Metacognition

Meta hunched his shoulders at the insults hurled at him. Plebeians, he thought. I will show them the power of my detective skills! As such, Meta spent most of the night writing and rewriting; copying the same note time and again. During the early morning hours, he went house to house. He either slipped a sheet of paper under every door or he nailed it nearby. He... missed a few houses, but was that due to exhaustion or intent? Every note read the same. It said: In the event of my death, I've taken the time to inform everyone of my uber-special techniques of amazing detective work, that are awesome and beyond reproach: If no one speaks up against a lynch, then you're likely doing the work of these killers for them. They are a devious lot and they relish in letting us kill each other. As I write this, they will know these thoughts and try to confuse you, but be wary. Beware bandwagons. Voting is an option, not a rule (unless a GM demands it). The less likely that the vote will go the way these murderers wish it to, the more they will have to speak up. This will give them more opportunities to slip up. Take into consideration that they may have vote-changing abilities, but even then, they'll have to discuss to make those abilities work for them unless you do the job for them. Talk openly about your suspicions! If you get too close, They may want to silence you and while you will be dead, the rest of the village may be able to pull information due to your death. Again, they will try to use these to their advantage, but this makes it a gamble on their part and not a for sure thing. Every note was unsigned, but it wouldn't take a "genius" to figure it out. As dawn approached, Meta collapsed onto his bed. He had multiple samples he still needed to analyze that he had picked up during his search of Cyrus' body, but they would have to wait. Before he passed out, he thought to himself; Did they really think that I would tell them everything I had found right there in the open? The murderers were likely amongst those that had gathered. After all, the killer is likely to frequent the crime scene. With that, he let the sweet release of sleep overtake him.

​I hereby declare Herowannabe as official Tineye, if only for this section of the forum. Even I missed some of those clues and I had more information than anyone in the game! Your third message for Digits was just brilliant. Hero, you have been invested by the Shard of Metacognition (considering the situation, the Shard name is even more appropriate)! This investment doesn't come with any powers (although I will let you play your characters as a Tineye in my games even if that is not their role within the game. I can't and won't speak for other GMs), but you will hold the title until/unless someone is capable of surpassing you. And, of course, you're allowed to label yourself as such. All those in favor?

*Sniff* I'm so proud that you're carrying on the tradition of evilness.

I did say that either the Village or the Spiked would want to kill me. Seems like pretty good detective work so far!

Aftermath (The Devil’s Den) It had been a full week since Wilson and Quillion had finished off the rest of the Crew. Seran and Vron were the last two to die. When Windrunner and Aether had found their bodies tangled together and mutilated, they ran. Evidently, they were more afraid of the Spiked than of the poison coursing through their veins. Wilson slammed he fist onto the bar. “Seven days we’ve had this place all to ourselves and we still can’t find Modeft’s bloody antidote! We’ve torn the place apart and still nothing!” “Quite,” Quillion calmly stated. “I even managed to pry up the metal sheeting in Herwynbe’s underground lair. Perhaps this is what Modeft had in mind all along? No one was supposed to survive, but the lie of a cure is what was needed to motivate them?” “Possibly, but you’ve heard the stories they told about him. If he could pull off even half the stuff that’s been attributed to him, something like this would probably be incredibly simple. No, it’s got to be here somewhere. What’s left to check?” Quillion scanned the room. There were holes in the floor, ceiling, and every wall. They had drilled through the support beams to the point of almost making the entire building collapse. Half of the bar had been torn apart and almost every table and chair were kindling. The cellar was a mess. Just today, they had finally grown desperate enough to break open every cask and barrel down there. It was a waste of alcohol and possible profit for them, but they had to be sure. The water with the delaying agent was almost out. Qullion shrugged. “I suppose he could have hidden it somewhere else?” “But then how would he posthumously get it to the Crew?” Again Quillion shrugged. “The only other possibility is that it is hidden from our eyes only. That only someone that is not Spiked could find it.” “That stinks of mysticism.” “It is the only answer we have left, I think. It seems that we are defeated, even though we were victorious.” “Bah!” Wilson shouted, stomping through the bar and kicking at the remains of their search. “I hate that Modeft! I wish Cessie hadn’t killed him just so I could kill him! I’d strangle the location out of him! I’d beat him until he told me! I’d kick him so hard, his decendents would still show the mark!” She punctuated the last bit with a strong kick in the side of the water barrel with the delaying agent. Quillion winced, but breathed a sigh of relief when it cracked, but didn’t break. The barrel settled back down and Quillion was about to try to calm Wilson out of her triad when he heard something thumping the side of the water barrel from the inside. Could it be? He thought. He caught Wilson’s eye and they both just stood there, barely willing to allow themselves to hope. The one thing he knew we wouldn’t destroy. Could he really have been so clever? They both burst into action at the same time. They ripped off the top of the water barrel and with bated breath peered inside. There, floating in the dredges of the tank, tied to the bottom, was a small bottle. “So very, very clever,” Quillion whispered as he reached inside to almost reverently pull the antidote out. “Looks like we’ll survive after all.” ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Game 2 is done! Good Game everyone and congrats to the Spiked for winning two in a row (we’re going to have to break that record next game)! It really was very close. As usual, here are all of the Docs that were used in the game: Master Doc Day/Night Spreadsheet All Thieves Go to Heaven (Dead Doc) The Steel Ministry (Spiked Doc) The Secret Hideout (The Doc for those who arrived too late to sign up) I plan to keep this up for maybe a day or two before merging it in with the rest, so feel free to discuss the game and everything! Of course, be nice and while trash talking is acceptable, please be careful not to actually offend anyone with it! Keep it lighthearted, okay?

Meta was still in his small clothes and a robe he couldn't seem to get closed, as he was dragged from his shack by a determined crowd. As they finally stopped pulling on him, he cinched the robe and yawned. He seemed oblivious to the death at his feet. "What seems to be the problem?" He asked. A few of the crowd just stared dumbfounded; a few glared at him. Finally, he realized what must be disturbing them. "What? You were the ones who burst into my home and practically threw me into the streets! If you wanted modesty, let a man get ready first!" That's when he noticed the body. He gasped and turned as pale as a the mist flowing around them. Then he sprinted back towards his shack and slammed the door. Five minutes later, he emerged again, this time fully clothed and he had a bag filled with various odds and ends. Everything from tweezers and pliers to vials and liquids. He strode through the crowd, barking orders. "Back! No one touch the scene! Create a perimeter and someone get me some light!" He set his bag down a few feet away from the body and he pulled out his magnifying glass and a few other instruments. He started circling the body, searching the ground around it first, then moving closer and closer in. Every now and then, he'd pick something up. Sometimes he would place it in vial. Other times, he threw it back down. When he finally reached Cyrus' body, he checked it over from head to foot. After 10 minutes of searching, he finally stood up and faced the crowd. "I have determined that this is indeed Cyrus and that he died due to a dagger to the chest." He nodded satisfactorily and started repacking his gear.

Windrunner is a Thug, thus he survives the first attack against him. No, he is not dead. I'm just waiting on a few more night orders, so if you haven't sent one in and would like to, PM me!

Nepene granted my request, but rather than post it, he sent it to me personally. While I'm not allowed (and I wouldn't want to give anything away anyways), I can attest that there was no underhanded techniques used. It does seem like a fun experiment!

Night 11 (The Sky is Falling!) Windrunner could just tell that it was finally his time the second he walked into the Inn. He had been dreading this day since he found Modeft strung up like a fish in the market. Even though he knew it was coming, he still cringed each time someone voted for him. “I say Windrunner must be Spiked,” Quillion said. “He was the first one on the scene,” Wilson commented. “Well I think you’re just trying to get an innocent killed, Wilson! As such, you should be the one to die!” Windrunner silently thanked Vron. He crossed his fingers. Maybe today wasn’t his day after all! Seran stood to cast his vote. “You know, in the end I’ve got to go with…. Wait, you all hear that?” Indeed they could. It was a high pitch whistling sound and it seemed to be getting closer. While the Crew had no reference, it sounded as if a huge bomb was being dropped from a great height and it was coming from directly above them. Every eye turned to the ceiling. Suddenly, something huge crashed through the roof, showering the remnants of the Crew in debris. Unfortunately, the object crashed down directly on Windrunner’s head, cleanly knocking him out. As the dust cleared, the Crew could finally see what the object in question was. “A… book?” Said Wilson. Vron picked up the huge tome and wiped it off. “Huh,” he said. “Words of Radiance. Never heard of it” Seran burst forth from the wreckage, tackled Vron and grabbed the book. “MINE!” He yelled as he dashed out of the Inn, without ever completing his vote. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I took some crazy liberties this time to commenorate WoR’s release, but hopefully you guys still enjoyed it! Night 11 begins! 24 hours as usual, but I will definitely work with people if they get a hold of me ahead of time and their difficulties are WoR related! Windrunner turned out to be a Thug! Good Luck and Happy Reading Everyone!

Isn't it time? I can't find a link anywhere!

Fair warning: only about an hour left before the end of the day!

More than likely, I haven't looked far enough yet, but I'd love to see a transcription of one of these, to see how they work. The idea sounds very interesting, but vague. Vague to the point that even the rules don't make much sense because we have nothing to base them on. Do you have a transcription and permission from the other player? If not, I'd be down for trying it sometime so that others will have some semblance of what you mean. Not right now though. I still have a game I'm GMing and I'll be gone over Spring Break.

Day 11 (Tricks in the Mists) Mathieu didn’t notice he was being stalked. He didn’t notice much of anything these days. Ever since Modeft’s death, Mathieu had been in a state of shock. He spent most of his time staring off into space. Some primal part of his mind kept his just alive enough that he made his way to the Inn every day to get some of the delaying water, but other than that, it was as if no one was home. My whole life is a lie, he thought. I’m not of noble birth, but niether am I a skaa anymore as well. But in the end, we all wind up where Modeft did; albiet hopefully a bit less messy. He spent his nights wandering the streets of Urteau, almost as if he was courting death itself. He would walk and walk, hoping to find some form of hope left to him now that his illusions had been shattered. So far, nothing had come. Every time he thought he found something, the image of Modeft strung up as he was would appear in his mind, causing him to again feel the hopelessness. Tonight was no different than any other night, until he saw her. He had left the Harrows behind and was walking through the streets above when he heard the faintest of scratches, as if a foot had slid on some roofing tiles. He looked up in time to see a small form, wrapped in a Mistborn cloak perched on a rooftop near him. He gasped and even though he knew she was too far away to hear him, she turned towards him. He must have looked like a fool, with his mouth agape and huge round eyes, because she smirked and winked at him before shooting off into the mist. If she continued in that direction, she would be heading for the Canton of Inquisition. That had to be her, the hier to the Survivor, Lady Vin! All Mathieu had was vague stories, yet they matched the description of the Mistborn he just saw. But what is she doing in Utreau? Mathieu stood there for quite awhile, mulling over the chance encounter. How could she smile? From what he had heard, she had seen more death and misery than most people could bare. From somewhere deep within himself, he felt his resovle growing. If she could smile in the face of everything she had been through, then surely so could he. The image of Modeft’s body tried to reappear in his thoughts, but they were overcome by a stronger, more hopeful image. Of a small figure, barely a woman yet, but with the weight of the world on her shoulders and a sly smile and a wink. Mathieu couldn’t help but be caught up in it and he smiled too. He headed back to the Harrows. The Crew needed him. Just because he might die, that didn’t mean that he needed to give up on the living. ….He never made it back to the Harrows. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wes was still getting used to the feeling of flying over the rooftops. The first time he’d tried, he had almost broken his leg when he didn’t push on some form of metal to help slow his fall. Something about all this still felt unnatural to him, but the Crew needed him, so he was determined to help out. After all, even Modeft had somehow trusted him, as he’d made sure that he had gotten the letter to Aspren that first day. He wasn’t about to let him down now. Due to his inexperience, he didn’t notice the trap set for him until it was too late. As he neared the next rooftop, he noticed a solid line burst through the mists. It ran perpedicular to his trajectory. He searched for another source of meta to throw himself out of the way, but he just wasn’t quick enough. An experience Allomancer would’ve told him that knowing where you’re landing is incredibly important. Unfortunately, no one was around to correct Wes’ mistakes before them became deadly. He flared his metal and pushed off a window latch behind him, trying to shoot back into the sky, but all this did was make it so the rope caught him around the shins instead of the waist. He tumbled through the air. The vertigo kept him from finding a decent anchor and he fell to the cobblestones. He barely kept himself from cracking his skull open when he fell, but one arm snapped and he felt a few ribs break as well. In fact, one of them had punctured a lung and he found it very difficult to draw a breath. “Help,” he weezed, barely a whisper. “Someone, please help.” Surprisingly, someone did come out of the shadows. As they stepped up close to Wes, they rolled him onto his back with a kick to his ribs and another to his shoulder. Through the pain and watering eyes, Wes could make out their face… and the fact that they were holding a dagger. “You?” Wes asked. “You set this up? Aonar shook his head. “No, I’m here to make sure you were dead. Looks like I get to finish the job after all.” Aonar was trained well and didn’t have a single speck of metal on him. As he reached down to plunge the dagger into Wes’ heart, Wes smiled. Aonar paused. “What do you have to smile about? You’re dead whether I kill you now or wait for you to die a slow death. You should really be thanking me, as what I’m about to do is a mercy to you.” Wes didn’t answer. This must be why Modeft chose me, he thought. He might not be an experienced Coinshot, but he was a very experienced and very competent thief. As such, he knew the value of always having a few coins stashed away on one’s person. Instead of answering Aonar, he took the coin he had stored in the side of his mouth and spit it directly towards Aonar’s face. Then he pushed on it with everything he had left. The coin sped away so fast that it caused a minor clap of sound before driving through Aonar’s head and continuing on. Aonar collapsed beside Wes, dead before he knew what had happened. Wes smiled as his vision began to fade. I hope that is what you wanted of me, Modeft. If not, I’m sorry, but I don’t have any other tricks up my sleeve. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Day 11 begins! You have 48 hours or until everyone votes (so basically: 48 hours. ). Mathieu turned out to be a Regular Crew Member! Wes turned out to be a Coinshot! Aonar turned out to be Spiked! Updated Player List

Everyone keeps worrying about that. Don't worry guys, I'm the primary target no matter what side I'm on. Either the Spiked will want to take me out or the Village will. Either way, everyone pretty much gets a free turn.

Night 10 (Self Inflicted) The Crew seemed to realize that sectioning themselves off into smaller groups didn’t seem to be working. As such, after removing Barty’s mutilated corpse from the Inn, the surviving members gathered around one of the center tables. Windrunner fetched them all some water as the rest debated. “Look,” Seran said, slamming a glass dagger onto the table. “We know for a fact that we’re sharing a table with those that are trying to kill us, but that’s nothing new to us thieves. We need to find out which of us is Spiked so we can finally kill them! No one is leaving this table until we do.” “Well, we killed all the other nobles within our group,” Quillion remarked. “It seems to have worked so far, so let’s kill our faux noble!” The group argued and discussed and then argued some more. As the day wore on, it seemed like the group was getting sullen for having to sit there with the threat of a dagger stuck into them as motivation. Eventually, they turned on Seran, claiming that he must be Spiked. “You have got to be kidding me,” Seran said. “Not only am I not Spiked, but I’m a Thug! You really want me prove myself, so you all can stop this ridiculous train of thought?” A group of wary eyes met his. One by one, they all eventually nodded. Seran rolled his eyes and grabbed the glass dagger. “Fine, but when this is done, I expect an apology for each and every one of you! You do realize that now I won’t be able to help protect someone tonight. I’ll have my hands full just keeping myself alive.” Again a series of uncaring stares met him. With a sigh, Seran braced himself and shoved the dagger directly into his gut. He winced, but flared his pewter to stem off the worst of it. He knew they wouldn’t settle for less, but his assassin training kept him from cutting anything life threatening. Seran let out a ragged breath, keeping the dagger in place so that it stemmed the blood flow. “There,” he hissed. “Now someone get me something to bandage this with before I run out of metal.” The eyes of the Crew went from uncaring to shock and as if suddenly released from a growing tension, multiple people shot away from the table, looking for medical supplies. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Night 10 begins! You have 24 hours, as usual, but if I get all the night orders in early, I’ll try to get the write up in early! Seran is a Thug! Player Votes Seran - 4 (Wes, Aonar, Quillion, Wilson) Wilson - 2 (Vron, Seran) No Vote - 3 (Windrunner, Aether, Mathieu)

I'd just like to say that even though people seem to be RPing and such, Sign Ups are still open! If anyone is reading this that hasn't signed up and wants to, you're more than welcome. Don't let the already established RP scare you off. Trust me, half of the players will forget their personas within a few turns (including, probably, myself). This game isn't scheduled to start until the Devil's Den is finished, so there is still plenty of time.

@Joe: I think you mean Steampunk Iron man. Meta stepped between the crowd and Cyrus. He then turned to face the crowd with a somber expression, arms folded across his chest. He was doing his best to give them all that disapproving look that only a parent could give. "Right, so this seems like it should be very easy to solve. If you're planning on murdering our beloved leader tonight or any other night, please raise your hand." No hands went up. Meta frowned at the crowd. "That should've worked," he mumbled to himself. "Psychologically speaking, we are programmed to respond to authority figures. That means our murderers are far more insane than I thought. Either that, or the crowd doesn't view me as a figure of authority and that is obviously, preposterous."

Just my opinion, but these two are WAY too powerful. Those basically allows one person to negate an entire turn, which is just too much. If it were a night turn, these same boon/curses would effectively negate everyone's night actions. Remember, some people only have their ability to vote and the vote is an important part of the game, as it's typically the time when everyone actually talks about their decisions. There are a few forums I've read that the day round doesn't end until everyone has voted, so that means the day round could last days easily and a week or more if people keep switching their votes. That's how important the day turn and voting is. Which is why I'll right now state that messing with the day round is a very tricky business. I have used two roles that can affect the day round and even then, I made sure to balance them with another role, so just be careful when trying to come up with day round abilities.

Day 10 (The Night of Blood) Grave had found it difficult to focus on his religion. He knew he should have been more devote, perhaps then they wouldn’t be in this crazy mess, but at times it seemed as if Ja had abandoned him. Ever since the Lord Ruler had fallen, his luck had just gotten worse and worse. First, his original crew had been scattered, making him leave Luthadel and travel to Urteau. On the trip, he was robbed twice and beaten the second time when the bandits realized that he had nothing of value. He arrived in Urteau just in time for Straff Venture to make his life even harder. Then, just as things were starting to look up and he’d found a new crew, an Inquisitor had come along and destroyed this crew too. Add to that the poisoning and watching those that he had just started to call friends getting picked off one by one, some would say it was impressive that he still had any faith at all! So when someone sat down next to him in the small shack he had appropriated, he didn’t even flinch. When they pulled out a dagger that was still stained with blood on it, he barely bat an eyelash. “So it’s my turn now, is it? Praise the Ja.” He calmly remarked. “It took you guys long enough. This must just be yet another example of Ja’s morbid sense of humor; making me live for as long as I have. I’ve had the worst luck this last year and this is just the icing on the cake. So do me one last kindness, eh? Make it quick. I think I’ve suffered enough already. Although, knowing my luck, your kind gets off on causing as much pain as possible. Praise the J-” Grave didn’t get a chance to finish. The dagger was in the strangers hand and through Grave’s throat in an instant. Whether it was mercy or just annoyance at having to listen to Grave constantly praise his religion after every speech, Grave got the quick death he wanted. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Barty had to admire Herwynbe’s work. He’d never be able to duplicate it, at least not as long as both Clancy and Aether were in his head, each trying to be the one to write the messages. Clancy wanted to tell a story, one that would stir the Crew into newfound depths of vigor and righteousness. Aether wanted more lists. So far, Barty had done his best to appease both of them, but it was getting harder now that Mat and Beetle were trying to get in on the action as well. “More flowery words, Barty! You’ll never convince them unless even your words seem commanding!” Barty tended to mumble to himself with the voices of the dead that only he could hear. Sometimes he wondered if they were really there or if he was going mad. “Remember the list. Without a list, all the words mean nothing. A list will give people someplace to work from! Don’t forget the list!” “Hi guys!” “Shut up, Mat. “ “I just like the blood.” It could easily get confusing, even for Barty. He didn’t know where these voices had come from and they definitely hadn’t helped him any. He just woke up one day and there they were. Could people wake up and suddenly be insane? Barty didn’t think so, but if he was insane, would he have noticed that he was insane beforehand? In the end, he decided as he always did, that it didn’t matter. He would just have to do the best he could and hope it was enough. Clancy seemed to take control of his hand and added a little flourish at the bottom of the message he had just finished. That type of thing seemed to be happening more and more often recently. While the thrill of the thrill of leaving messages was gone now that Dyring and Roban were both dead, Barty felt compelled to try to help the Crew in any way possible, so he continued. He stood back and admired his work. “It’s a good list, Barty. It could use more detail, but it’s a good list and that’s what counts.” “I still say it doesn’t inspire enough confidence, but that bit about ‘endowing your knowledge’ unto them was a nice touch.” Barty almost smiled. That was probably the closest Aether and Clancy had come to agreeing in awhile. Perhaps he could do this yet. “Meh, it needed more red. At least then it would look more like blood.” Barty sighed. Oh well, he couldn’t please them all and Beetle did like his blood. He gathered his supplies and made for the door as he continued to mumble out loud as the voices argued. “Umm hey, you guys? Do you hear that?” “Shut Up, Mat!” Just then, Barty heard it too. A whistling sound in the night. He was standing right in the doorway, getting ready to leave when a trio of coins seemed to manifest out of the mist. They were shot with such force, they tore straight through him. “Oh hey! There we go! Blood!” “Be nice, Beetle. This means we have to find somewhere else to go or face Kelsier in the afterlife. After what we did, you really want to face that?” “Yeah, but still… this was always my favorite part.” As Barty quickly faded away, a figure stepped out of the mists. This death had been… unsatisfactory. It was too quick; too painless. Something needed to be done. That was when the figure noticed the writing materials that had tumbled from Barty’s grasp. An idea formed and Barty’s supplies and his body were dragged back into the Inn…. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gamon had a girl on each arm, as was typical after he left the rest of the Crew. Women just seemed to congregate to wherever he happened to be, even here in the Harrows. That didn’t mean that he always took them home with him, just that they happened to flock to his beautiful face. All the attention made it a bit easier for him to deal with all the deaths. Not that he minded the deaths much. He had caused far more than most of the Crew knew. In fact, he found himself reveling in them. His favorite so far was getting rid of that overtly confident fellow, Ridge. Ridge had tried to set himself up as Gamon’s rival, even with his disastrous taste in clothing and a nose that stuck out way too far and a blotchy complexion and… well, and just everything. The man had been a joke and Gamon had enjoyed finally putting him in his place. Besides, there could be only one Casanova in the Crew. Even though Ridge didn’t really offer any actual competition, Gamon felt like Ridge’s flagrant costumes and outlandish mannerisms were distracting the Crew from their really important member; him. Perhaps tonight he would take both of the girls home with him. He deserved a reward after all. Out of the mist, came a spray of coins. They hit the ground directly in front of Gamon, causing the girls to shriek and jump away from him. It was almost a chivalrous move, considering that someone new to Steel could’ve accidentally hit one of them if they had just fired on Gamon. Unfortunately, this also gave Gamon a chance to flee and so he did. He ran back through the Harrows, dodging every now and then and weaving between refuse. He finally his a staircase up and fled into Urteau proper. After many twists and turns, he ducked behind some crates. There was almost no way his attacker could’ve followed him. His attacker would’ve needed some way to leap through the air and bypass all the curving corners Gamon had taken and… “Oh cra-” Gamon started as another shower of coins hit him in the back and the world faded from view. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Three people would never see what the rest of the crew was greeted to when they came to the Inn to get their water. Barty’s body had been torn open and a brush stuck out of the center of it. There was indeed a message written on the wall, but it seemed like it was traced in blood. It didn’t take long for the rest of the Crew to figure out where it had come from…. The message read: I am so sorry. I have failed you, even worse than my predecessor did. Time after time, it seems that all I can do is lead you to Ruin. Oh, how I craved your Devotion, but it seems like the Spiked hold a fatal Dominion over me. The best I can do now is Cultivate a final list of suspects, whom I will destroy, on my Honor, with my last, Odious breath. Seran Matheiu Quillion Wilson I can only pray that these names will lead to our Preservation, and will not create a Chasm between us. I Endow my last bit of knowledge to you, in the hopes that it will lead to some victory. I hope that we can survive into a Radiant dawn. If we follow the Way of Kings, then we will be born out of the mists into the restless ages, heroes, well on our way to ascension. Law must be restored in this realm, this war must be broken. This may be my final archive. Oh, how I hope it isn't. Hi! Shut. Up. Mat! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Day 10 Begins! You have 48 hours. Barty was a Tineye! Grave was a Rioter! Gamon was a Spiked Soother! PMs are no longer allowed. If you want to discuss, you have to do it in thread! Updated Player List

The mechanic is solid, Hero and I do think it is well done, but I don't think it's the kind of thing you'd want for a game like this. Hell, even the probability I used with the Unsnapped was pushing it, IMO. The reason is, you really don't want to leave too much up to chance. The game is more about psychology and manipulation than it is about dice rolls. If too much is left up to chance, then it takes out some of the risk when posting and suspecting someone. Now, that's not to say it couldn't work. As I said, the mechanics are very well done and I don't want to stifle anyone's creativity. If you or anyone else wanted to use such a mechanic, that is definitely the way to do it!

Night 9 (Silence) The few Crew Members left gathered into small groups, each with only a few handful of members. The tables that just a little over a week ago had been filled with an almost ludicrous number of people seemed vacant and a bit reverent, as if the ghosts of those that used to fill them still watched on. Each little group gathered on opposite sides of the room like little islands of life with the expanse of past desolations between them. Their vibrancy and heart of days past seem muted. The Crew had fallen into a somber silence. It seemed like they were ready to accept their deaths as inevitable. So much so that they could barely bring themselves to even vote on which of them would be next, let alone carry out the act. The only one with any fire left seemed to be Quillion. He still had a score to settle with Lord Ollivier and he wasn’t going to just roll over and die until he had the chance to see it settled. “I’m thinking he killed Dyring to get the Inn for himself!” He whispered to those around him. “And if that’s the case, then he’s probably one of those spiked by the Inquisitor as well.” A few of the people around him nodded, but it was easy to see that their heart wasn’t in it. As such, it was a somber group that approached the bar. “What’ll it be?” Roban asked as they approached. “Considering how things have been going, I think we’ve all earned a few drinks. As such, half off and…” At that point, Roban noticed the look in their eyes. They hadn’t approached him for drinks. “Uh, look guys, I know the place looks worse for the wear right now, but I’ve never handled the entire place by myself! Dyring took care of a lot it, but I promise I’ll get better! It’s just a matter of time! Besides, that twixt hasn’t done nothing for us! If anyone is Spiked, it’s probably him!” All of his pleading fell on deaf ears and the inn lost its second and final owner. More than likely, it’d just become another abandoned building in the Harrows, like The Fishing Hole before it… ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Night 9 begins! You have 24 hours to get in your night orders, but if I receive them all early, I’ll try to get the write up in early, even if that means that I need to do another write up tonight yet! Roban turned out to be a Regular Crew Member! Player Votes Roban - 5 (Gamon, Barty, Quillion, Aonar, Wilson) Grave - 1 (Vron, Roban) Mathieu - 0 (Grave) No Vote - 5 (Windrunner, Wes, Seran, Aether, Mathieu)

Meta stumble through Forage's door and somehow tangled himself in a net that was supposedly from a place called Purelake. As he fought his way free, he happened to swipe one of the supposed Lerasium beads everyone was talking about. He palmed it and put it in his mouth, swishing it around as if it was gobstopper. He tossed the net aside and took out a magnifying glass. He studied the Aon glyphs, glowing with a iridescent light. "Hmmm," he said to himself. Finally, he turned to the waiting group, who watched him stumble through the store. "My fwiends, I 'ave etuces..." He paused and spit out the Lerasium nugget. "My friends, I have deduced that you are all being swindled. The net is made of nothing more than typical horse hair, likely from a stock from the southern plains. The coloration and texture is slightly different than those found elsewhere. These glyphs do not glow from the inside, but are coated with a mixture of fireflies and paint. I believe that the effect will fade within 48 hours of purchase. And finally, that is not Lerasium. Lerasium has a very identifiable taste to it. That ball tastes more like someone has coated a steal bearing with a layering of glitter and copper. In conclusion, he is indeed a seller of stuff. He just failed to declare what kind of stuff he was selling." He stopped and waited for them to applaud his investigation skills. He stood a little straighter, already basking in their compliments. Instead, they just stood there, looking at him as if he were crazy. As the seconds passed, he felt himself deflating. "Very well," he mumbled. "I'll just go find some other mystery to solve, shall I? Yes, that's probably for the best." And with that, he made a bee-line for the door.

Just let me know and I'll add you to the list. This goes for everyone, so if you want a shot, feel free to let me know either via PM or during the Sign Ups/Aftermath of a game. Edit: Added your name to the list, Bartbug. You can find the GM list in the General Rules thread: here. Side note: Since I will not be GMing this game, but I'm effectively, kind of, sort of a Mod for this sub-forum and we're using a lot of the other colors for things like OOC, lynching and so on, I'll be using this golden-ish color when I'm speaking from my position as such.

I should refrain, as I will be gone during the middle of the game, I'll be visiting friends during the week of Spring Break, but I can't help myself. Besides, I'll still have my phone and I'm sure I'll be able to get to a computer every now and then, just don't expect too much from me during that week! Meta fancies himself the next Sherlock Holmes of the village, but really he just stumbles around and yells "Element-tary!" at people. Half the reason the village hasn't thrown him out yet is because his erratic actions provide a bit of comic relief. The other half is that he does tend to get lucky with his random guesses every now and then.

Day 9 (Indentions) Kukri typically felt at home in the mists, but not tonight. Tonight, he was being followed. They were good; staying just far enough back that they were only a vague impression in the mists, almost as if they were made of mists themselves, but Kukri knew what to look for. Even if he hadn’t had a lifetime of people trying to kill him, the last few days would make anyone an expert at spotting discrepancies. However, knowing that you were being followed and knowing how to handle it were two different things, especially considering he had a pretty good idea that it was the minions of the dastardly Inquisitor behind him. He did have a plan though. It dealt with stabbing them before they could stab him. He just needed a distraction so he could hide and wait for them to pass. In the meantime, that meant that he had to keep walking and pretending not to notice his tail. A little before midnight, he finally got his opportunity. Someone had stepped out into the mists from a house across the street and almost immediately started convulsing. As they shook and flopped around, Kukri ducked into a nearby alleyway and hid behind some piled debris. The alleyways in the Harrows weren’t very deep and most of them had been filled by beggars and the homeless, but they still served Kukri’s purpose tonight. He slid one of his knives out and waited in a crouch for his victim to pass. No one came. Either they had seen him duck inside or they had given up. Kukri continued to wait though. His prey was a very crafty lot, as seen by their ability to stay hidden. For all he knew, they were waiting just around the corner for him to peek out. What he didn’t consider was that, even though there wasn’t an exit out the back of the alleyway, that didn’t mean there wasn’t another way in. He heard someone thump to the ground behind him, as if they had jumped off the roof of one of the nearby buildings. Kukri cursed as he spun around to face his attacker, but it was too late. They tumbled as they landed and with a dagger already in hand, stabbed him in the stomach. Kukri’s turn just widened the wound. Kukri gasped as his entire body seemed to grow colder and his fingers couldn’t hold his dagger anymore. Soon, he was lying on the ground while his distraction made their way to their feet unsteadily. They were the only one of them to ever rise again. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Herwynbe had never found it difficult to sneak into the late Dyring’s bar. In fact, for him, the trick was typically how to sneak out! With Roban now in charge, that made things quite a bit easier. Roban had finally gotten around to cleaning the walls and floor of all the written messages, but afterwards, he had gone to bed. Either he wasn’t as diligent as Dyring was or more likely, he had realized that there was nothing to be done except to clean the messages later on. There was a sense of inevitability to these messages. Indeed, as Herwynbe entered the Inn, there was already a new message from the person he’d seen last time. Herwynbe started to walk across the room when he felt something fall onto his back, near his shoulder. He reached up to see what it was and his hand came back wet. When he turned it so that he could see it, his hand was covered in blood. Only then did his body and mind put two and two together and his shoulder blossomed into a fire of agony. This time he heard the faint whistle in the air. His footsteps must have covered the sound last time. The new coin shattered one of his knees and this time there was no delay in the pain. Herwynbe fell to the ground, crying out as he tried to catch himself, but one of his arms no longer worked properly. Two more coins thudded into his back, but with his body already wreathed in pain, he barely felt them. I’m dying, he thought. No more coins fell. Herwynbe laid on his side bleeding out. He could see the shadows on the wall though, so he saw his killer drop from the rafters, slowing themselves on a dropped coin. They stood there for a moment before turning and walking out. So this is how it ends, Herwynbe mused. Not with a bang, but a whisper. And they’d never know his final secret. The one he had been preparing, just in case something like this were to happen. It was saddening, knowing that all that work had been for naught. The edges of his vision were already starting to darken. No! They will need it! It might just save the rest of them! I cannot let it end like this! He forced himself to wakefulness and started crawling towards the corner he had been heading to before when he had first walked in. When he got there, he felt for the hidden latch with numb fingers. If he could just get the trap door open… He heard a faint click and he rolled into the opening, falling down the stairs as his last bit of consciousness faded. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When the Crew arrived the next morning, they found only one message scrawled onto the walls: Let's cut to the chase, because I'm more than a little tired. Roban, Wilson, Quillion, Seran. Not seven, not a pretty number. We need to cut one down to make it thus. If this is my last, then let it be a good one. All of this wait is driving me mad. I'm feeling positively ruinous. There are few who we must trust. I am one of them, our lord Mistborn Investing his confidence in me, among a few others. For all of the untested out there, I am the conduit (along with my friend, the wonderful first tineye) of information from us to you. You'd do well to trust me. I have room for a poem: Reaping quickly/two shed blood /Spiked/a bloodshed two/quickly reaped. Good night. It didn’t take them long to find the blood trail Herwynbe’s body left behind though or the stairs leading into a secret cavern underneath the Inn. Herwynbe’s body was still at the bottem of the steps, already grown cold over the night. The cavern wasn’t very large, so it didn’t take them long to find the steel plate embedded on one of the walls. It had been etched with a message of some sort: ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Day 9 begins! There will be 48 hours to the day. Kukri turned out to be a Regular Crew Member! Herwynbe turned out to be a Tineye! Updated Player List