Mid-Range Game 7: Eighty Splendid Suns

[Paranoid King]

You know, Wyrm and PK have brought up some very compelling points.  I think we should just forget about the Discovery Faction and the fact that they can spy on all of the different factions and have the final say on lynches.  

You are right. They do get to influence one person to kill. Of course, all strikers get the entire say on one person to kill, along with influencing another person to kill. And you know what? no matter how much information discovery has, it is useless unless someone else votes for that person.

A typical conversation in the discovery faction goes something like this: "gosh, we should kill Adamir. He's gonna find one of us pretty soon." "yeah, good luck getting another faction to vote for a diplomat" "Okay, let's vote for Bort instead. Heritage is voting for Bort." "Okay. That should work." And then Wyrm gets killed.

Edited July 9, 2015 by Paranoid King

[Kipper]

He raises good points that I would consider if I cared about Discovery's "fair chances." I don't mean to be harsh, but I couldn't care less. You guys have (perhaps) five alive members, most of which have two lives. Guess how many people are in my faction? You wanna know how many lives we each have? Three and one, respectively. Not only that, but everyone knows who we are. Do you have these limitations? Nope. And I'm not even going to bother suggesting that we make this game "more fair" by giving Moderation a break, because that's not how it works. This is a faction game. If you feel like the factions are unfairly ganging up on you, that's because they are. That's how they win. However, you are still in a better position than I am.

[Paranoid King]

Well, consider this: You at least have a chance to turn it around, whether by being bribed to a winning faction or bribing over others to bolster your faction. Discovery is a wagon hurtling downhill, and members can't enter or leave.

[Bort]

That's usually the case when you are on the bad guy's team.

[little wilson]

I'd like to interrupt your daily slaughtering to remind players about the Etiquette Policy. We want these games to be fun for as many people as possible, which means gloating is not permitted. Be kind to your fellow players, even if they're on the other team. There is never a situation where boasting and gloating is acceptable. If you're unsure what I mean by boasting or gloating, put yourself in the other player's shoes and consider how you would feel if you were to read the comments you're about to say. If you wouldn't like to hear them, you probably shouldn't say them. This applies both to words and to tone.

 

Thank you, and I return you all once again to the bloodbath.

[Kasimir]

Timecheck: There is just over 24 hours left in the Cycle!

Also, this is advance warning: due to RL issues possibly interfering, tomorrow's rollover may be pushed back by an hour or two. The same goes for Monday, due to job issues. I'll be working late, and so will only be back home and at a computer later than usual. Please be patient.

-Kas

[Elithanathile]

But that doesn't mean that we can send in our actions a few hours late?

[Kasimir]

But that doesn't mean that we can send in our actions a few hours late?

You mean naming and shaming you wasn't effective?

And yes, it does. Basically, you guys get an extension up to whenever I get back and can close the cycle. At this point, I would estimate it'd be delayed by 1-2 hours, but I could be wrong, depending on how much work I have to put in.

 

Edit: If the delay is really bad (my overtime is being put in because of a conference and we know how these get...), then I will likely just ask a chosen representative from the dead doc to close the cycle for me and edit in the write-up later. That's another possibility

Edited July 10, 2015 by Kasimir

[Paranoid King]

That's usually the case when you are on the bad guy's team.

Yeah, you're right. I guess I've never played a Sanderson Elimination game before, so I wouldn't know if I was on the badguy team. From my point of view, the people who can kill things are the badguys. The discovery faction is just a bunch of well-informed villager spies.

[Bort]

That's true for this game, as Discovery have to rely on manipulation to get people killed. Most games I've played in, however, they get at least one kill ability.

 

But, in this game, the 'bad guys' are the faction that don't want to charge across a battlefield at each other

[Seonid]

Yeah, you're right. I guess I've never played a Sanderson Elimination game before, so I wouldn't know if I was on the badguy team. From my point of view, the people who can kill things are the badguys. The discovery faction is just a bunch of well-informed villager spies.

I like that. I may have to use it.

But in all seriousness, sometimes SE is like that. Sometimes you're the Eliminators and the village is moving heaven and earth to find you and can't because you've hidden too well.

On the other hand, that same situation can be really frustrating and depressing as a villager. (Go take a look at the Anniversary Game)

Our sometimes you're a villager and you find one Eliminator and the votes from that lead you to catch the whole clan. That feels good, unless you are on the Eliminator team.

The trick to having fun with Sanderson Elimination is to find ways to enjoy all of these situations.

Maybe you're an Eliminator who has been found out, so you start paying with people's heads (like Wyrm), or you start a roleplay about how awesome the scene is when the actually catch you (Mail did that in the Barrow Barons game - I'll link when I'm not on mobile), or maybe you just wrote things down in your notes do that you can be better at hiding next time you're an Eliminator.

But the best trick to enjoying it all, both the losing times and the winning times? Make the people your friends, so that you can laugh with them when you're losing because they played a great game, or just got crazy lucky. Abd they'll laugh with you when you're winning for the same reasons.

Anyways, that's my 2 cents.

EDIT: Spelling!

Edited July 10, 2015 by Seonid

[Kasimir]

Got back not long ago, cycle is now closed, write-up is currently being produced. Will be posted in a bit, with PMs to follow.

[Kasimir]

MR7: Cycle Seven - The Killing Time

The old man drinking tea at the Frozen Moon would not have been at all remarkable, had it not been for the bandages on his ribs. Or the fact that an innocuous-seeming cane leaned against the table leg—within easy reach—and that his eyes were constantly flicking around the room, scanning for any signs of danger.

Kwai poured the tea and moved on to another table, where a boisterous group of Heritage Faction members were carousing. He left them, and brought a platter of freshly-made dumplings to the lone member of the Moderation Faction, sitting at a third table.

The mood in the Frozen Moon, he thought, was never predictable. Tonight, it spoke of danger. The neutrality of the Frozen Moon had been long respected. He wondered for how long that would last.

Clear ponds never did, he thought, all of a sudden. That image remained with him, sharp in his mind. A clear, still pond, disturbed only by a cast stone. Shattered.

The Heritage Faction only looked back. The Glory Faction only looked forward. And Moderation stayed on the sidelines, too afraid to dirty its hands at all. And Reform—

He heaved a quiet sigh. What else could somebody do, in such tumultous times, except to ride the whirlwind?

The door to the Frozen Moon creaked open. Somebody stepped in. He recognised her, at once. Tall, and even the civilian clothes she wore couldn’t disguise her military bearing. She glanced around the room, located him, and strode over, barely bothering to approach the counter and place an order.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

Kwai watched as she handed him a slender tube; bamboo, polished, in the lantern light. He accepted it, ducked out behind.

Wenshon watched him. He knew, Kwai thought. He must have seen one of these, in his day.

In the warmth of the Frozen Moon’s kitchens, he felt for the seam, worked it open. The bamboo tube popped open, revealing the piece of paper nestled within. He worked it free, unfolded it, and read it.

Even here, working in the Frozen Moon, Kwai would later think, the world of the Rose Palace—with all its subtleties and dances, with all its hidden dangers and eddies and crosscurrents—could still reach out to sweep you in.

Did a man have any choice over it, really? How he wished to be remembered? How his name would forever echo across the pages of the historian’s annals?

“What is it?” That was Wenshon.

Mutely, Kwai showed him the note.

 

 

Very slowly, because his bones ached, and there was the hint of a cold nip to the air this night, the old man stood up, left a few coins on the table for Wenshon, picked up his cane, and moved slowly towards the door.

Leaning on his cane, he pushed on it, and headed out into the night.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Polished wood against stone.

Several men and women, who had been nursing cups of untouched tea for the better part of the evening gazed after him, and without saying anything further, all rose and left, after him.

 

 

As Ynla Ka saw it, there were two choices.

He could choose to live as a hunted animal, to forever peer over his shoulder into the shadows for knives in the dark. Or, he could go about his daily business, walk to the Frozen Moon for his night’s cup of tea, and simply be cautious.

He chose the latter.

There were few people about, at this time of the night. Most labourers were resting, or at a nearby teahouse. Some thieves went about their business, but perhaps out of deference for his age, or out of a sense that told them he was dangerous, they ignored him.

It was, Ynla thought, best, for everyone involved.

He tapped bronze, just a little. The night was beginning to wear on him, and even the hot tea couldn’t keep away the exhaustion that hovered at the edges of his mind, like a looming pall.

Fatigue dissolved. He listened, carefully, and tapped just a little hearing from one of his tinminds. He needed to be careful about his filled metalminds. Some took a long time—and a great deal of inconvenience—to fill, and he knew he’d need every edge he’d get for now, when the Factions and their knives and their paper-thin smiles were coming for him.

The night and all its sounds burst into stark clarity—but Ynla was not listening for the cries of the water-sellers or the sound of wagon wheels. Instead, he was listening for something else: the distinctive sound of booted feet tramping down the street, after him.

He loosened the sword in its cane-sheath, cautiously. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought.

The boots drew closer. He leaned on his cane, more for theatrics than from actual need. He was not, Ynla thought, feeling particularly frail today.

The assassins hesitated, confused. But they were a team of professionals, and soon they had surrounded him, weapons drawn.

“Good night,” Ynla said, nodding to them. “Did you know,” he said, conversationally, “I used to be a young man, but a Forger turned me into an old man?”

The assassin in the lead blinked.

“Actually,” Ynla continued. “It’s what I tell everyone.”

He stopped storing atium and tapped it. Age, long stored, returned to him: the strength and vigour and swiftness of youth filled him in an instance. He stood straighter and taller, and tapped just a little steel and zinc.

The world turned to slow honey.

There was an assassin on the rafters, he thought. The sloping, tiled roofs of the Imperial Seat made it difficult to sustain a chase there, but assassins would seek to occupy that space. The assassin was, even now, reaching, as if through congealing glass, to his bandolier of throwing knives. Ynla stepped behind him, casually grabbed him with a tight forearm about his throat, and turned him, placing him in the line of fire.

The first crossbow bolt flew true.

Ynla was moving, even then.

Time like ice, unspooling, like a ribbon.

The second bore a butcher’s sword. Probably poisoned, Ynla thought. It was rising, slowly, too slowly. His own sword was drawn, now, and gleamed thinly in his hand, like a shard of the moon’s light.

He ran the woman through, whipped back his sword to snap it clear of the body, still moving, still in motion, time still like the thick wild honey from the country hives.

There was a sharp cry.

There was no second bolt. Part of Ynla’s mind registered that as strange. The repeating crossbow favoured by assassins was of military-issue and popular because what it lacked in accuracy, it made up for in sheer quantity.

A few heartbeats later, a body slipped off the sloping roof and fell to the ground, dripping with blood. The wound was not obvious.

Ynla moved to the third assassin, disabling him with a palm strike to the throat, followed by a reverse-slash to slit his throat. The fourth had drawn his sword and was swearing sulphurously. He hadn’t expected that, Ynla thought. Hadn’t expected his prey to have fangs of his own.

He held on to that thought.

The fifth assassin swung, too slow, in what was a textbook slash at Ynla’s midsection. Ynla was dodging, dancing wide around the blow and—

Snap.

His sword glanced off the assassin’s ribs and snapped, leaving him with a hilt and half an inch of broken shard. He swore and shook out his hand, still stinging from the impact. Don’t stab for the ribs, some swordsmen warned. Good men broke their blades this way, sometimes.

It had been an old sword, but a good sword.

He feinted and flung the hilt shard at the assassin’s face to distract him, and delivered a series of fast punches to the man’s midsection. The assassin doubled over in pain, and a crushing throat strike put him down for good with the sound of smashed cartilage.

He faced the last unarmed, bent over to dodge the diagonal slash, when—

Time ran out, and so did the last of his zinc and steel.

He should’ve stored pewter and gold, Ynla thought, but he’d run out of them surviving the last attempt on his life. Too late for regrets now.

The last assassin blocked his punches with a contemptous ease and kneed him in the groin. The next moment, her fingers blurred and a palmed throwing knife embedded itself in his throat in a flash of motion and pain.

Not enough, Ynla thought, choking on his own blood. Too late.

He didn’t see the hooded figure descend from the rooftops or the hand that wrapped itself over the assassin’s mouth and the blade that jutted out from her throat. Didn’t hear her dying gurgle.

In more than one way, he was not the only one who was too late, on this day.
 

---

Ynla Ka was a Blasphemous Scholar!
 
The Cycle has begun and will end at 12AM SGT [=GMT+8] on 13th July, Monday. (Yes, I'm aware of the changed time and have elected to institute it, both to be fair to all, as well as to accomodate my likely delay on Monday due to RL! Future cycles will be back to normal.)

Edited July 5, 2021 by Kasimir

[Elithanathile]

Okay then, great writeup, as always, and my first order of business is, does anyone have PK in their faction, or was he spooked. I can confirm that he is not in glory. Also, Ynla Ka was Clanky, right?

[emilylime]

He's not in Moderation. And yes.

[Seonid]

Also, I was bribed into Glory. Do we have the results of Moderation's bribe?

 

Can I have a Moderationer confirm the members of their doc?

[dowanx]

PK is not in heritage.  Who did Moderation bribe?

[Adamir]

He isn't here, definitely spooked if our Striker followed orders.

 

On another note, should I or should I not upvote Kas, taking him out of his sacred reputation ranking?

 

EDIT: My last scan was Araris, he was innocent.

Edited July 11, 2015 by Adamir

[Zas678]

Who did you scan last Adamir?

[Seonid]

He isn't here, definitely spooked if our Striker followed orders.

 

On another note, should I or should I not upvote Kas, taking him out of his sacred reputation ranking?

 

Too late, I already upvoted him...

 

Also, if Heritage's Striker followed orders, PK should be dead, not spooked.

[Bort]

Moderation's bribe apparently failed.

 

We went for Dow, but he is still Heritage.

 

I am now Heritage too, so three factions in three cycles. Yay! I got all the t-shirts!!!

[Paranoid King]

Impressive. A full feruchemist, eh? Almost didn't expect that, even from the discovery faction. But, of course, Discovery is just a code name for Worldhopper. You learn to expect anything from them.

 

EDIT: Also, I can confirm that I am definitely not in heritage.

Edited July 11, 2015 by Paranoid King

[Elithanathile]

And I can confirm that PK is definitely not dead. Just spooked. Someone messed up. *Pointed look across metaphorical room, hoping person who actually messed up will notice and feel guilty. This is assuming that there was, in fact, a mistake made. If not, everyone will feel confused instead.*

[Paranoid King]

 Oh yeah, I'm not dead. I *just may* have regenerative capabilities equal to Hoid's, allowing me to survive any one mortal wound. Also Glory, are you still going after Bort? Because if so, Discovery will be happy to back you up.

EDIT: Also, as your resident DIscovery member, I'm ready to give out free info to anyone who wants it. Wanna know plans of other factions? People's "hidden" roles? I'm ready to give out some info!

By the way, the info I give out in black text will be fake. Only trust info in white text.

EDIT 2: Per cycle. Did I mention that that one wound healed is every cycle? If you want to kill me, you'd better hit me with everything you've got!

Edited July 11, 2015 by Paranoid King

[Zas678]

Should we all decide to lynch PK then this round? 

 

And if it's free info, you should tell us this: Who is the Heritage Striker? Besides the one we already know?