Swimmingly

Kelsier's teacher.

The unnamed Mistborn serial killer antagonist of the second trilogy.

Breath, I was just making an idle comment. Please, do yours.

Personally, I only do this from my phone. It flows more easily for quick fun stuff like this; and I think I write better when it takes slightly longer to write sentences.

Korb nodded, springing to his feet, tripping, landing in a push-up and throwing himself dizzily back to his feet. So, perhaps that brandy had been stronger than he thought, after all. He leaned on the ornate sword-cane for support before he fell again. "If Zakk can vouch for you, come one come all! To my...thing. House. Estates! Yes! We'll wake up hungover and grimly discuss the fate of the world over tea and ill-considered cures! I might even be sober!" Korb hiccuped, made an expansive gesture, then continued. "You! Tool! Please look threatening!" He wheeled toward the door and staggered through, Vhalin hurrying behind, a muffled sigh squeezing out from beneath the veil. And then the voice returned. Ten thousand gods, you've done it now, it said, chewing the words like a tender side of beef. We're going to die. Duck. Korb ducked. A crossbow bolt breezed through his hair, scraping a thin cut across his scalp, and smashed into the cobblestones, throwing up sparks. Korb flung himself backwards, bouncing off Zakk as he left through the door, but even as he pinwheeled to the ground - again - Korb heard a strangled scream. Either Vhalin was doing his job very astutely, or the quite contrary-looking woman whom he'd drenched earlier had slipped out earlier. Of course, the latter option could also explain the presence of the assailant in the first place. Probably not, though. He had apologised.

Korb looked confused for a moment, then realisation dawned on his face. He laughed. "Not what I meant to say."

Korb looked up. "Why, a duke, of course. I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for someone to blame for the laws here, though. I don't sit on any of the councils." He left out the fact that most of those who did owed him enough favours that, should he wish it, he could probably effectively control the city for a few months without a single jot of military force. Not that he'd ever leveraged that sort of thing - any more than strictly necessary. "I'm afraid my family has degenerated to little more than glorified vinters, and, alas, I have no heirs," he added.

Korb very carefully devoted his entire willpower to keeping his pants dry. That done, he smiled up at the hulking man, clamping his terror into a steel vise and desperately bearing down on it. "When I'm given a drink by a strange woman who doesn't work here, I get suspicious, friend. I didn't trust her." He gestured to the thoroughly soaked woman. "Besides, tell me it wasn't funny!" Korb said brightly. Zakk stared at him, grabbing his shirt again and hoisting Korb back into the air. "Tha' weren't funny," he announced, voice grim as a long drop to hard rock. Korb decided to get it over with. He shifted his voice down a few notes, just enough to whisper at the baritone he'd used, and made the most elegant bow he could while his toes dangled a foot off the ground. "My dear lady, I, Korb von Shwartmeyer, offer my sincerest apologies, deepest regrets, and a true desire to make amends for my rude, loutish, and frankly thoughtless behaviour. I owe you whatsoever favour you would demand of me, now and forever, and hope that our inauspicious meeting, borne of suspicion, shall not be a harbinger of future encounters; to that end, please allow me to buy you a drink as soon as your," he looked down his nose at Zakk, who still hoisted him in the air, "acquaintance releases me." "Fair enough?" Korb asked the mercenary. Perhaps the sword-cane is a little older than it appears?

I'll stop if that's true. I just wanted to make it clear that Korb can be quite observant, but I think I went too far.

In case nobody got the reference, souten is a Name of the Wind reference. It's what you order when you want water and the cost of a drink, rather than the drink itself. Korb told the barkeep to keep the change, thus explaining that he didn't want the money. The barkeep is utterly confused. Korb raised a single eyebrow, then examined his drink. Souten - water in the common parlance. The inhuman woman was putting on a very good show, dropping her voice and getting closer than strictly necessary - tempting, but, whatever she was, definitely not Korb's type. Honestly, probably not even his species. Besides, she might have poisoned the drink. Korb had a sudden idea. He leaned close to her ear, pitched his voice to a melodramatic baritone, and spoke. "Hello, miss. Would you care for a drink?" He waited a beat - she thought about it, then opened her mouth to respond. As she did, Korb grabbed his mug of chilled water and splashed her full in the face. A shocked second passed. The fire flickered, and, in the second of shadow, her eye seemed to blaze green, her teeth oddly sharp. Korb leaned close to her ear again and whispered in the same tone as before. "Is the taste to your liking?" Feel free to give Korb the beating of his life, if it's in character He has a cane - he can lean on it as he limps home.

Four. Korb sat back, satisfied - it wouldn't do to get too drunk, now. He could still feel the vinery board he'd drunk with the Count, earlier, and it was better to look drunk and feel tipsy. "Get me," he called to the barkeeper, "a souten." He made sure to slur the words slightly. "Oh, and keep the change." The barkeep looked at him, confused. "Sir?" "You know what I mean," Korb snapped. Ten thousand gods, but he would miss that smooth liquor. Exquisite. The portly man hurried away, shrugging and picking up the ballad again. He was a little rosy-cheeked himself at this point, and had progressed from humming to full-bellied singing, pitched low and deep. "And I'll cliiiimb the sunset, for you, All the gems in the clear night sky, for youuuu!" A slim, honey-skinned woman lurked in the corner of Korb's vision, and he let his attention wander over her, never quite catching hold. Through the corner of his eye, he only caught vague impressions: a twitch of the leg, and slip of shadow. All together the impressions added up to something quick and graceful, alert and not quite human. Korb snorted quietly. Sometimes, it seemed like nobody was. I'd suggest that everyone wrote how they feel like writing - however, a little blocking and description would be helpful

AW, shucks, Kobold. Thanks.

Korb threw back the tumbler, letting the sharp, smooth taste roll around his mouth for a moment before swallowing. One. "Your loss," he shrugged. "I'll be taking it slow, anyway. Shame to waste good liquor getting drunk fast, eh, friend?"

Korb clapped his hands sharply, cupping them slightly - the resulting snap of air flicked through the room like a sharp look. "Zakk, when and if you can assemble your team here, tell me and we can meet at my mansion to talk about supplies, extra help, politics, and the like. Until then, I intend to take advantage of our," he looked up at the huge, armoured figure, "mutual friend's generosity, and will be getting thoroughly drunk on the finest liquor in this place. If any of your magic can cure a hangover, I suggest using it on me in the morning. I'm difficult to negotiate with when my head hurts." Korb turned back to the bar; the barman was shouting at the pair of broad-shouldered thugs hauling great oak casks from the basement and setting them on empty shelves behind the bar. A stack of glinting liquor bottles rattled softly on the floor to the beat of footsteps - apparently the good stuff took precedent. Korb stood up and sidled behind the bar, tossing his cane over and over in his hands speculatively. He pulled a small jeweler's glass from a pocket in his freshly tailored suit, wondering idly whether that particular fellow was psychic or just clever, and examined the brands and marks on the casks. "Mmmm...," he said, brushing a patch of dust from one. "This..I will drink this." Korb jabbed the hilt of his ornate sword-cane at the cart of clean glasses beneath the bar, catching one on the handle and knocking it onto the floor. There was a loud crack, followed by a tinkle as glass spread over the ground. He swore and swept it aside with a foot, then plucked another glass with his fingers, dropped it as well, and finally managed to pick one up with exaggerated care on the third try - his nerves were still acting up, it seemed. He filled the cup with a wizened, oaky liquor as the barman happily breezed past, whistling a song as he cleaned the glass up. Korb recognised it. It was a ballad called, "For You, All the Gems in the Clear Night Sky". How much had the gem that...thing...had paid for tonight's entertainment with been worth?

It costs $20 for the full feature version, but there's a browser-based bare-bones oone you can use for free.

Leras' Plan? It's a bit of a pun on Destiny, considering the plot of Mistborn.

I feel guilty now, Aether. Let's just admit that the rep system is flawed, and put it down to human nature, OK? The best way to give these actual contributors to the community accolades is to make posts like this laying down their accomplishments as a separate thing from the rep. Rep is nice, but I'm aware that I'm not as detailed as Kurk or artistic as Awesomeness. In the end, I'll be the first to acknowledge them as the real driving forces here. Basically, I make a lot of cheap jokes. People like cheap jokes. It's as simple as that. The rep system just isn't perfect. I don't think that I abuse it in any way - but I also think that it's better to use it for some friendly jostling and an occasional laugh than take it as an accurate reputation represention. Also, if you find my humour distasteful, please downvote. I'd rather walk away with a bruised pride and a pruned sense of humour than a smouldering set of overly polite non-downvoters glaring at their screens. Thanks. *backs slowly away from mic*

What about painting notes over with a transparent adhesive or laquer that has a high metal content, or writing nonsense on the paper in invisible ink, which the ironsight should be able to see equally well, underneath and above the actual impression? Also, using delicate brushes and little ink on a tough surface to avoid shaping the surface of the note into words.

It is intelligence, of a sort. I think a zinc compounder would be more of a powered-up Sherlock Holmes than anything - immediate deduction and all of that. It might be like giving yourself fifteen minutes to think about every detail, but your perception of time doesn't actually change.

There's also the fact that he was getting immortality fatigue. Besides, I think Mr. T's intelligence wasn't just a brainspeed boost. His mental capacity and ability to make connections was vastly expanded while his ability to feel compassion and empathy was dampened to nothing - he essentially became the most extreme sociopathic savant in the world, replacing the instinctive understanding of human emotion with a cold, analytical one. Zinc compounding would just let you have ideas quicker, not make those ideas any better. If you apply it to a problem, you use it like a tool - I doubt it makes you any more introspective, careful, or ethical than normal.

I think that, as long as they are only sensibly abused and mostly adhered to, they should be fine. As long as we remember that the point of this is not to show off how badass our characters are, we can do this properly. In the end, so long as everyone's making a proper effort, we'll have a good story. I'd suggest an addendum to the effect that, while all players own their own characters, we can make assumptions and use them in our own scenes, fight or otherwise - if there's a problem, well, that's what the blue text is for. And, yeah, this guy isn't too happy with his employer.

That sounds good for an NPC - both Korb and Vhalin are going to be interacting with this man a fair amount, I think, so do you want to beat out the details of his character now? I'm thinking a man who, having spent his working life trying to prevent Korb from doing stupid things using the frankly impossibly tiny budget allocated to him. He's trained in basic combat, but the guards he's hired are necessarily cheap and unqualified - there's just enough to keep away most thieves from the von Shwartmeyer estates. Tall, around 60 or so, walks with a solid oak cane, has short hair that's still coal-black but strains in all directions.

TenSoon, when he helped Vin by reminding her of the secret

Welcome to the 17th Shard! Please feel free to theorise, pun, and scribble with the frenetic lucidity warming itself on the fires of madness with the rest of us! Please don't feed the eldritch terrors, and watch out for spikes!

Well, that goes without saying.