Swimmingly

It's vague, chulldung symbolism that can be interpreted any way you chose. Korb is not particularly good at that sort of thing, anyway. If you, or anybody else, would like to chose something else for Korb to see on their or any other character, please go ahead, but I thought the image of the snake wrapped around Vhalin worked. I can even have the images change depending on the situation, though I'll probably try to follow a consistent theme - Bent might have metallic shades, Marie might get images associated with protection, Vhalin might get venomous animals, Tool will probably have multifaceted or manyheaded things, Zakk can have wind and weather phenomena, Xi will consistently get a fox, due to her true nature, but details will change on everything. Besides, Korb is only going to draw the thing far enough to see the shades when he needs to see past illusions, or has no other way of assessing a person - touching the hilt works for most circumstances. And, yeah, it's too quiet here. I want to get moving with things, but unless Zakk and co. are much worse at survival than I assumed, they should be busting out of there on a wave of ice any moment now.

Not presumptuous. Practiced.

Delightful! Come on, you have to warn him? I had an iron spike all ready and everything!

And yet, I shudder at the thought.

... How you like that chouta now, Lopen? This makes good sense, and makes me cringe at every memory of a scene where someone ate Soulcast flesh.

Another way of approaching it, narratively, could basically be a rundown of cool things you want done with it, then adapting the system to that, changing both the objective and the method as necessary

Well, from a narrative standpoint, magic is simply another tool, with more exotic costs than most, both for the writer and characters. You need to establish a causal relationship that stands up within the system - even if it's something as simple as, "doing x makes you tired," or "x has no cost, but is limited by y".

I say, start with listing what it can do, and what that costs, then get more specific from there. Run through everything a clever person could do with the magic.

Besides, him being mopey makes the occasions he sucks in stormlight and goes badass on everybody more rewarding. Can we assume that the themes of this book will deal mainly with seeking justice? Also, is chull kicking the Rosharian version of cow tipping?

Make the entire thing from aluminum and Awaken it. Sure it'll use a God-King's reserves of Breath, but it will magically protect me!

And everything you're describing is pretty much what went wrong with Nightblood. He can't decide what's evil, except by his weilder's estimations

Well, it's just that he rather arbitrarily is setting himself up to look like a deserter, cannot lie, they're in the middle of the Weeping, so no Stormlight (they wouldn't have set out spheres for the one conjured by the Stormfather) and Roshone, being obstinate and a gutless cremling, is going to see the worst in Kaladin. A very likely scenario could be Roshone claiming that Kaladin murdered a Shardbearer and deserted, taking the spheres and Shardblade with him when he escaped. Anything Kaladin does will be denied and explained away by Roshone (and without Stormlight, powering Surgebinding is going to be difficult for the beginning of the book), and Kaladin probably will not be able to use Syl in good conscience against darkeyed constables that he knew as a child, and who aren't going to actually kill him. Plus, Roshone might hold his familly hostage against him.

So, who wants to bet that Kaladin is going to spend the first half of the book unwilling to summon Syl and go all glowy-eyed, that there won't be any stormlight until the middle, and he's going to spend at least one scene locked in Roshone's jail?

So, what would you suggest as an alternate command, assuming your objective was to create a weapon capable of destroying your enemies, without strict knowledge of what, exactly, the weapon would be capable of once created?

I think the intention was more, destroy those with evil intentions or performing evil actions. I mean, he is a weapon, amf the five scholars were not necessarily nice people.

Well, I think the whole scene with the cane takes only ten or twenty seconds, and Korb has not demonstrated prudent use of time when things seem perilous in the past, so I'll keep it. Even if the blocking doesn't exactly add up, we can preserve the shape of the story even with a few minor contradictions. However, I might have Korb retreat to the passageway to check out his cane. Also, BT, you might want to do something about that fire, with your ice magic and all. Unless the strong elemental opposition weakens them to the point that you have to consider more mundane solutions, like running for your life. And isn't Tool basically a bunch of metal wrapped around bundles of animated wood fiber? Flammable wood fibre? I mean, it's not like we can't repair him later. Fuel for thought.

I'm pretty sure they described the deaths as symptomatic and targeting specifically the sick, young, and old that were infected.

I must have a metal heart, cause I can feel you Pulling on it

... ... ... ... ...Not to put too fine a point on it, Observer, but I think you might be going a little high-IQ Taravangian on us. I mean. Playing puppeteer on THE puppeteer, who is your child, to turn the world into a dystopian place, deliberately brought to the edge of utopia by brutal power, but a power unchecked and unwaning to cause suffering for power's sake... Kinda brutal here, friend.

The Hallendren Court Atium's Gaze Highstorm Visionaries

Til death do us part...one way or another.

I think he used the "Nightblood is technically an object" card for that one.

That's better - though some punctuation would be much appreciated. Jerric, I hope you don't mind me using the enemy you set up? The young man with the spear distracted the orc, keeping the chipped blade from touching him, barely, as they dueled over a floor littered with shards of glass and lapping flames. The orc swiveled, a strangely graceful move, and timed a strike with his sword so that the spearman had to bring both arms up to block. As that happened, the orc slammed his foot outward. It connected with a sickening noise, sending the spearman back flailing until he slammed into the bar. Korb darted around, grabbed the limp body of the young man, and dragged him laboriously around to the shelter of the bar while the orc turned to face Zakk and Tool. Korb slapped the man. Nothing. He was out cold. Another slap, then a third, and, finally, Korb resorted to alcohol abuse. He dragged a cask of cider so the spigot leaned over the spearman's face, then set it pouring down in a chilly, apple-scented stream. The spearman twitched, then woke suddenly, fingers spasming and shoving himself out of the stream as he dove for his spear. He held it up, apparently ready to slice Korb up, but Korb was already scuttling down the the steps to the cellar. It was up to the man whether he wanted to rejoin the fight and get himself killed or find safety in the cellar. Below, it was dark, dank, and cool as that autumn night so long ago in the north, though orange light and roars of rage and pain seeped through the door onto the first few steps. Beyond that, it was dark as a crypt to Korb's flame-blinded eyes. Your cane, the voice whispered. Hold the hilt, now! Rotted land, do I need to tell you whenever you should do something sensible? Korb obeyed, still a little dizzy from the drink and the shock. As his fingers closed around the engraved metal, the room sprung into visibility. It wasn't illuminated by a sudden source, or even bright; it merely looked as if he'd spent half an hour here and his eyes had adjusted. Everything was painted in shades of gray, except for the light burning through the door at the top of the stairs. Four people hid down here: The serving girl, grim-faced and clutching a broom like a quarterstaff; the two thugs the barman had hired to bring casks of drink up earlier, lounging in the corner and helping themselves to what stock remained in the huge casks; and the barman himself, rocking by the wall, tears gleaming on his face as he whispered the words to "All the Gems in the Clear Night Sky". "Who's that, then?" the serving girl whispered harshly. "I see your weapon; draw it and I brain you. Fair?" Korb nodded, then agreed aloud when the serving girl didn't react. His night vision was already better than hers, apparently, with the aid of the cane - though he'd probably ruined theirs by opening the door as he came down, anyway. Told you so, the voice muttered, smugly. "I am Korb von Shwartmeyer, goodwoman, " Korb announced to the serving girl, "and I have no intention of harming you or any person here." The girl snorted. "A Duke, in here? Well, it wouldn't be the strangest thing tonight." Korb moved carefully down the last few steps, and the girl stepped to the side, broom still held high. He hurried to the barman, switching his cane to his left hand and patting the man on the cheek. "Look here, good fellow, it's awful what's happening to your lovely establishment, but I really must know whether there's a way out down here." The barkeeper shuddered and stopped singing. "Bastard!" he swore. Korb tilted his head, surprised. "Beg your pardon?" he asked, trying to keep a polite tone. "You bastard heroes. The one with the runes all over, he knocked a hole in my rooms upstairs. Barely an hour later and yer..." he sniffled, "yer burning my bar, smashing my drink, and prancing...into...my...cellar." He looked up, teeth gritted. "My...rotted...cellar." An amused voice sounded in Korb's mind. Step back. Then, with absolutely no warning at all, the barkeeper hurled himself upwards and outwards, fists balled and angry. He struck Korb once in the cheek before Korb managed to stumble away, shouting, left hand still clutching his cane. "A gold schooner for whoever restrains this man!" Korb shouted. One of the thugs in the corner stepped forward, but his partner grabbed his shoulder. As Korb dashed around the cellar, crazed barkeep on his tail, the two negotiated who got to take the job. "Two!" the one who had stepped forward first called, as Korb dived beneath a cask of beer, rolling and jumping up on the other side. "Deal, but," Korb grabbed a support beam and swung himself in a turn, "One of you guards me until we get back," he tried to hide behind the serving girl, receiving a thwack with the broom for his trouble, "to safety." The crazed bartender leapt and brought Korb down hard on the floor, flailing fists against his back and neck. The blows continued for a long three seconds, then suddenly stopped, strangled yells filling the room. One of the thugs, the smaller one, held the bartender with one arm, restraining him. Korb handed the man a pair of schooners, one of which he flipped to his partner. In the dark, the thug missed the catch, cursing. Korb walked over, bent, and picked up the white-gold coin, pressing it into the man's palm. "You'll be my bodyguard, then?" he asked the huge figure. The man shrugged. "Sure, I guess. Name's Bent." He held out a massive hand. Korb shook it. Not something most of the peerage would stoop to, but Korb was emphatically not most of the peerage. "Korb. Is there a way out of here?" Bent shrugged again, the motion easy as breathing. "Couldn't say. Ask her, maybe?" He gestured to the serving girl, who still watched the cellar door with broom upraised. "I'll tell you if I can come with," the girl answered, surly. "Deal," Korb spoke, sharply. He could get rid of these two when it was time, but it couldn't hurt to bring them along. "Your name?" "Marie," the girl spat, somehow making the soft sound hard as baked clay and twice as brittle. "Let's go." Marie led the two of them, Korb and Bent, to a great barrel set against the back wall, dusty and ancient. Her hands swept along the grain of the wood for a moment, then pushed. A section of the wood fell inwards, revealing an interior dark as smooth wine even to Korb's enhanced eyes. She stepped through the doorway, felt around for a moment, and struck something, spraying four bursts of sparks into the blackness before the torch caught, illuminating a short tunnel through the rock, moving up stairs. They ascended into an alley near the bar, their torchlight spilling out and illuminating a desperate scene. Vhalin fought for his life. His daggers whistled like far-off music, catching the quick percussion of the orc's blade as skillfully as a master musician, but the orc was stronger, had a longer reach, and was nearly as fast. Though the short, veiled ranger scored dozens of hits, they landed on the orc's wrists and arms, glancing off armour or only spraying small bursts of blood into the air - the orc was evidently in a frenzy, ignoring pain. Korb stood useless for a full second, gaping at the dance of blades being held in the shadows beside the burning inn, before the voice, grating as usual, butted in. Use Bent, you idiot! "Bent!" Korb snapped, stepping aside to let the big man through. "Knock out the big one!" Bent nodded, smiled, and dashed forward, drawing a knife in his left hand and pulling something that gleamed close to his knuckles onto his right. He threw himself into the air with the aspect of a practiced mugger, and smashed his right knuckles, shimmering with brass, into the orc's skull. The huge creature staggered back, stumbling from surprise and swinging wildly, and Vhalin darted forward like a wraith, stabbing the orc's torso quicker than Korb could make out. Bent fell back as well, breathing heavily. "Hurt, my good man?" Korb asked distractedly as Vhalin finished off the beast. "Bastard sliced my ribs," Bent muttered. "I'll live." "Can you bandage it yourself?" Korb asked. Bent hesitated, then answered. "No." "I'll do it," Marie called. She sighed, short and angry. "Take off your shirt." Bent blinked. "What-" Marie glowered, and Bent did as asked. Marie proceeded to tear the shirt into strips and bandage Bent neatly. "Now," she said, to Korb this time. "Give 'im your jacket." It was Korb's turn to blink. "My-" Marie actually growled, this time. Korb gave Bent his jacket. The fine cloth fit on the huge man with painful-looking tightness, but it seemed to be holding the bandages in place better than any knot. "Good." Marie nodded curtly, then walked forward to see if Vhalin was injured. Korb made a painful noise as she jostled him on a bruise the barkeeper had inflicted, which she ignored for the melodrama it was. Korb crept back into the passage, gesturing for Bent to stand guard while the ranger dealt with the remaining attackers. Well, Korb thought - his own voice, fortunately, sounding in his thoughts - I have three pressing issues. Marie gestured at a shallow cut on Vhalin in the background. He seemed embarrassed as she craned to get a good look at it, and tried to turn away; Marie, however, grabbed him roughly. The short man froze, as if unsure what to do. First, this rotted voice. That's me!, it chimed in. Care to offer an explanation? Korb asked. Silence. Second, the cane. Korb lifted the thing to eye level, letting go of the hilt in the process. As he did, his vision faded slowly back to normal, though it still seemed brighter. The cane itself was made of a smooth, pale wood, new-looking by the sharp edges of it and devoid of any ornament except for a single wavering ridge about halfway down, as well as a curling flair by the base. The hilt seemed made of several metals: Steel for the body, but that was fitted with something rougher and duller, as well. The main engraving seemed done in silver or an alloy, with fittings for the leather grips in brass. When Korb drew the blade, grasping the hilt again, his vision grew as sharp as it had been in the cellar, than sharper - almost painfully so. Ghosts of images began to flit about everyone in his field of view - Bent was followed by a heavy, metallic shadow, Marie's limbs and torso glimmered with hints of leather armour, Vhalin had the coils of a vast, but somehow delicate snake wrapped about him. Details grew stronger, sharper, then faded to white, until only the ghosts were left, growing larger, more vibrant. Korb slammed the blade back into the cane. He'd only drawn the thing about six inches - he couldn't imagine using it bare. Even touching the hilt, now, he could see the shapes of things hanging around their owners, and the shadows seemed as insubstantial as gauze. What had possessed the tailor to give this to him? One thing was certain - he wouldn't be sticking anybody with it. It would probably blind him to try it. Bludgeoning, it seemed, was the way to go with this cane. Third, the little group Zakk had assembled. They, and now himself, possibly even Marie and Bent, were going to be doing something extraordinary - the sort of thing that whispered its way through the grapevine of the nobility every few weeks, heroes out doing deeds and saving the world, or the city at any rate. What's more, they usually got rich doing it. Korb was already rich. But he could use the excitement. He looked at the burning inn, the corpse of the orc, the thrashing forms still fighting behind the flames. He wondered if there was such a thing as too much excitement. The voice in his head - the other voice - laughed grimly. Oh, shut up, he thought. Hmm. Sorry about the word count on this one.

I suggest reading "The Emperor's Soul". It's far and away my favourite, though it's a different kind of story. Welcome to the 17th Shard!

Korb ran. Well, to be accurate, he stumbled, tumbled, leapt, and cowered his way back to the bar, before diving behind the solid oak furnishing and clutching his cane to his chest. Someone had just tried to kill him. It wasn't the first time, of course, but all the other times had been thugs seeing a mark and going after it. This had the air of a coordinated attack - had someone finally realized how dangerous he was, politically? Or were these someone else's enemies, laying a trap that he'd stumbled into? Bottle, the voice in his head urged him. Throw a bottle. Korb ignored it, as he usually did. Then he realised what it had said - not cursing him for stupidity, but giving actual, rational advice. Here goes, he thought. Korb picked up a bottle of brandy, stood up from behind the bar, and hurled it at the hulking orc. It glanced off his elbow, smashed into the wall, and sprayed dark liquid everywhere. The orc turned to react, knocking tables over as he swung his sword, and a candle somehow stayed alit despite its flight. The tiny flame struck the wall with a spray of white wax, and then the brandy exploded. Flames grew and grasped the wooden wall, sinking teeth into the boards and sending a wave of heat across the room. The orc didn't seem concerned; he was the one guarding the only exit of a burning building, now.