Wyrmhero

Because Aon is not a name particularly indicative of genders and I am a forgetful person >>.

Night 7: A Graphic Novel Billy sat down on a chair in the study and opened the book. It was ancient and had clearly seen better days, but that just made it all the more valuable. It was bound in leather and the titling on the front, though it could not be read, was engraved in metal. Once, it had probably been an incredibly important book for someone, judging from the wear from repeated use. But since then, it had just been gathering dust. He wiped the thin layer from the top, shivering a little at the touch of the covers. It felt wrong, for some reason. “What are you reading?” Aon asked, looking over at him. “A book,” Billy shrugged. “That book looks a bit familiar,” Aon said. “It was in the library, wasn't it?” “Where else would a book be?” “I looked back later and it'd gone missing,” Aon continued to muse, ignoring the response. “It was a bit odd, I thought to myself, because none of the others had up and left. Very suspicious.” “It's not suspicious, I took it,” Billy said. “It's interesting.” “Oh?” Aon peered over the top of the book. “I didn't think you would be able to read it.” “Well, I can,” Billy said with a huff. “Ish. It's slow, 'cause I have to keep looking back and seeing what is meant by things.” “So what is it then?” Aon asked. “What does it say?” “It's a book on Hemalurgy,” Billy said. “And what's Hemalurgy?” Aon asked, a little exasperated. “What does it mean, what does it do?” Billy shrugged. “Hema- means blood,” Aon muttered to herself. Some kind of method that used blood to Awaken things? Though to be honest, she'd expect anything at this stage. The objects they had found in the House had entirely thrown their understanding of the world off kilter, and this was just another example of that. She leaned over a little more, looking at the diagram on the page. What she saw was a rather surprisingly bloody image sketched on the paper, the artist painstakingly making the scene as graphic as possible with a simple pencil. She took a step back, shaken, and went to discuss it with the others. The next time they approached Billy, they had rope in hand. Billy/Darkness Ascendant was a Hemalurgist with a Book of Hemalurgy! The Book Bound in Human Skin Omen has been vanquished! Billy/Darkness Ascendant (5): Shara (Nyali), Khaos (little wilson), Arinian (Arinian), Sheon Idris (Seonid), Kresla (Elbereth) Bugsy/Bugsy6912 (1): Aralis (Araris Valerian) Nathan/Nathanvanduij (1): Bugsy (Bugsy6912) Locke/OrlokTsubodai (1): The Guy in the Red Uniform (Ecthelion III) Aon Deag/Aonar Faileas (1): Billy (Darkness Ascendant) Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch

The Day is over! Writeup coming soon.

Day 7: Forgotten Words The silence that descended upon the House and its inhabitants was a watchful one; a wary one. They had won a small victory, earlier that day: they had overcome the treacherous, backstabbing Professor and killed him, even if they’d done more chasing than actual killing. But what the day owed the night was, all in all, very little, and as nightfall shrouded the House in stygian darkness and silence, the rag-tag band of explorers once again split up to see what they could uncover. His hat pulled low, the shortsword at his side canted for a quick draw, Exion stalked warily through the recesses of the House. He wished for a bit of chalk—for a way to mark the unending maze of corridors. If he was a gambling man (which he was, of course; merely no kingsman, he), Exion would’ve bet that he’d come down this way before: that the House itself warped passageways and rooms to suit its own internal logic. Whatever that was. Would make a good story, though, Exion reflected, as he walked on. The sort you told people over cards or dice, after they’d bought you a beer, maybe put coin in your pocket, while they were at it. Of course, that was if he walked out of this, but Exion was fairly certain he’d walk out of this. He’d been in many a hairy scrape over his life, and it was going to take more than this blasted House to do for Exion, as it were. He drew up short, all of a sudden, shortsword flashing out of the scabbard, as a face loomed up all of a sudden through the murk. In the flare of light from his match, Aralis grunted, clearly displeased. “Put that thing away before you kill someone with it, boy,” the old man muttered, as the matchlight guttered and went out completely. In a smooth motion, Exion sheathed his shortsword. His heart was still hammering in his chest – he wasn’t scared, for certain, but Aralis had startled him, and his reflexes were still on edge. Having all sorts of people try to kill him—even that one time where the undead (sorry, Returned) ambushed them in the north—had given him hair-trigger reflexes. Useful in a fix, really. “What’re you doing?” Exion wanted to know. “Searching,” the old man said, with an emphatic clack of his walking stick. “What are you doing?” “Searching, of course,” Exion said, tipping his wide-brimmed hat. “What else is there to do, in this place?” “Finding a good rocking chair,” Aralis said. Exion just stared at him. “Haven’t found a proper, comfortable rocking chair in this place, you know that?” Aralis continued. “I did find an armchair once, but I haven’t found it again. Really, what you need is a good place to sit down for a moment and close your eyes, and a rocking chair’s just the thing.” Exion nodded, as if he understood, because really, he had other things to do than to talk to the old man about rocking chairs, although wouldn’t you know it, he had a good story, once, to do with a haunted rocking chair, but Aralis didn’t look the sort to want to hear it. “Be careful,” Aralis said, as they parted ways. “Hmm?” Exion asked, an eyebrow raised. “Ran into C. L. Anky a while back,” Aralis said. “Now, I haven’t seen him around recently, but he did claim to have seen Lifeless around. Something to do with that darned Professor and his mischief. The young people these days…” he clucked disapprovingly. “You don’t think there are Lifeless?” “Haven’t seen any sign of them,” Aralis said. “Just like I haven’t seen any sign of magical pink unicorns or blue-and-purple polka-dotted fairy dragons in here. Don’t think they exist. Dangerous things happen in the dark, though. You’d best watch out for yourself.” Exion shrugged. “Thanks for the warning,” he said. “I’m no kingsman, but I’m pretty good at taking care of myself.” He wandered off, into the labyrinth. Silence crept upon the House with the night. But those with the ears to listen soon discovered that the House was not silent. Far from it: it had its own voice, whispers from the sound of boards creaking, hot water pipes dripping—one had spouted a leak somewhere—and then, very distantly, in the faintest of murmurs—a heartbeat. The shade of Sheon Idris moved through the gloaming. That woman had fared pretty well, he thought to himself, even without his help. Still, he was brought back to the predicament at hand: getting out of this House. He had a sense it was not as simple as finding an exit: indeed, he could not quite perceive an exit in his…current existential state. And really, Sheon thought, if leaving was as simple as that, no doubt the others would have already left. He felt—he would admit this—a benign sense of collective responsibility. After all, he and the others were all trying to escape the House, in their respective ways. And if he could help them out—however insubstantially—whyever not? “Well, that’s pretty amazing!” a voice exclaimed. In fact, as far as Sheon Idris was concerned, it was a fairly familiar voice. There was a man, Sheon Idris remembered—the tour guide, the one who had brought the others into the House. He was here, now, and that was the startling thing: a satchel slung over a shoulder, and carrying what appeared to be a long, thick knife, strapped on. And he was not difficult to make out at all: did that mean he was not part of the Physical Realm? Kasther was inspecting some feature of the House that was not apparent to Sheon. As Sheon approached him, he glanced about sharply, and then relaxed. “Ah, it’s you,” he said, his gaze focusing on Sheon. “Were you haunting the House all along?” “I remember many things,” Sheon admitted. “But not this.” “Well, so we’ll chalk it down to a ‘maybe’, then,” Kasther muttered. He turned back to studying whatever it was. “What are you doing?” Sheon asked, curious. “Examining the keystone—what are you doing?” Sheon said, “Trying to find a way out.” Kasther’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “Oh, you should’ve said before! That’s easy. The House plays all sorts of tricks on space. Maybe even time. But if you’re listening right, you can hear it.” “Hear what?” “The heartbeat,” Kasther said, as if it was blatantly obvious. “It’s not just Awakened—it’s very old, a strange use of BioChroma I never really managed to figure out, but extremely fascinating. How else do you kill a beast, ghost?” “You stab it in the heart,” Sheon said, before a thought occurred to him. “Aren’t you as dead as I am?” Kasther’s form wavered; Sheon was not sure if it had been a delusion, or something else, entirely. Things worked strangely here, separate from the Physical Realm. He was saying something, Sheon just wasn’t sure what it was. “—just lost,” was the only thing he could make out, as Kasther flickered and almost seemed to dissolve entirely. He’d a piece of information though. A useful one. Find the heart. Stab it. Listen for the heartbeat. In the silence, the shade of Sheon Idris began to listen. First, he heard the whispers from the sound of boards creaking, hot water pipes dripping. And then, as a soft undercurrent beneath the ambient noise, he heard it then. A heartbeat, as faint as the soft sound of a bird’s wings. A faint glimmer of light, in the darkness: like a firefly. “Be careful,” said a voice. Frost glanced over at her: a small, luminous figure, sketched in light, and smiled. “Of course, Snow,” he murmured. “I always am.” He’d never quite understood what she was, but Snow had claimed she was something called a ‘spren’, and for want of a better word, Frost had simply accepted that. Certainly, if she was a spirit, Frost had decided she seemed…benign. There was a sense of oppressive malice about the House. It had only grown stronger: chairs in awkward places, almost as if the House meant to trip them up and fall down flights of stairs and break their necks; sudden splinters in doorframes or on tables, candles guttering when they shouldn’t have, and passageways constantly shifting. At first, it had merely set everyone on edge—but then the corpses had started appearing, and what did you do about that? They’d found the Professor, of course, but Frost had a grim, forboding sense about things: he didn’t for a second believe the Professor acted alone, which meant they had to do something about this. “I know,” Snow said, “But I mean careful careful.” She looked about, distrustfully. “I never really told you how bad it was before I found you.” He’d uncorked that dun glass bottle, and then there she was, spilling out, insubstantial as a breeze. “You never mentioned it,” he agreed. He patted at his jacket, making sure the vials of metals were intact. He’d made a promise, after all, and one he intended to keep: he would have to find the recepient and quietly hand the vial in question over. He pulled it out of his pocket and inspected it again, in Snow’s light: shook it, watched the metal flakes settle slowly at the bottom. What was in there, anyway? Alcohol? And who willingly swallowed metal, anyway? “I don’t remember.” Snow tugged at her hair, a gesture both frustrated and petulant. “What if—” Her voice cut short, and then she screamed, urgent and panicked. “Look out!” It was only because of her warning that Frost danced aside, the knife thrust stabbing through the air where he had been. He fumbled for anything he could use, but of course, he hadn’t found a knife, hadn’t found anything at all, except—the vials! They would do, in a pinch. Frost narrowed his eyes as his attacker revealed themselves. “You,” he snarled, hefting a vial. He smashed it at the killer, a strong underarm toss meant to buy time, and threw himself at the figure, gambling on being able to wrestle the knife away. It was a surer bet than stumbling blindly in the darkness, anyway. He clubbed them with the iron vial; they yelped in pain but the knife sawed at the meat of his forearm and he fought through the pain, hitting them with the vial again and again, trying to force them to relenquish the knife. “The Words!” Snow shouted. “Frost, you have to say the Words!” “I don’t know them!” Frost yelled back, but it wasn’t true. They were there, just barely there in his mind, insubstantial, and he didn’t know what they were, didn’t have the time to tease them loose. With a crunch of broken cartilage and glass, he hit the attacker in the nose, breaking both their nose and the vial. And finally, he wrested control of the knife, snatching it away. He pointed it at them, breathing heavily. “Don’t move,” Frost said, coldly. “Another move, and I’ll—” In a blur of movement, they swept his legs from under him, and Frost stumbled forward, and of all the things, he couldn’t keep hold of the colours-cursed knife, and then— “The Words!” Snow shrieked, over the hammering of his heart, the dawning fear as the knife descended. “Snow!” Frost called out. It was not the Words, whatever those were, but they were his dying words. Frost was a Surgebinder wtih a Vial of Iron and a Brass-Lerasium Bead! The Heart of the House has been discovered! My thanks to Kas for writing this, all upvotes directed to him, as I was busy. Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch

Indeed, we cannot confirm or deny the existence of any Item. I would also like to remind DA that copying and pasting any such description would indeed break the rules. I will also take this opportunity to state that players cannot Explore and find an Item or obtain an Inherent Ability which can kill the House before a Traitor has been killed.

Night 6: Words Written in Blood One of the last scions of the Heron bloodline gave a sigh. The blood was barely washed off his hands and he had already walked into this accusation. How could he have been so careless as to be seen? He could have sworn he was not being followed, and yet... But still, it no longer mattered. The past could not be changed, and though he had been dealt a bad hand, he would have to play it to the best of his ability. Sow dissension and chaos, that had been the idea. Perhaps he could still do so even now. But no, they were all united with one voice. A voice that shouted at him, an angry chorus of vengeance directed squarely and solely at him. The professor stumbled back a little from this vitriol. "Yes," he muttered, a mumble that somehow managed to cut across the noise and silence everyone immediately. "I did it." And then he was gone. He flew out of the room like a man possessed, stumbling almost blindly through. He slipped on the cobblestones, but picked himself back up quickly. He knew he was being pursued, but didn't dare look back in case he slowed down. Someone caught up to him and tackled him. They both collided into an old wooden stand, which supported an exquisite painted vase, The wood shattered and splintered under their combined weight, and Alberd fell on it. The vase fell and smashed into his back, shards digging in through his shirt. With strength granted from adrenaline, he hauled himself up, pushing his assaulter off him and stumbling off, shedding blood onto the pristine floor as he went. His hand fumbled at the wall, finding a hidden switch. He put some of the last of his strength into it, and pressed it. The wall slide aside and he half-walked, half-fell through into the Servants' Corridor. The wall closed behind him with a loud bang, dust centuries old dislodged from the top. He would have some time now, they would have to find another way through into here. But he knew it was pointless. They knew, and he was too badly hurt. If he stopped moving, he'd never move again. With a grunt of effort and gritting his teeth against the pain, Alberd pushed onwards. He put a hand against the wall to steady himself and it slipped; his palm was slick with blood, and now there was a red handprint smeared where his hand had moved. But he kept going, he had to get to his sanctum. The door was locked, and it took him several tries to get the words right for it to swing open. The door was made of wood and was Awakened, and only he knew the right words to enter it. He half walked, half fell in, and dragged himself along the floor in a crawl to the centre of the room. He looked up at his creations in their alcoves, his four puppets. Years he had spent pouring over the words and writings left by the Five. These four were his legacy, the fruit of his labours. They were perfect. "Honour," he muttered, as loudly as he could, looking over to the corpse of Huxton that he had made whole again. Then he turned to Stick. "Fid-" he coughed a hacking cough, blood spewing on to the floor before him. So that was why his chest was aching. The splinters must have pierced his lungs. "Fidelity," he said again, this time clearer. "Integrity..." he said, looking at Moro. Then, finally, he came to his newest acquisition, Quintus. "...Vengeance." The Heron motto, one that had been passed down through their line even when there was no-one to pass it on. It was how they had earned their place in the world, by carving it out in blood and war and ruthlessness. It was as natural to know it as breathing to them, an integral part of their core, imprinted on their non-physical aspects in a way that none of them truly understood. "Protect... the House," he said, wheezing with each breath. "Defend the Heart from our enemies..." He clenched his fist, trying to will some strength back into his body for his dying words. "Honour, fidelity, integrity..." his eyes felt heavy, and started to close. " Vengeance..." At the closing of the command, the four Lifeless each stood from their alcove and walked in perfect synchronicity to the doorway. Exiting the laboratory, they split up, two going left, two going right. When the Explorers finally found the room, they found Professor Alberd lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. There was no sign of the Lifeless. Professor Alberd Hae/Haelbarde (10): Frost (Doctor12), Shara (Nyali), Aralis (Araris Valerian), Bugsy (Bugsy6912), Aon Deag (Aonar Faileas), Professor Alberd Hae (Haelbarde), Sheon Idris (Seonid), Juq (JUQ), Mark IV (Mark IV) Professor Alberd Hae (Haelbarde) was a Lifeless Commander with an [Ancient] Fabrial! The Words Written in Blood Omen has been vanquished from the House! Thank you all for your kind words regarding my writeups, it is good to know they are enjoyed :). Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch

Sorry, cycle was over 13 minutes ago! Let's see what you could have won...

Thanks for bringing this to my attention. I can confirm that the votes on Day 1 should not have looked strange. It looks like I miscounted.

I'm going to throw my hat in the ring here just a little. I thought about writing some stuff about player demographics and designing games for a wide, varied audience, nicked from MTG, but I have decided not to. This is ground that is constantly being retrod. There are just two things we need to keep in mind here: Firstly, people play SE for different reasons, and secondly, other players are also people. It is possible to please everyone if we foster a sociable and friendly community, while also ensuring that the games we play are designed to allow people to use their skills to the fullest. Randomness and rules issues are what will annoy the 'Spike' demographic more than anything (and I say that as a GM running a game with randomness and hidden rules, though in my defence I did ask that people were fine with it before signing up). As long as you are playing the game to the best of your abilities and not working actively against your own team, then that's all I think we should ask for. We can't do this with rules; we need to do this through a community effort to encourage it. Splash upvotes around for roleplaying as well as analysis, for example, no matter how large or small. This leads me on quite nicely to what I really want to talk about which Meta briefly mentioned: The experience as a GM. Now, I love being a GM for you guys. I probably enjoy it more than being a player, as a matter of fact, and even after running so many I still have loads of games I am waiting to run (speaking of, I need to get back on the LG GMing list :P). There are many reasons I enjoy it - It lets me create a unique setting, allows me to do some writing, allows me to experiment with some different styles... But chiefly, there is nothing I enjoy more as a GM than seeing the players having fun with something I created. That is the biggest draw to me by far (if you're curious, my least favourite thing is coming up with titles for Turns >>). However. GMing is very difficult work. You need to create the game, you need to balance it, you need to set it up, and there is a lot of ongoing work that goes into the game too. I am rather grateful for Kas's aid on my current game, because rollover will take anywhere between one-and-a-half to two hours, with the writeup and PMing and so on. There's a lot of stuff that goes on behind the scenes which players may be intellectually aware of but not quite understand how lengthy it is. That amount of time will obviously differ depending on GM, game and how much they like doing writeups. But the possibility is there for it. Back in LG7, when I first GMed, rollover took a staggering 3 hours! Role madness takes forever. Some longer-term players who have been in several of my games will have noticed something though, which is that my writeups have become a lot shorter lately. Some of that, such as in my Shardship game, was experimenting with different writing styles and so on. The rest of it though is that writing takes a very long time, and I very rarely receive any sort of thanks for it. I don't write for my own sake, though I do enjoy it, and I do want to practice with a view to improving my ability to write, At the end of the game, of course, there are the usual posts thanking me for running the game, but that is often it. As an example, take LG28. I have so far written about 14 writeups, roughly speaking. I have had someone comment on them three times, I think. I'm not saying that I want people to stroke my ego, but I would like to know that they are appreciated. I want to know what you guys enjoy about them, and what you don't enjoy. I want feedback on it, and even if it's just a thank you or 'Great writeup Wyrm!', at least I know you've read it and I'm not just spending my time writing something no-one reads. The upvote system goes some way to fulfilling this, but doesn't exactly tell me much. I received 6 upvotes for Night 5's writeup, for example, from around 25 players still alive. What does that mean? Did 20 players not like it? Did only 6 players maximum read it? Am I spending an hour plus on something only 20% of my players actually like? I'm not fishing for upvotes here, but asking that a few people take the time to give some feedback once in a while. They are fluff, and unimportant to the game, but I spent time on it, and would like to feel it's not wasted. The same goes for players and RP, for that matter. The only way we will get more RP on the forum is if people respond positively to it, rather than not at all as it is at the moment. I am often guilty of this too. Wading back in to some stuff that has already been said, the issue of inactivity is also a problem from a GM point of view. Much much more than it is for players. I personally cannot understand why anyone would sign up for a game they don't intend to or cannot play. It also is rather aggravating when you have spent literally hours and hours balancing your game as much as you can, for a Coinshot or an Eliminator to never show up and throw everything out of whack. I am at this point considering creating my own personal banlist containing players I won't give important Roles to or make Eliminators. And I don't want to do that, because that makes things more predictable. I try to encourage that through cool and fun gameplay, but if LG28 is anything to go by... It is something that makes me question why I make these interesting games if the players don't bother. That is perhaps rather negative and defeatist, but it is a thought in my head at times. Now don't get me wrong. I enjoy being a GM, and I am certainly not going to stop any time soon. I like seeing the players run around in the game I have made and making use of all the things I have developed for them. I like doing writeups, and I like creating games. But I do feel that as GMs, we are taken a tad for granted. We are thanked, but it usually doesn't go much further than that. I would dearly love some thought-out feedback for any aspect of the games, as it's only through that I can improve as a GM. I think this is also valid for the players too; take a moment to upvote someone who has done RP, and let them know that you appreciate them taking the time to write it. Give them feedback to improve, if they want it. Critique them if they want it, but don't criticise them out of nowhere. I think a bit of positive community interaction would go a long way to making people feel more welcome here. TLDR: Put the effort in and read the above, or you're exacerbating one of the problems as I see it.

Apologies, I put the wrong person's death in the writeup. It was Quintus (Jondesu) who was killed, not Juq. All other details are correct. Edit: To clarify, none of Juq's information was posted previously. I simply wrote the wrong name once, and then kept referring to that player later on.

Day 6: The Portrait of Lord Heron "Now who is this?" Bugsy asked, as he put both hands on either side of the portrait and gingerly pulled it down from the wall to have a closer look. "Lord Heron the Fourth," he read. "Well that's helpful, isn't it? Any more specific information for those of us who haven't followed every single damned thing they've done?" He turned the painting around and quickly examined the back. He smiled a little to himself as he noted the signature on the bottom right corner. Suddenly, he no longer cared for the history of the painting, and was now more concerned with how much Breath he could potentially purchase from it. Or anything else, even. He wasn't picky what he spent the money on. He turned around and examined the rest of the room. Honestly, it was a little creepy, this room. Thirteen eyes stared down from him from the walls (and he really didn't want to know what left that vicious scar on Lord Heron the Second), and he would swear blind that they followed him round the room. He replaced the portrait on the wall gingerly, careful not to damage his ticket to a fabulous lifestyle. He made a mental note that it was one he would definitely come back for, and went onto the next one along the walls. He took this one down from the walls, careful not to scratch the gold (probably gold leaf, he noted with some disappointment) frame, and turned it around as well. His eyes scanned it for a signature, but as his eyes flicked up to the nails that the portrait hanged (hung, he reminded himself. Pictures are hung. Yiferian was hanged) from, he thought he saw two pinpricks of light shining through. He put the painting down carefully and crept up to it. He brushed his finger over where he thought the light was coming from, and felt a pair of holes in the wall. He put his eye on the hole, closing his other in concentration to try and see through. There was red. Some pink. A body, he realised, in the walls. The clothing put him in mind of Quintus. "Blast," he muttered, looking around for some kind of weapon to try and destroy the wall. Finding nothing in the portrait room for this, he left to find the others and to procure some kind of heavy blunt instrument to get through. When the other explorers arrived, they attacked the wall with whatever they could find. The wall crumbled almost instantly, as though it was made of thin clay rather than brick. But behind it, they found no body. Just a bloodstain on the floor, through which something had been dragged through. They followed the trail of blood through the secret passage within the walls, until it suddenly stopped, as though a line had been drawn after which there were no stains. Quintus had vanished. Quintus (Jondesu) was an Explorer with a [Charged] Feruchemical Bracer! Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch

The Night is over! Please stop all PMs.

If I trolled you with groan-inducing videos all the time, you'd just get used to it

And now you'll never know...

Night 5: The Curious Case of the Mistborn in the Nighttime "One day lad, all this will be yours!" "The curtains?" "Shut it, you ungrateful brat," Lord Heron muttered, smacking his son on the back of the head. He sighed at the sight of his son sprawled out on the floor, wincing and close to tears from the pain of scraping his elbows on the floor. What a useless son he had. "Get up, you pathetic disgrace of a whelp. We are Herons. We do not show pain, and we certainly don't talk back to our betters. Not that there are any better than us, of course," he quickly added. "That is what it means to be a Heron! That is what you will have to learn, when you take over this place!" "I don't want to take over this place. I'd rather... sing..." Lord Heron pushed his son back to the floor again. "Stop that! No son of mine is going to become some bleeding artist or actor. No shiftless layabouts in this household! That is no job for a gentleman of your stature, prancing about and being laughed at by common people. You should do something proper with your life. Be a Heron. That means that you are strong. Defiant. You have to know what you want, and how to get what you want. You let no-one stand in your way, no matter who they are. You are a Heron, and you will act like it. Understand?" "I don't want to..." "I don't care what you want," Lord Heron said, clenching his fist and restraining himself from hitting the boy again. It wasn't his fault, he had always tried to remind himself, that his mother had died in childbirth and he was a sickly, frail ghost of a man. Even his pallor looked more like the dead each and every day. Why could he not have had his own constitution? If it weren't for the fact that he trusted and believed in his late wife, he would honestly suspect something. As different as a shining, vibrant rainbow, and an overcast, grey sky. His son got up and gave him what he probably thought was a defiant look, but there was something missing. He looked more like he would burst into tears than stand up to his father. Sometimes Lord Heron wondered what he did to deserve this. He could do with a strong, defiant son, but in lieu of that he would make do with an obedient, weak one he could marry off for political gain. Unfortunately, he was saddled with the worst parts of both possibilities. "Look," he said with a sigh, putting a heavy hand on his son's shoulder in a move that made the lad wince and shake in fear. "All I want is what's best for you. It's all I've ever wanted. I care about you. I care about family. That's why you need to do what I say." "And what about what I want?" "You'll see it's for the best," Lord Heron said, shaking his head. "Maybe not now, but in a few years you'll thank me. Now, let's have no more of this nonsense. No more running away from your tutors, or your bodyguards. No more hiding when there are parties. Like tonight. You will be present there, even if I have to physically chain you to the ballroom. Understood?" "...Yes sir," his son said, looking down. A teardrop fell and splashed on the stone floor. Lord Heron pretended not to notice, for now. He motioned for his son to follow him and turned around, walking out of the study. The Heron scion walked after him, hand in his blazer pocket. He fingered the pommel of a knife he had purchased when he had run away from his guards. Now was his chance, his chance to live his own life. To become Lord Heron. To achieve his own dreams. His father's back was turned. His brain whispered treacherous thoughts that may not have been his own, but he accepted them and desired them. He drew it and, praying his fragility would not play up right now, he quickened his pace... As the day wound to a close, the sun seemed to sink behind the hills with somewhat of a sigh of relief. The birds quieted down to a slow trill, and the flowers closed, the colourful garden fading away in the dusk. Calm spread throughout the grounds. Then, from the study, there was a crash and a snap. A disappointed collective sigh. Then all was quiet once more. Night 5 has begun! PMs may now be sent again. Yiferian (Daniyah) was an Explorer with a Medical Fabrial and a Vial of Pewter! Yiferian/Daniyah (7): Exion (Unodus), Quintus (Jondesu), Khaos (little wilson), Eques Tempore (Straw), Sheon Idris (Seonid), Juq (JUQ), Aralis (Araris Valerian), Kresla (Elbereth) Khaos/little wilson (1): The Guy in the Red Uniform (Ecthelion III) Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch

The Day is over! Writeup coming in a bit.

Strictly speaking, only Eliminators have Roles. It is possible for someone to be an Eliminator and have an Inherent Ability, though.

Day 5: The Fall of the House of Heron Khaos awoke in total darkness. That in itself was a surprise. When one wakes up, one expects the darkness to recede, for colour and clarity to return to the world. But in this case, in her case, it did not. Perhaps it was to do with the pain she felt in her heart? Not a longing or a needing or an emotional pain of any kind, but a sharp-stabbing pain. Not heartburn either. No, it was more like someone had rammed a sword through her. She didn't actually know what being run through would feel like, but she imagined it would feel like this. Actually, it wasn't a heart pain either. It was a bit more to the centre of her body, as though her assassin, or would-be-assassin, had just forgone any semblance of precision or tact and just aimed for the centre of mass. Probably felt they would be less likely to miss that way. Her attempted murderer didn't seem to be the sharpest of killers. She put a hand to the middle of her chest where she had been hit. Her shirt was damaged and would need replacing or repairing as soon as she found a bit of makeshift cloth, but she couldn't feel any actual wound or scar. That was something. She sat up and immediately regretted it. When the world of blackness stopped spinning around her bruised head, she carefully lifted her hand up, and then to the sides, then finally back down. What she thought was wooden floorboards appeared to be more of a wooden crate or box. Which she was currently on the wrong side of, preferring infinitely more to be outside of it instead. She raised both hands up and pushed with all the might she could muster. There was no movement from the wood above her, but a small trickle of dirt fell in, raising a musty cloud which made her cough. She sighed and lowered her arms again, wondering what she should do now. She tapped her foot against the side of the box. There was a slight sound of a ring, and some resistance where her foot caught on something slightly. She explored a little with her foot, trying to get a feel for what it was by building a metal image of what she was getting snagged on. It was a rope, she realised. She hooked her boot around it and pulled as hard as she could towards her, before going slack again. She repeated this a few times, and was rewarded by a ringing noise. There was a shriek, followed by a muffled thud. “Oh Colours,” someone above her muttered, though it was hard to make out. “You don't think...” “Maybe she's a Lifeless without a master,” someone else said, a wary edge to his voice. “They eat your brains, you know.” “You're safe then.” The first replied dryly. It was punctuated by a stab of metal through earth. “Come on, help me get her out.” Khaos (little wilson) was attacked, but did not die! Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch

The Night is over! Please stop all PMs.

Kills happen before Exploration, so it is possible.

Night 4: Once Upon A Time... There was a large House on a hill. And in this House, there lived an old man. The old man was generous and kind, and also very wealthy. People used to say that he had his servants drive him around in a golden carriage, in which he would visit people less fortunate than him and build them a new House, throw them a visit, pay for education at the city's top schools, or just give them some of his fabulous wealth to do with as they wished. Some said that it was simply a selfish desire to be praised that lead to this. Some said it was simple guilt, that he would be born into such a life through chance, while others suffered for the circumstances of their birth which they could not help. Still others said it was a whim he never grew out of, something he did because he could but did not care for or not care for especially. Most people were less cynical, and said he wished to help. Certainly for whatever case and reason, he did more for them than anyone else they had ever met. There was a sadness in his heart, they said, a void that was only filled by his helping of others. For although the man was kind and wealthy and well-loved, he had no wife and no children. There was no-one in his own family for him to lavish such attention and money on, no-one to carry on his legacy after he had died. So instead, he treated the entire community as though they were his family, each parent his child, and each child his grandson. He loved these people, and was loved in turn. Then, one day, he was robbed. As he stepped out of his carriage to visit another less fortunate family than his own, he was pushed down to the dirt by an assailant, for he had no guards. What need of guards would he have when he was so loved, after all? The coin purse he held was pinched from his frail, old hands, and the thief ran away without a care in the world. He was rich, and could not be found, for he had worn clothing that made him utterly untraceable. The old man fell to the gutter and broke his neck as he fell, landing on the cobblestones with a thud. He did not call out as he fell, and did not say anything, but he had recognised the man. The thief was someone that he had helped, with a family whose life had improved because of his generosity. He took the name of the thief to his grave, though everyone around could see the recognition in his eyes. People said it was the last act of generosity he ever performed. They were wrong. In his dying moments, the man's frail old heart hardened. He cursed the people that he had helped, that their greed and selfishness would lead to this. What was the point of his helping them, he wondered, when they would treat him so badly? Why spread his fortune around, when someone could just so easily take it from him by force and leave him for dead? So he cursed the people of this community, those he had let into his House and into his heart. He cursed them all, everyone who had benefited from his aid, or hoped to benefit from it in the future, or who would try to benefit it without his permission. He cursed everyone who he had helped, everyone who had set foot on his lands, their descendants, and everyone else who simply let such evil run rampant. He died in the gutter, his last breath giving a final Command to the House, for he knew it would hear him if he put all his Breath into one final Command: 'Exact Revenge', he instructed, for he was of a great Heightening, and could imprint intricate orders within a single Command. 'Seek them', it said. 'Draw them', it said. 'Kill them'. In all stories and myths, there is often a grain of truth in the folktales that people tell. The difficulty is in sifting between the lies and the embellished facts to find the single nugget of truth that spawned the story. It is debatable whether such a man ever existed. It is also questionable how plausible his actions are. Scholars have said that enchanting an entire house is impossible. ...In the House, Isaac dropped a few feet with a snap. The stool used to support him rolled around on the floor before coming to rest on a wall. Once more, revenge had been exacted. Still there were many more to go. But no matter how long it took, vengeance would be wrought. Isaac 'The Hammer' Jones (Elenion) was an Explorer with a [Dented] Shield! Isaac 'The Hammer' Jones/Elenion (5): Aralis (Araris Valerian), Yiferien (Daniyah), Khaos (little wilson), Arinian (as himself), Aon Deag (Aonar Faileas) Rotiart/Paranoid King (2): Isaac 'The Hammer' Jones (Elenion), Professor Alberde Hae (Haelbarde) Sean/polkinghornbd (2): Juq (JUQ), Quintus (Jondesu) Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch

The Day is over! Writeup coming soon.

Day 4: A Grave of Tomes Moro was starting to feel annoyed. Like a lot of the others, he had not come here to purchase this House – Even at the discounted price, it was still very much out of his price range. He wouldn't have said what he was here for was strictly speaking stealing either. Certainly he wouldn't say it was now, as far as he was concerned it was fair and just compensation for the nightmare that this House had put him through. But what irritated him the most was the fact that he hadn't found anything of worth. There was supposedly meant to be huge vaults of gold and gems hidden away in this place, the ancient wealth of the now-dead Heron line. But while this place was certainly ostentatious, none of it was particularly mobile or easily sell-able wealth. His fingerprints would be all over the paintings, and he wouldn't be able to hide them while looking for a fence. They would be worth a lot, but not his freedom or his life if he was discovered. Still, onwards he went in the hope of finding something lucrative. He opened another door, and swore when the heavy metal handle fell off and landed on his foot. He winced and pushed it out of the way, making his way into the room. It appeared that he had discovered a library. The sight of it almost made him turn around, kick the door in frustration and leave, but he did not. Some books could be very valuable, after all. People would pay a high price for knowledge, particularly from such a strange place as this. The issue with that though was that he didn't know that market particularly well. But considering how long it had been since the Heron family had still existed, anything in decent condition that was a first edition should be good. The older, the better. And considering the size of the library, there was bound to be something here. He felt he could practically get lost in it, and half expected to find a skeleton lying in the dust on the floor. He put the candle that he was using on a windowsill, away from the musty old bookshelves and dried paper, and carefully slid an old leather-bound tome from the shelf. It was not helpful though, as he didn't understand it. Not only was it not written in a language he knew, but it seemed to even use a different alphabet. Still, it was an interesting curio, and it might puzzle and delight some eccentric somewhere. He put it on the desk and selected the next. A treatise on BioChromancy, it seemed. Possibly worth something, possibly not, considering how the field advanced. The date inside the book's cover confirmed it was before the Manywar. Again, another antique possibly worth something, and it was even signed. He put it on the pile. Slowly he took books from the shelves, opening them to the first few pages to check what they were about. The ones he thought would be worth something, he would hide and take with him when he left. The others were simply set aside for now, and would be returned later. The candle went out, bathing the room in darkness. There was no light from the window, making it so he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. He raised his hand and put it on the bookshelf, carefully feeling his way back to the desk. It was strange; in the darkness, his other senses were enhanced to make up for the lack of sight. It was only for this reason that, aside from his breathing, he heard the soft footstep behind him. Unfortunately, by the time he realised what it meant, he was too late. A thick book struck his head. His body hit the bookshelf behind him, and fell to the ground. The bookshelf wobbled a bit back and forth. The footsteps started to walk away, pausing by the bookshelf. There was a heave, a sound of exertion from behind Moro. A heavy encyclopedia slid out and hit the back of his head again. Another textbook followed suit, falling on his back. Then the entire shelf unloaded all of its books onto him with a sickening crunch. Despite their searching, though the debris caused by the attack was plain to see, the Explorers could not find his corpse the next day. Day 4 has begun! It will end at 9PM GMT on Sunday 4th. Moro (Magestar) was an Explorer with a Vial of Brass! An Omen was discovered! Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch

The Night is over! Please refrain from sending any more PMs.

Night 3: Blood and Steel His guilt was assured, they felt, when he pulled a knife on them. Of course, most people would do something like that when accused of being a murderer in these circumstances. But why did he have a weapon in the first place? In a word, it was shifty. Or at least, he seemed shifty right now, regardless of his actual personality. But in an environment such as this, where paranoia ran rampant over more reasonable emotions, it was enough for people to make their minds up. And having a weapon pulled on you will tend to colour your judgement. Action was needed. That much everyone was starting to agree on, and they were starting to look for suspicious behaviour. And who was more suspicious right now than the guy with a knife? They accused him, and he denied it. But of course he would deny it, anyone would deny it in these circumstances. The knife was old and damaged, but he gave them a look that dared them all to approach him. No-one did, no-one wanted to be the first to face him and the weapon that he had found. For while his defeat was assured, who knew how many he could wound seriously before that knife gave up? But his position was not a perfect defence. From behind, Quintus grabbed a loose tile off the fireplace and struck him on the back of the head. Nightspud hit the floor, and they used the opportunity to string him up, hoping to put an end to the insanity that had trapped them here. With his death, they thought, this accursed place would free them so they could return to their lives. Unfortunately, they were wrong. Nightspud (Assassin in Burgundy) was an Explorer with a [Brittle] Knife and a Bead of Lerasium! Night falls. PMs may now be sent again. The Turn will end at 9PM GMT on Friday 2nd. Nightspud/Assassin in Burgundy (5): Aralis (Araris Valerian), Quintus (Jondesu), Professor Alberd Hae (Haelbarde), Eques Tempore (Straw), Juq (JUQ) Arinian (4): Moro (Magestar), Nightspud (Assassin in Burgundy), The Guy in the Red Uniform (Ecthelion III), CL Anky (Clanky) Nathan/Nathanvanduij (2): Isaac 'The Hammer' Jones (Elerion), Exion (Unodus) Eques Tempore/Straw (1): Khaos (little wilson) Character List Kasther's Pocketwatch