dezaS

this. tpbm is the best

But the magenta is visible to the invaders and the yellow hion line hasn't been found yet! No roach is safe if you use the yellow or magenta, so the cyan it is!

with God if they exists

Unfortunately for both of you, the fart spray accelerates the destruction of Scadrial (which this is occuring on) and the planet explodes, launching the real Sandwich package to Nalthis where I am at this point.

Granted, but you're one of the ones he kills as a soldier. I wish I befriended Kaladin and survived.

Granted: you will die today. Chaos theory dictates that if you hadn't died, in 1000 years an ailen race would have invaded. Your death is objectively good. I wish to fall in requited, romantic love with an attractive, single woman in my age group who lives relatively close to me.

Wait! Doesn't bananas eat hindleyite? Suck muck!

sreoisesly whast whith teh hahhhhhhhhhhhs?

Your pronouns, your pfp, and you in the past ohh was that from truth or dare i havent checked that thread in a while

hwhat?

Granted, you can become a fly i wish for unlimited wishes

this by both groups, so

You like moash I don't particularly Im rereading twok and moash is kind of garbage I mean he is not a horribly written character but he doesn't admit his faults

Hospital option: If Nalthis gets a modern-age healthcare system an ICU doctor might be the profession to have to get Breaths-you are around a lot of people who are dying and know they are almost certainly dying and know that the doctors around them are doing all they can to keep them from dying: if they are coherent, they might just give their Breath to the doctor? (it's an idea) Or.. what if at hospitals in ICUs or at hospice clinics (dealing with the terminally ill) they have very trusted Awakeners on staff that carry out the dying patients' last will of who to give their Breath to (they would get training to find practically anyone on Nalthis and give them a specific amount of Breath)? Or even a banknote system-people deposit Breath in Awakened bank accounts so that they can be preserved and the banks loan it out for interest in an economy-the banks/treasury can even issue notes for fractional Breaths making a viable, backed currency system instead of gold? This has some flaws of course: if everyone (or most people) deposited a Breath upon adulthood the inflation rate would be dependant on the birth rate 18 years prior and Breaths might lose value rapidly (I'm not an economist so I don't know how or if this would actually work)

We're pretty sure you cant allomantically burn tungsten

deep breath. tbtw is not the smartest person, so take what he says about moash with a grain of salt hmm lies

Pantone 448 C - ugliest color in the world TPBM... oops.. uh.. WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR BONES?

No, I won't sell you my bones.

coopted them into war plots

or so they thought, however

Granted. You now love it completely, much to your friends' chagrin I wish that my 1-wish restriction was lifted

Granted: it's called a clock and the hands turn with the time. I wish for more wishes

Ash fell from the sky. Lord Tresting frowned, glancing up at the ruddy, mid-day sky as his servants scuttled forward, opening a parasol over Tresting and his distinguished guest. Ashfalls weren’t that uncommon in the Final Empire, but Tresting had hoped to avoid getting soot stains on his fine new suit coat and red vest, which had just arrived via canal boat from Luthadel itself. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind—the parasol would likely be effective. Tresting stood with his guest on a small hilltop patio which overlooked the fields. Hundreds of people in brown smocks worked in the falling ash, caring for the crops. There was a sluggishness to their efforts—but, of course, that was the way of the skaa. The peasants were an indolent, unproductive lot. The didn’t complain, of course—they knew better than that. Instead, they simply worked with bowed heads, moving about their work with quiet apathy. The passing whip of a taskmaster would force them into dedicated motion for a few moments, but as soon as the taskmaster passed, they would return to their languor. Tresting turned to the man standing beside him on the hill. “One would think,” Tresting noted, “that a thousand years of working in fields would have bred them to be a little more effective at it.” The obligator turned, raising an eyebrow—the motion done as if to highlight his most distinctive feature, the intricate tattoos that laced the skin around his eyes. The tattoos were enormous, reaching all the way across his brow and up the sides of his nose. This was a full prelan—a very important obligator indeed. Tresting had his own, personal obligators back at the manor, but they were only minor functionaries, with barely a few marks around their eyes. This man had arrived from Luthadel with the same canal boat that had brought Tresting’s new suit. “You should see city skaa, Tresting,” the obligator said, turning back to watch the skaa workers. “These are actually quite diligent, compared to those inside Luthadel. You have more . . . direct control over your skaa here. How many would you say you lose a month?” Just then, I entered, flanked by a guard in Shardplate. "The Sandwich?" I asked. The obligator shivered in his boots with fear. "Of course, sir. Right this way, sir," Lord Tresting said. At this point, the obligator turned tail and ran back in the direction. I coughed. "Storming ash. Hurry it up, I can't survive on this planet for more than a few hours without healing. I just need the Sandwich and I'll head back to Hathsin." Lord Tresting bowed, snapped his fingers and called for an "easterner" and one of his skaa came around, his only raiment a meager garment of sackcloth. "Having the taking of what @Kaladin Stormcursed wasing of the having" said the skaa, with a thick eastern accent. He presented me a package, which I opened and saw the sandwich. Satisfied, I headed back to the perpendicularity in the Pits of Hasthin with the sandwich and my bodyguard in shardplate.

Granted: you have the ability to make gold compounds. Enjoy your [Au(CH2)2P(C6H5)2]2Cl2! I wish that I posessed natively the ability to store and tap health from feruchemical goldminds which I create.

I enter the museum. A voice booms down from the sky: every Cryptic chanting in unison: THIS IS DEAD. THIS THREAD IS DEAD. THIS IS DEAD. LEAVE THIS PLACE. Creeped out, I sneak around away from their circle that evokes a sèance.