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Wyrmhero

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  1. Wyrmhero
    Night 6: The Voice in Space Captain's Journal, 03/02/513 AK, Night Shift Crew Manifest Pork was a Feruchemist! Pork (3): Tigger, Arandar Tigger (2): Rae Nova, Doctor McClay, Steph Night 6 has begun! It will end at 8PM GMT on Sunday. PMs may now be sent again. Shift Clock
  2. Wyrmhero
    The Turn is over! Writeup coming up soon.
  3. Wyrmhero
    It's cool, I was at work still >>. The Turn is over. I will contact players individually this Turn.
  4. Wyrmhero
    The Role there is STINK's actual Role.
  5. Wyrmhero
    Day 6: Star Elantrian In the infirmary aboard the Shardship, a place that no-one wants to visit but that everyone is glad exists, a solitary figure slept in one of the beds, covered in a thin, teal hospital sheet. While Ember was not hurt badly, and wasn't in fact ill but injured (a sprained wrist, the doctor on duty had told her), she wasn't going to miss the opportunity that it provided her to take a short break and catch up on some sleep. And so, she drifted in and out of consciousness as she lay there, unaware of the figure creeping towards her bed, keeping to the shadows and cloaked and hidden as much as was possible. As they did, they drew a short knife, stolen from the kitchens, tossing it between their hands in a bid to keep themselves active and alert. The knife made little noise as it moved this way and that, muffled as it was by the gloves the figure wore. Eventually, and as they found themselves next to the sleeping figure, they stopped their display of dexterity and clenched their fist around it. It would not be a quick death, or a clean death done with skill, but brute forced and violent. One which would remind the rest of the ship just exactly what they were dealing with. They drew the knife up, waiting until their aim was steady. “I would not do that if I were you,” another figure said. In the darkness of the room, it was impossible to make them out, their face shadowed by the eerie glow of the air beside them. “This is Aon Daa,” they explained. “Or at least, the ship's equivalent. If I draw the final line, it will blast you through the wall and either incapacitate or kill you.” The first figure licked their lips, half in anticipation, half as an aid to thought, a way to buy some time. “But if you do that,” they replied, lowering the knife and raising it up to Ember's head, resting above her temple, “then she will die anyway. A doctor shouldn't allow anyone to die, should they?” “Call it preventative medicine. If she dies, then you die. One of us for one of you. I would say that's a pretty good trade, really. If it's a war of attrition, we definitely win. We simply outnumber you.” “So it seems my choice is to kill her and die, or just die. Doesn't sound like much of a choice.” “There is a third option,” The Elantrian said. “You walk away, and no-one gets hurt. I'll even dispel my Aon when you take a step back.” “And what's to stop me killing her after that?” The would-be murderer asked. “We Elantrians are pretty quick at drawing squiggles in the air. I wouldn't try it. So, shall we both just walk away?” “...Fine.” The knife disappeared, stowed away somewhere inside the heavy cloak. “You can't protect her forever...” Then, as though stepping into the shadows themselves, though the Elantrian could feel the pull of the other Realms, they disappeared. John grimaced as he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped grease of his hands. “Join the space corps, they said. It'll be interesting, they said. No-one ever said there would be this much dirt!” His companion for today's night shift shrugged. “No-one said it would be clean either,” they pointed out. “This is essential work, anyway.” “What?” John asked, incredulity creeping into his voice, “You think fixing the piping is important?” “If we don't get the sanitation systems fixed, then the ship will just become overrun with disease. So it's essential work.” John sighed. “I was told I could do something here. Make something of myself, like I had something special to do, instead of being the nobody I was back home. But it's no different up here as it was down there. As above, so below. Dead-end job cleaning up then, dead-end job cleaning up now. Nothing ever changes. All designed to keep honest, hard-working guys like me in their place.” There was a gurgling noise, and John rounded on his current object of fury, “And these useless pipes! These toilets never work!” He kicked one, and then immediately regretted it, hopping around on one foot. “Lousy, bloody, stinking-” “It's no good blaming the cistern,” his companion replied, in his uncaring way. “I'm done here. You?” “Nearly,” John replied, gingerly putting his foot back down and testing that he could still walk on it. “I'll catch you up.” “Right you are,” there was a nod, and then John was alone. John took a wrench out of his toolbox and rounded on the piping. There was a creak. “What?” Another creak, a louder groan, and then a nut flew off and struck him in the head. “Ow! Dammit,” he put a hand to his head, rubbing the afflicted spot. Then the entire pipe followed it, striking him in the head, and knocking him to the floor. His vision went hazy, as blood started to ooze from the deep cut on his forehead. He lay there for some time, waiting for his colleague to return and come find him, but he didn't show up. Time passed, and, slowly, his vision faded, and then finally after who knew how long, everything went dark. Crew Manifest Ember Ghetti was attacked, but was saved by an Elantrian! John was a Hemalurgist! Day 6 has begun! It will end at 8PM GMT on Friday. PMs may not be sent until the beginning of the next Turn (if then...). Shift Clock
  6. Wyrmhero
    The Turn is over! No more PMs please!
  7. Wyrmhero
    Night 5: Shades in Flight Captain's Journal, 02/02/513 AK, Night Shift Crew Manifest Bort was a loyal crewmember! Bort (4): Rae Nova, HELLSCYTHE, The High Priest of Elkanah Tigger (1): Bort Adelor Ien Far-Astra (0): Tigger Night 5 has begun! It will end at 8PM GMT on Wednesday. PMs may now be sent. Shift Clock
  8. Wyrmhero
    The Turn is over! Writeup coming shortly. Don't open PMs until I say so .
  9. Wyrmhero
    I really like the look of the commander decks this time around, particularly the UG and GB ones. Unfortunately, I'm not playing a lot of Magic at the moment, so I'm not able to test them out/buy and upgrade them... My hope for Oath is that the 'spoilers' we have seen so far turn out to be utterly incorrect. It's a parasitic mechanic that only works with itself and provides absolutely nothing to the game that coloured mana already provides. Snow mana, at least, could be used outside of the set as normal mana. Wastes doesn't even have a basic land type, which stops it working with Domain as well. I see no reason for it to exist, other than because it can. Just because you can, WotC, doesn't mean you should.
  10. Wyrmhero
    This write-up done by Kas for me, due to time constraints. Generation 5: Turn 3 It was a quiet night, in Tremredare. Weary canalworkers and artisans and glassblowers mingled in local watering holes, while other craftsmen went home to their families. In a few dark alleys, footpads lurked, keeping an eye out for easy victims: a lone craftsman, taking an unwise shortcut, a canalworker unaware of her surroundings, a few inebriated artisans… Wyren Heron gazed down at the flares of light in the darkness and nodded, to himself. It was a quiet night, in Tremredare. One might be forgiven, he thought, for considering it to be just like any other night. Some glimmers of light from the glassworker’s sector suggested a few mosaicists were working late into the night. Other lights marked streetlamps; a patch of darkness on the other side of the city were the slums. Most of the street hawkers had already sold off their fried tubers, had packed away their carts and gone home for the day. The City Watch were out on the streets, beginning their rounds. Somewhere, the night watchman cried out the hour; his voice amplified by a speaking-horn. A few seconds later, the Great Clock struck the hour. Wyren Heron stood up, and clicked his pocket watch shut, slipping it back into the pocket of his waistcoat. A quiet night. An ordinary night, perhaps, or so one who wasn’t Lady Jocasta Heron or one of her trusted adjutants might think. But it was not going to be a night like any other. Across the city of Tremredare, squads lurked in the gathering darkness, waiting for the appropriate signal. “Stop that,” Watch Sergeant Alun ordered, wearily, watching the latest recruit continue to glance nervously around her. “By the Lord Ruler, girl, you’d think we were preparing to go after Lady Heron herself.” An uneasy silence met his words. “Well, Sarge,” one of the squad said, tentatively, “I’m not sure about this, actually…” Alun whirled on him. “Oh? Well, tell me, Cailan. You signed up for this job. You signed up to police the city of Tremredare.” “Exactly, Sarge,” Cailan said. “I mean, I signed up to keep my family safe. I didn’t sign up to be sticking swords in people for saying that we’re better off without them nobles.” “And you think those people care about you or your family?” Alun wanted to know. “You think your family don’t need protecting from these fanatics, is that what you’re telling me? You think they wouldn’t put your wife or child in front of them, if it meant achieving their ends. Is that what you’re telling me?” “Well, er, no, I guess…” Cailan muttered. “Sarge, it just don’t seem right. We’re supposed to be protecting the people of Tremredare, not turning on them for something they haven’t quite done. It’s just talk.” “You heard what happened in the mines,” Alun retorted. “It’s never just ‘talk’, Cailan, not in these times we’re living in.” He stared hard at the rest of the squad; each one in turn. “Anyone who doesn’t like this is free to come to my desk at the Watch station after we’re done here and to sign their release papers. I won’t hold it against you.” He softened his voice a little. “I know all of you. I like you. You’re good people, and what we’re doing here is hard work. You want out, I don’t blame you. But someone’s got to do it, and right now, it’s us, because we signed up for it. Right now, across the city, there are many other squads gathering, some of them soldiers, and none of them are going to be safe if we don’t do our job. Remember: we’re not just getting rebels. We’re taking off killers and footpads from the streets. That’s policing work. That’s making Tremredare a safer place.” Cailan swallowed hard, and nodded. “All right, Sarge,” he said. “Guess I’m in then.” Alun looked around, at the rest of the squad. “Any more worries that need coddling? Because I’m not here to stand around and talk all night.” Quiet laughter. “No Sarge, we’re good.” He heard the night watchman cry the hour, and nodded; mostly to reassure himself. It never did to show the men how worried you were, or to admit to it. A job was a job and it needed doing. It wasn’t his place to decide how appropriate it was. Besides, thought Watch Sergeant Alun, Tremredare had been getting more dangerous by the year. Time was, a man could go down to the inn without getting mugged, stabbed, or thrown into the Conway. He shook his head to clear it of such dark thoughts. The Great Clock sounded, then. “All right,” Watch Sergeant Alun said. “Since none of you’ve decided to back out, let’s roll. Remember, we’ve got a job to do. That’s all there is to it.” Across Tremredare, as the Great Clock sounded the hour, squads moved into action, breaking down doors with practised efficiency. Wood splintered and then broke entirely as soldiers and the city watch alike burst into dwellings, workshops, and taverns, and proceeded, with ruthless efficiency, to kill everyone who had been identified as a potential dissident or who was a known criminal. On the streets, lurking footpads bolted in alarm as they encountered squads of hardened soldiers, only to be cut down in the street mercilessly. In other places, where genuine dissidents met and whispered about the possibility of rebellion, they watched in alarm as soldiers broke down their door, and attempted to fight back. But the operation had been meticulously planned, and skaa armed with clubs and the occasional weapon were no matched for the well-armed men of the city watch and actual soldiers of House Heron. Some opted to flee; archers posted on the rooftops or within neighbouring dwellings simply shot them down. There were rumours of Heron Mistings among these forces; some of whom could chase down their prey by identifying traces of metal about their person, and simply cutting them down with a shower of flung coins. All across Tremredare, wood splintered. Skaa died, fought back, tried to flee, and died. Some of them were innocent. Some of them were not. Blood ran in the streets and the gutters. Bodies were stacked, like cordwood, meant for removal later on. They had to be carted off. That morning, the sun was a bloodied disc in the sullen skies. Wyren Heron listened to the cries and watched the flares of light in the darkness. The purge of Tremredare, he thought, had been a brilliant order. It also required a certain degree of callousness: a certain degree of ruthless disregard for human life, for collateral damage. You had to think in that way, to order the execution of all possible dissidents and criminals within Tremredare, from pickpockets caught in the wrong place at the wrong time to footpads and armed robbers and murderers and serial killers and all other sorts of wrongdoers. You had to not care, to choose the most efficient option, no matter the cost. Jocasta Heron had all of that in spades. Kyrus Heron, her father, would never have ordered such a purge. He knew that, from having worked with the previous Lord Heron. Kyrus was fundamentally more reactive, choosing violence only as the inevitable response to a rebellion in Tremredare that had cost him the life of his brother. That had almost killed his daughter. Wyren’d written that into the House histories, as well. What did you say, about such events? Did you consider Jocasta Heron a monster, or excessive, or simply over-zealous? They were, after all, only skaa. He sipped at his tea, and held it up in a silent toast to a spectre long departed, and said, “Well, Kyrus, did you ever think about that before you made her your Heir?” There was, of course, no reply. He hadn’t expected one. Generation 5 Player List Generation 5 Turn 3 has begun! It will end on Friday 27th at 6PM GMT. That's right, I am reducing the time in a Turn. This is because it's taking much longer at the moment to do the turnover than I would like. I will also be calling a halt to the game for a while at the end of the Generation, due to Christmas and all.
  11. Wyrmhero
    Ripple was killed by the Eliminators.
  12. Wyrmhero
    Day 5: The Haunted Stars Captain's Journal, 02/02/513 AK, Day Shift Haede Heatherlocke Incident Report, 02/02/513 AK, Day Shift Crew Manifest Gylf (RippleGylf) was a loyal crewmember! Osmann (Zed) was a loyal crewmember! Day 5 has begun! It will end at 8PM GMT on Monday. PMs may not be sent. Shift Clock
  13. Wyrmhero
    The Turn is now over! Players may no longer send PMs. Writeup up shortly.
  14. Wyrmhero
    The Turn is over, and guess what? The Skaa army is increasing in size, starting to overrun the edges of The Final Empire. Even in the towns and cities, crime is on the up, as dissidence is spread amongst the populace. The Skaa army is Strong compared to the average military strength of the players. Once again, if I do not message to inform you within the next two hours or so, then one of your Properties is under attack. I will require a response as last week from you, or I shall assume you send 'adequate' forces, or as much as you can if you can't muster that much.
  15. Wyrmhero
    Night 4: The Eye of the Heron Captain's Journal, 01/02/513 AK, Night Shift Crew Manifest Brega Daghar (The Honey Badger) was a BioChromancer! Brega Daghar (4): Pork, Arandar, Doctor McClay, HELLSCYTHE Gaius Tekiel (3): Tigger, Rae Nova, Steph Tigger (2): Adelor Ien Far-Astra, Bort Arandar (2): Volke, Ember Ghetti Cor Mordero (1): John Adelor Ien Far-Astra (1): Gylf Night 4 has begun! It will end at 8PM GMT on Saturday. PMs may now be sent. Shift Clock
  16. Wyrmhero
    The Turn is over! The writeup shall be up soon.
  17. Wyrmhero
    If any Turn ends with no Loyal Hemalurgists still alive or Hemalurging (as in, with the Role of Hemalurgist), then the HI is immediately converted to the side of the Traitors. There is no delay in this.
  18. Wyrmhero
    It's a Day Turn, so PMs are disallowed.
  19. Wyrmhero
    I can confirm that he was meant to die, if that's what you're asking. Also, to clarify a point with what Adavantos has said, there were no problem within the rules of this subforum with regards to Dow using the program, as long as he kept it to himself and did not distribute it. We have precedent before with a program Sir Jerric made some time ago. The ruling then, as it was for this program, is that such things are allowed provided they are for personal use only. This was done to prevent an arms race amongst the players with a technologically-minded background.
  20. Wyrmhero
    Day 4: Objects in Space Captain's Journal, 01/02/513 AK, Day Shift The engine room was not a place he was used to. The thrum of the engines was a constant companion as he worked, a dark and disconcerting sound in a dark and lifeless room. Gently, carefully, he placed the fifth explosive down, next to the fuel tank. He had opened the valve, and it was slowly leaking fluid onto the floor, a brown stain on silver stainless steel. He smiled to himself, and then covered his mouth as the smell threatened to overpower him. He coughed and took a step back, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to filter out the bad air from that which he was breathing. “Good,”, the voice said to him, an ethereal image of a man in a tassled-cloak sitting before him, on one of the drums. “That should be all that is needed, fuel-wise, James. An explosion this big should tear a hole in the ship completely. There will be no coming back from that.” James nodded, mopping his brow a little with the handkerchief, and leaving particulates over his forehead. “But not for us, right? I mean... We'll get home safe.” “Of course,” Spook smiled, and he knew it was a smile, despite the fact that he had no physical form, or even features. It was a grin, a flash of teeth in a playful and dangerous manner. But not to him. Spook had never hurt him before, only ever leading him towards his destiny, his fated purpose in life. “James, after this, we'll just go down to the Sharddrive and take a few more powers. Imagine that. You could be a Surgebinder too. And a Mistborn. And BioChromancer. Power that none have ever known before. The ship has it all, James. It's actually a Splinter, you know, all on its own. Splinters have power. Power enough to award us strength, and then to whisk us away, back to Elantris, and back to our more material reward.” James smiled and nodded again, a slightly vacant expression on his face. “It'll be good to get some actual food again, won't it? Instead of this horrible stuff they try and feed us. It'd be enough to make a man mutiny!” He laughed, the timbres of his madness and mirth reverberating throughout the halls of the ship, as he slowly started to back away, trailing wires behind him. In his hand, he held the detonator, one of his own devising. Well, he built it, at least. The designs were all thanks to his friend. “Hmm, no,” Spook shook his head. “On second thoughts, James, that's not quite enough. Get another barrel of fuel and place it there, under the primary converter. It might be enough to start a second, bigger explosion. A chain reaction.” “Won't that kill me?” James asked. “I mean, if it's too big...” “Don't worry, James. The Survivor gave his life for his grand goal, but you don't have to. See? When we place it here,” he explained as James manoeuvred the fuel tank into place, “the force of the explosion is channelled outwards, into space. The engines will be ruined, but the ship will hardly feel a thing. It'll be painless.” James snorted a little. “Painless? You'll be saying the ship's alive, next.” “But it is alive, James,” Spook said, a faintness to his voice. “Investiture creates sentience, creates life. We are killing this ship, murdering it. It's an evil act, but for a good cause. The Final Empire wasn't brought down by kind words, but by harsh action. Remember?” “Yeah,” James nodded. “I remember.” Long history lessons that had been drilled into his head, what now seemed a lifetime ago. But he had knowledge of a different sort now, more useful than the lessons of a world before this one. “Kelsier, all you guys, you committed evil in the sake of the greater good. I know that this must be done.” He placed the barrel on its bottom again, standing up with a puff of exertion. “Is this okay?” “It's perfect, James,” Spook smiled. “Now, we can begin.” Then, Spook vanished. There was no warning, no prelude. Just that one moment he was there, and the next he had gone. Then James realised there was another noise in his head. He looked up. A cloaked figure, shouting at him. Close to him, drawing a gun. Aiming at him. He thought about running, about fleeing somehow. No, it didn't matter. Spook would protect him. He had a job to do. He leapt out of the Mistborn's line of fire, the gun tracking him as he moved towards the detonator. Spook had said this wouldn't kill him, but maybe it would save him, distract the Mistborn long enough for him to counter-attack, or to escape. The Mistborn's eyes widened as he realised what he was doing, what lay behind James and around the room. The world slowed to a crawl as he fell. No, not the world. A sphere around the Mistborn. Blurs of yellow and orange entered the room, buzzing around at an impossible speed for him to truly perceive. The darted around like flies, hovering at each of the fuel tanks. Then, to his perception, they disappeared, one by one. He hit the detonator then, and prepared himself for the explosion. One went off, as expected, but it was smaller than any of the ones he planted. A streak of pain shot through his gut, and he collapsed, curled around the detonator. He looked up to see his killer, the officer who had tried and succeeded in stopping him. For one brief moment, he saw the shadow of Spook around him, as though it was the spirit who had killed him, rather than the man. Perhaps it was. “Why?” He asked, groaning as even that caused too much pain for him to follow up on. “Why...? You didn't stop me before... When we killed...” “I told you James,” Spook said, that grin back on his face. “I set the needs of the crew as a whole above those of the individuals that comprise it. Many evils, but one greater good. You understand, don't you?” James nodded a little, as though it all made sense to him, and then finally closed his eyes. Crew Manifest James T Slade was killed! He was a Forger. Dow was killed! He was a Surgebinder Kaid was killed! He was a Voidbringer. Day 4 has begun! It will end on Thursday at 8PM GMT. Shift Timer
  21. Wyrmhero
    This doesn't take an Action up. Editing the player list to have Anatax as your current House Lord.
  22. Wyrmhero
    The Night is over! Please do not reply to any more PMs. I will not be opening the thread today, but at this time tomorrow. The reason for this is because we have a night-time release at work, so I'll be there potentially up to and (a little) beyond midnight. So, the Day will begin at 8 PM GMT on Tuesday.
  23. Wyrmhero
    Generation 5: Turn 2 Olim looked around the room, mentally taking stock and going over the lists in his head. Everything had to be perfect for today. It was do or die – hopefully not literally, but quite possibly so. All it would really take was someone running to their master, and everything would be ruined. But then, what skaa would tell the nobility that abused them of what they were planning? What noble would listen, for that matter? There were stories, of course. House Penrod was said to be accepting of all skaa, even those who were former rebels. Olim wasn't sure whether it was true or not, but what did it matter when everyone else was quite happy to treat them as though they were worth less than even the ground they stood on? The nobility took care of their land, developing or cultivating it, making it grow into whatever they desired or needed. The skaa, on the other hand, were a necessary evil, slaves designed only to do the actual work that the nobility would never want to do. And then there were the others, Lesser Houses that Melit and his friend Bose had bullied and cajoled and threatened into helping them. Those, Olim at least knew where they stood with. A grudging, forced help, accepted only by both sides because the Houses had no choice. There were few sympathisers there, though there were some who actually seemed to want to change things when one moved away from Luthadel. Further away from the fear of The Lord Ruler and his pet Inquisitors. Finally, his tally was complete, and he nodded, satisfied. Enough seats for the amount they had 'expected' (in truth, they had invited twice that number, the image of an overstuffed room being sold to their followers as evidence of their righteousness), and food for more besides. The nobles starved them, so the rebellion would retaliate with food. People might not be keen on following an idea such as this all the way, but he had little doubt that following their stomachs would be a different matter entirely. They came in dribs and drabs, vagrants and strays searching for a better life. Austrex was a haven for people who wanted to slip through the gaps, who wanted to disappear. Crime was rife here, and the influence of Luthadel was hardly felt. What better place to make two hundred skaa vanish, straight into the ranks of the local skaa rebellion? They did not speak to each other, they only looked down at the floor. Perhaps hoping that they weren't really here, that this was not them plotting against the Empire. They were in for a rude awakening when they went through training, that was for sure. And now they were here, they couldn't leave. A few cut-throats had been employed to make sure that, one way or another, no-one at this meeting continued to live within Austrex. Melit stepped up onto the stage that they had erected, and two hundred sets of eyes followed him. He wore a short-sleeve shirt, not only because it was hot within the room, so many bodies pressed close to each other, but because of his scars. He was proud to display them, a declaration that he would not cower, and that this was what the world had done to him. He was a fearsome sight, so large and strong and scarred, but Olim knew that the man should not be judged on sight alone. He was pragmatic, but underneath that lay an optimist. He was, for lack of a better word, kind, when he was able to be. Of course, none of that dispelled the memory Olim had of him, with no fancy tricks or magic, taking down a thug in unarmed combat. Melit was a leader who led from the front, not by shaping speeches, or through intimidation, but with the respect of his men, and with the passion of his vision to guide them all. A free world, preferably without the nobility. Where Allomancy belonged either to all or to none, and the skaa could live without the shadow of The Final Empire looming over them. Melit began to speak, and Olim found himself mentally repeating the words. It was a speech he had heard many times, with little deviation from the theme, but he could not doubt its effectiveness on the assembly. He surreptitiously took a swig from his hip-flask. The whiskey inside burnt his throat, but it was a welcome pain compared to the taste of zinc that it overpowered. He listened to the story, waiting for his cues. Everyone was tested for Allomancy within the skaa rebellion. Their numbers were few, but enough for their purposes at present. Melit had once been a foundry-worker and a smith in House Wair, pounding hot iron all day to make weapons for their soldiers, and the armour to keep them safe. Items that would have made rebellion all but impossible for any disorganised rabble of skaa. It was while working here that he received his scars, a punishment from an Obligator for working too slowly on a batch of spearheads. The man had tied his hands to an anvil, taken the spearheads out from the mould with a pair of tongs, still red-hot, and pressed them to his arms. He had resigned himself to this life, and to the early grave he would undoubtedly meet, when everything suddenly changed. After a particularly rough beating, his friend and right-hand man Bose had manifested Allomancy. He was, it was declared to the crowd, a Coinshot. Together they hatched a plan and sold a dream to the other foundry workers, a dream of freedom and a future with no back-breaking labour. Then, when the moment was right, Bose used his powers to disarm their guards, their swords flying into the hands of the other skaa. Then, when all was done, they stripped the guards of their armour, fixed it as best they could in a hurry, and fled into the night. The room was quiet now, and Olim knew that was not what was needed. He tugged on heartstrings, practised now at working with the lightest touch, piling sorrow and rage on top of each other. Eventually, someone spoke up. An old man, far too old to fight, who spoke of his granddaughter, taken from them to be a noble's plaything for a few days. Then, as always, she was cast aside and slaughtered for fear that she might become pregnant. Melit welcomed the man, of course, despite his infirmity. He would be taught to cook, he said, and to care for weapons and to treat the wounds of their valiant soldiers. Together, they would avenge his granddaughter and all the others like her. Then, another rose to his feet. Melit listened to the man's story with practised concern, though he had heard many like it before. Afterwards, he declared that the man would be accepted into the rebellion with welcome arms, and taught to wield a sword and to shoot. A woman followed him, and to the surprise of many, he said the same to her. Women have far more reason to fight for freedom than many of the rest of us do, he said. And we need all the soldiers we can get, Olim thought to himself. He took another sip from his flask, and continued. It was going to be a long night. Generation 5 Player List Generation 5 Turn 2 has begun! It will end on Saturday 21st at 6PM GMT. Skaa Rep will be decreasing at a steady rate this Generation, by the way.
  24. Wyrmhero
    Yes, that you are sending X to defend your stuff. That MP will not be available during the next Turn. The army is 'Weak' compared to the average MP that you guys have. You do not need to send that large an army to just defend yourself. You will get back the MP you put into this, though there may very well be casualties.
  25. Wyrmhero
    Night 3: Future Echoes Captain's Journal, 31/01/513 AK, Night Shift The ship's engine rooms were cavernous, a breath-taking feat of artifice and Hemalurgy combined. It made no attempt to keep the steel and electricity hidden away as the rest of the ship did, but displayed it proudly. Large, railed walkways crossed over each over, around a large cylindrical object. It was only source of light in the room, and the only one it needed. It glowed as it worked and churned away, inputs, calculations and feedback done within the blink of an eye. And as it did so, its luminescence shifted from red, up the spectrum to blue, and then back down again. The ship's Sharddrive made no noise as it worked, even as it gave off the fantastical suite of colours that indicated that it was working. It was silent, an ominous monolith in the centre of the room. Suddenly, and with no indication that anything had changed, it let off an alarm, three short bursts warning everyone in the room before it burst with a brilliant white light. Its newest job done, it quietened down again, settling into its shifting chromatics once more. After the glow subsided, Wurum lowered his hand. He was not surprised to see a figure standing before him, hooded and hidden but illuminated by the glow behind them. The figure had a combat-knife in its – her – hand, which she slowly raised towards him, a sentence cast upon him without a word. Wurum sighed and put his hand to his belt, drawing his Heron Industries standard-issue pistol. Mirroring his opponent in a more lethal manner, he raised it. “You should know not to bring a knife to a gunfight.” His opponent smirked, pulling her hood down so he could see. “I didn't,” she said, and the knife shifted, extending and warping until it was a full sword instead. “You shouldn't bring a gun to a shardfight.” “All it takes to put you down is one shot,” Wurum replied, warily watching his opponent's shadow-selves split and divide and split again around them. He had no doubts in his mind that Wynde saw something very similar herself right now. “And all it takes to stop you is a single cut,” Wynde replied, shifting into something similar to Windstance. “As our abilities effectively cancel each other out, it pretty much comes down to which one of us is lucky. And you are many things, Captain, but a Spinner is not amongst them. Hell, you don't even look like you're up for a fight right now.” “We shall have to see, won't we?” Wurum asked, taking aim and firing off a shot before he had even finished talking. As he expected, as he could have guessed even without his foresight, Wynde had already moved out of the way, her shadows moving in every which-way as she pre-emptively planned to dodge the shots he had not yet even considered. But just as he could not shoot without her knowing it at the same time he did, neither could she swing her Shardblade around without him dodging it, moving out of the way even before she had started. He was not faster than her, but he did not need to be; he just needed to have moved first. The pistol was not a close-range weapon. It could be used as one in a pinch, but it was not meant for melee combat. His shots went wild, and he pulled himself back from even trying several times, for fear of hitting the Sharddrive. Wynde, on the other hand, had no such worries. The worst she could do was shear through the walkway, and send them both plummeting. But her cuts were precise and, if she had been facing anyone else, accurate. Gunfire and the shearing of air became the only sound in the room, interspersed only by the heavy breathing as the quick and close combat took its toll on both of them. Despite their abilities, despite their ability to see, they were only of human strength, speed and endurance, and one of them would give in first. In this case, it was Wurum. He was trained in combat, but not to the degree Wynde was. He was not here to kill, like she was. Her Shardblade bit through the barrel of his gun, and he had to drop it to avoid his arm being cut through as well. He stumbled, and her follow-up shoulder-barge threw him to the floor. Then, inexplicably to her, he laughed. “I'm afraid this is checkmate, Wynde. No, not checkmate. A stalemate. A draw.” “You're pretty cocky for someone who'll have a Shardblade close to his neck soon,” Wynde commented, not moving towards him, but taking the reprieve as a chance to catch her breath. “Even if I can't see what you're planning like I can with other people, I've still won, and you're still dead. Not regretting the pistol after all?” “I never said I brought a gun,” Wurum replied as he closed his eyes and took a breath. “I brought an army of guns.” “You brought a what?” Wynde asked, wheeling around, ready to fend off any attackers. She looked across the walkway, and saw them. Not crew, or even lifeless, but clothing, Awakened in the shape of people, and all armed. Their aims were erratic at best, but there were enough in this cramped space that she couldn't dodge without throwing herself off into the void below. She turned back to Wurum. “Stalemate,” he repeated, seemingly prepared for what was about to happen. “That means I win.” A few hours later, Wurum picked himself up off the floor, the tattered remains of his clothes sliding off him. He grimmaced at the pain as he did so. Being shot was not easy to shrug off, even with Bloodmaking, and being shot so many times was even worse. At least he was as good as dead for a lot of it. He walked, or rather shambled, over to the Awakened clothing, still trying to fire pistols that had long-since run out of ammunition. He withdrew the Breath from one of them, let it crumple to the ground, and then began to dress in the once-more silent room. Crew Manifest Wynde Wilson (little wilson) was a Voidbringer! Wynde Wilson (12): Gaius Tekiel, Tigger, James T Slade, Pork, Cor Mordero, Rae Nova, Obsidibus Caesis Dormiam, Volke, Kaid, Doctor McClay, Steph, The High Priest of Elkanah, Gylf Kipper (1): John Kaid (1): HELLSCYTHE Biggoron (1): ??? Kipper (1): ??? Night 3 has begun! It will end on Monday at 8PM GMT. PMs may now be sent once again. Shift Clock
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