Swimmingly

The Forsaken are the generals, the Darkfriends are everything from local supporters to human officers or soldiers for the dark ones. Halfmen are kind of like sergeants or lieutenants that have psychic control over troops of Trollocs. They represent a regression towards mankind in Trolloc populations, with human-level intelligence and some kind of shadow-based teleportation ability.

When Eshonai called the Stormfather the Rider of Storms, I just assumed that the figures were him. However, that doesn't mesh with other descriptions. Even scarier, their footprints would be hidden by the devesation of the highstorm, when they would leave them at all. There's something about that that seems incredibly creepy.

Darkfriend: Person who has pledged them self to the Dark One or one of his lackeys. Halfman: Fade, eyeless thing of shadow and terror.

Well, I think a really fun story could be a murder mystery, with the catch that the victim, witnesses, and quite possibly the murderer are all hallucinations bound to one person, or perhaps a small community of people who, for various reasons, possess bound spirits. Though that wouldn't work under your rules, perhaps some kind of brutal psychological damage, leaving the victim shocked or insane.

If malicious things can be done with manipulation, I would think said couriers would be prime targets for bribes.

Welcome to the 17th Shard, Quirky!

I don't think so - I just had a funny idea. Maybe when summer school's done. Already doing one RP at the moment.

I'm wondering what happens to things the subject is wearing or holding as they are bound. Say, for instance, Alan and Becky have found the Macguffin of Doom, and it's about to go off and destroy the world. Could Alan hold it, enter a contract with Becky, and make the object he's holding turn spirit as well? When a spirit decides to die at last, what happens to their body and things? Do they coalesce from the ether and drop? If so, where - the location the were bonded, the place their last bonder died, at the feet of the first heir to their services? Can a spirit be destroyed in any way at all? What about magically binding contracts that could, for example, give a spirit complete control of a subject's body for a time (expressed in a way that made it clear that the gift of a body for x amount of time was given in exchange for the service of using said body to do y during x amount of time)? Say that the seven Gratitudes were performed, and the acknowledgement took the form of some kind of token - a signed document, a trinket, a coin. It seems to me that the spirit, while bound to the recipient, would also be connected to the token in some way. Perhaps it needs to kept on the recipient's person, or perhaps its destruction simply voids the contract. What about mental condition. Say that Becky's great grandfather has arranged to be bound to her on his deathbed, but unfortunately has severe dementia when this happens. However, in a moment of lucidity, he beckons her close and, weakly, they complete the ritual. Is his mind restored? Does he remain forgetful and still have trouble speaking, despite his apparent age reversal? In a similar vein, physical strength is transferred, but is that a quality of the spirit or the body? If Alan was parapalegic, and was bound to Becky, would that show in a lack of enhancement in those areas? What about mental abilities, like a photographic memory or a particular mode of abstract thinking? Would those transfer? Can a spirit be destroyed in any way while bound? Is there anything a spirit can do to change the output of its power - can it purposefully sap its strength to deprive its master of that same strength? Is the area which the spirit cannot leave arbitrary, or does that vary depending on the magical strength of the holder? How long can a spirit last before the weight of their memories makes them go mad? Are there any creatures that inhabit the spirit side - perhaps the binding of animals to become spirits is a lost art (based around separate principles, perhaps overcoming with strength rather than extracting debt for services rendered)? Are there any coexistent magical arts in the world? Is there any way, any material or ritual, that can exclude a spirit's natural form from a place?

Can I make one too? Shantytown Can turn any artificial structure into something made out of poorly-assembled IKEA parts. Cars, buildings, bridges, chairs, toilets, sandbags, into shoddy IKEA replicas that will probably collapse under their own weight given ten seconds. Weakness: Hand-made table-legs. They must be processed from raw timber by a single person, and cut, sanded, engraved, stained, varnished, and initialed by that same person. As well as disabling the Epic, they will cause any IKEA'd materials to revert to their original form, though not shape or position.

It has a meaning in Latin, too! As far as I can tell, it's "they who are defiling". Which, given the [insert various spoilers about how the entire place is messed up and requires trigonometry to use a compass] kind of makes sense, over the long scale.

You become incapable of keeping any connections of any sentimental value. People don't sypathize with you, or feel any real empathy. You lose any object you feel attached to, first small things like wealth, then mementoes, then even basic things like food and clothing slip away from you if you don't seize them right away - a meal will be splattered across the ground, a shirt will be stolen after you get beat unconscious. Your injuries will heal at a normal rate, you won't age, but you will need to sleep and eat or you will grow weak with fatigue, undying and unmoving until some kindly or exploitative soul takes you in and nurses you back to health, despite the effect that tries to brush away any empathy or connection to you. If you break a bone and it heals poorly, it will stay that way. If you take a killing blow, your healing will speed until you are technically alive again - vital organs all functioning. This will occur even if you are burnt to ash - in fact this is the only way that you can heal your scars and infirmities. Drugs have no hold on you, neither poisons nor any other kind. Though you will not age, your mind will eventually cast away its earlier memories, one by one, until you literally cannot directly remember a time when you did not live in an undying hell. Your only option, eventually, is to take. Your only chance to have the pleasures of a true life is to grab and consume them before your ill luck can destroy or remove them from you. You become the wandering thing in the night, the creature mothers tell stories of to make children behave. Your mind breaks and mends itself over and over until the last time you were still unburdened and sane fades from memory. And when, eventually, some kind soul knocks you unconscious, burns you, and buries the ashes, well, you can try not to dig your way back out. It is, after all, so very comfortable in here. But you are starved of oxygen, die, and heal until a death every fifteen minutes drives you mad with the desire to escape, and you dig yourself out in bursts of frantic energy to haunt the night again. How's that for the price of immortality?

Immortality. Because that never backfires.

Bent sat cross-legged and listened to the cries of a dying city. It was faint. The vineyard-covered hills blocked sound well. The red glow in the sky could have been the sunrise, if it had been a few hours later. Still, the occasional rumble drifted across, carried on the ocean breeze. The sounds might have been thunder - with the magic that was being thrown around, some of them probably were. Bent was older than he looked. His family always had been, since before they arrived in Silari, mongrels with just a hint of immortality in their veins. Bent had known his great-great-great grandfather as a child, though the man had been mad with dementia. Going on six decades, though he looked only twenty-five or so, Bent had an old man's memories of the city. He had worked the docks, cleaned the streets, been a bodyguard and a hired foot soldier in three different gangs. He had turned to petty crime, and tried going legitimate four times over. And all of his life, he'd fought and begged, cleaned and loved on Silarni cobbles. The pidgin of the docks, the sibilant hiss of the lizardfolk, and the odd lick of a foreign tongue had all built up on him like rings on a tree. He could think of any point in a the vast, grimy maze that made up Silari and walk there without thinking. It made a curious mongrel of his soul - immortal dispassion, mortal desires, and the thick, grimy taste of Silari plastered thickly over it all. So, while he sat on the pavillion floor, rage burned in him. Even through the dispassionate screen of immortal blood, he could feel it. It told him to make the raiders pay for what they'd done to his home. It made him feel like the red glow blazing behind the hills was scorching his skin. It made him want to weep as he remembered the dockside taverns and little pawnshops, probably raided and smashed by now. But his mongrel blood burned, froze, and left him with nothing but a dampness in the corners of his eyes. Maybe the family had been right to leave, all those years ago. He'd sat on the wharf and watched as the ship sailed away, six generations of lost mongrels packed onto a boat to hell-knew-where. They had said that they were looking for their homeland. Bent had told them that he'd found his. He knew he was going to die someday. That was something precious to him, in a dark way. The dispassion of immortals ran in their veins as sure as an unnatural death - they knew they could cheat death forever, if they were careful enough, and so they feared it. That sort of fear would drive any sentient being insane, without a mental defence. It took away their passion and hunger for life and left them with a need to survive, instead. But Bent was not immortal, just long-lived. He could stare at the certain death a century or two away and accept the destination. He could live, because he could die. Whatever his blood whispered, he wouldn't live forever. He could act freely, knowing it was the best option. Beside him, Marie snored. She had put her back to a pillar, hand to her dagger, and given him a look that said exactly why and how she would use it. That taken care of, she had drifted off. Didn't she care? She had grown up in Silari too, probably. When they had gone to pick up her little trunk of herbs, it had been the only thing in her rooms worth more than the junk it was made of. She would have had to fight tooth and nail to get a position as lucrative and respectable as a serving girl. Why didn't she care? Maybe she did. And maybe Bent was a sentimental old fool. It was easy for many to hate the city that turned them to crime and pettiness, or kept them scrabbling against bare stone. The fool noble strutted into the pavilion looking mildly offended. Deep in conversation behind him, Vhalin and the captain walked out of the darkness, and Zakk called out a greeting to the ranger. He lapsed into Dwarvish near the end - "How did your fight go?", or something along those lines. Vhalin replied, but Bent wasn't paying attention; Korb had sauntered up in front of Marie and himself. He wore a knife on his belt proudly, like a child displaying a trophy. "My friends!" he exclaimed. Everything this man did was an exclamation. Bent wondered how much of it was an act, like a frog puffing himself up - or a spider weaving a web. "I trust you are well, and ready to depart?" Bent shrugged, reached out, and closed two fingers around Marie's dagger. He eased it from her grip, then shook her shoulder. The girl snapped awake, clenched her hand, and swung the hand that had held Barb as if to stab him. "Marie?" he rumbled. "Lord Korb's asking if you're ready?" The girl nodded sharply, then snatched her weapon from Bent's hand, stood up, and stretched. "When do we leave?" she asked. Korb gestured in apology with his cane, bowing slightly like an actor finished delivering a monologue. "As soon as we know where we might be going, my girl. If you'd like to make a suggestion, I advise that you come to the table as soon as is convenient." "And me?" Bent asked. Korb smiled a touch indulgently. "If you would so like, Mister Bent, please join us." Rotted gods, but the man was irritating. Hopefully Bent could avoid contact with him. However, the gold schooner still weighed down his pocket, which itself was on a vest tailored from Korb's jacket - he had to repay his debts. In any case, he needed this man if he was to take his city back. Bent would tolerate him and keep him safe until then. With Saluard and Vhalin at his side, he'd stop the buffoon from getting himself killed. Every person had redeeming qualities; he'd learned that in a place where it paid to keep them buried deeply. Korb's would show. Maybe. Bent stood and walked slowly to the table. He sat down, Marie joining him, and watched Korb as he slid in at the head, thumb rubbing the hilt of that cane. It would just take time. Thought I'd do some back story and motivation for Bent, here. Hope it's all right.

Buy. It's a character we've been introduced to already, and illegitimate.

Exhaustionspren. They appear to be small whirls of orange dust in the Physical, but are huge, greyish blurs that swoop like vultures in the Cognitive.

Yeah, I was kind of annoyed the way we never saw a sympathetic or even neutral Trolloc. There were no Trollocs trying to escape their society, no delving into their motivations or origin besides'a wizard did it'. Pretty uninspired. Some of the other beasties got interesting, though.

Fatebreaker, you are absolutely right. Bring on the chouta!

http://www.writingexcuses.com/2014/07/13/writing-excuses-9-29-part-2-of-2-critiquing-sixth-of-the-dusk/#comments

Well, if you can draw energy from mass, then the iron suit isn't as good an idea. I was under the impression that you needed an outside source to push elements away from iron, so any material would effectively contain a store of energy proportional to its distance from iron on the periodic table - and iron would contain no energy that the manipulator could draw on at all. Which opens up the possibility of manipulators unconsciously draw energy by drawing trace elements in their vicinity towards iron. This might make them feel more clearheaded and focused while practising, because there would actually be a higher oxygen content in the air near them. On the other hand, precious metals would develop impurities, gems might change colours for the same reason, and generally odd and arcane effects. oh, and lead would become gold - after going through a quicksilver stage. On teleportation, I'd be wary of mistakes or malfeasance. Very wary, to the point that I might not accept a jump from anyone I didn't trust.

Hey Dave, I'm fairly sure that the only person who does Writing Excuses that might conceivable hear about this is Brandon, assuming his assistant notices it and passes it on, given that he doesn't read the forums himself. I suggest using the comments section, or submitting this for a Microcasting episode. Sorry.

When half an hour of your morning seems to disappear, and you think, "damnation it, did I just burn Cadmium?"

Well, it's not so much being born special as being reborn special that's important on Nalthis. It's true about the average unReturned awakener, though. The Shaod from Elantris and the Mistborn genetic inheritance don't really diverge from this trope much, though.

To be fair, if Lopen's arm is any indication, Stormlight or Stormlight-esque abilities powered by other means should work just as well.

Hemalurgic fish. I approve of this concept.