you. Try not need to eat the seeds! Honeydew! You'll love its sweet nectar. Berrydew! It's honey, but blue! Don't ask where I got them. Long story." Now, to wait. A summary would be helpful because both this game and my life suddenly got a lot more complicated.

Hi everyone. I'd love to sell some history facts, but I believe certain individuals have more lucrative things to trade. What about this is a gambit? Either Salmon Meerkat has confessed / given up, or either a Tineye or a Seeker is lying. I'm not one to try and sell this as a gambit. I can deal with this more tomorrow.