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The Lord Ruler's perfect capital city, Luthadel, is doing the impossible: rebelling. Skaa half-breeds are being taught the power of Allomancy, something that the Lord Ruler's obligators said only existed in the nobility. The enslaved skaa, with their murderous benefactor, now fight back against a living god's oppression.

So, the Inquisition was formed. The nobles begin to fear assassination from all sides. The times of nobility Mistborn killing each other are over. The Steel Inquisitors look for aristocrat traitors and insurgent skaa, and the skaa try with all their strength to merely survive. The Lord Ruler's perfect Final Empire is slowly devolving into chaos.

Read the full prologue!

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Mistborn Series Brandon Sanderson
Allomantic Table, Symbols, and Cartography by Isaac Stewart
Luthadel Images: mking2008
Other Graphics: KChan at 17th Shard
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According to Plan

W1 D7 NT Daerra Elariel Phyra Venture Camille Deveaux Aaron Elariel Claudia Elariel

42 replies to this topic

#41 Aaron Elariel


  • Elariel Heir

349
House Raisaal
  • Age23

  • Relationship StatusSingle

  • OriginLuthadel

  • Allomantic StatusHidden

Posted 17 January 2014 - 10:59 PM

Aaron and Claudia's carriage suddenly clattered to a halt. What now? Had they been surrounded by rebels perhaps? Odairn had been driving the carriage faster than Aaron had ever seen before. They had passed the remains of several ravaged carriages on their journey, and Aaron didn't want to join in the fate of the former occupants.

We'll be fine, Aaron told himself. Even if the skaa did have some half breed allomancers, he was pretty sure he could handle himself well enough to escape. With Claudia's help, he might even be able to fight them off.

"Odairn," he called. "What's wrong?"

The terrismen appeared at the door to the carriage. "It's Lord Mikhail's carriage. It looks like it's been attacked..."

Aaron pushed through the door to survey the scene for himself. The carriage had been knocked on it's side. One of the horses was lying dead on the ground, still trapped by it's harnessed. The others must have been cut loose. Of JinJin, there was no sign.

Mikhail lay dead a few feet away. The shattered remnants of his dueling cane littered the surrounding area. He was covered in blood. Mikhail was a competent pewterarm, and it would have taken a significant amount of damage to bring him down. As he approached the body, Aaron started burning iron, watching the surrounding area for moving sources of metal. The rebels could still be close. A few of the lines pointed to Mikhail, designating the buckles on his shoes and belt and the rings on his fingers.

Odairn approached with a torch in hand, allowing Aaron to see the grievous wounds covering Mikhail's chest. It had no corresponding iron line. They looked like... Knife wounds, Aaron realized, feeling a chill go down his back. To take down a pewterarm, Aaron would have expected swords, canes, or perhaps arrows. Fighting at the close range with a knife against a pewter arm was suicide.

Where are the other bodies? "Odairn," he said, keeping his voice low but audible. "Are there any other... is he alone?"

"There don't seem to be any other bodies in the vicinity, Lord Aaron. There is no sign of Jinzan either." Aaron ignored the distaste in Odairn's voice as he spoke JinJin's terris name. Other than that, he caught no trace of emotion. As a steward, Odairn had likely been taught to grieve as he did the rest of his work; professionally, and in silence.

Aaron turned his mind back to the puzzle at hand. If there were no more bodies, that meant one of two things. Either the rebels had dragged away their dead, something that didn't seem likely under the circumstances, or Mikhail had been killed by an individual, which meant he had been killed by another allomancer. Mikhail was skilled, meaning it would have taken a misting of equal or greater calibre to bring him down. The gouges in his chest and the shattered dueling cane indicated a concentrated fury, but also incredible strength.

"Mistborn," he whispered to himself, dead to the rest of the world. He had thought it as soon as he saw the body, but hadn't wanted to admit it. This was an assassination, plain and simple. While the rebels might have a mistborn, the last Aaron saw he was being chased by an Inquisitor, which meant he was likely dead by now. Even if he had escaped, or if the rebellion had another, no rebel would have wasted time dueling a tough fighter like Mikhail. They would have moved on seeking an easier target, or somewhere they could do more damage. No, Mikhail had been killed by a noble mistborn, and whoever it was had intentionally sought him out intending to kill.

As Aaron studied Mikhail's lifeless face, he noticed something else. Drained of blood, Mikhail's face had gone pale, making him look like a shade of his former self. Except for his lips. Kneeling to the ground, Aaron bent to examine the corpse. Had his cousin been living, the natural flush of his skin would have hidden it, but pale as he was, the unnatural redness around his lips was easily discernible. It looked like the paint his mother used on her lips.

Suddenly, Aaron felt nauseous, and fell away from the body of his cousin. Events from the ball seemed to flash before his eyes, replaying themselves.

"Phyra..."



#42 Nevan Venture


  • Heir to House Venture

599
House Sureau
  • Age19

  • Relationship StatusSingle

  • OriginLuthadel

  • Allomantic StatusKnown

Posted 01 October 2014 - 04:04 PM

Exhausted and overwhelmed, Nevan trudged upstairs to his father's study, only to be greeted by a soft murmur of voices drifting through the locked door. He had heard that his Uncle Willem had just arrived; that must be him and Father in there talking. But why was he here, instead of out pursuing Phyra?

You know the answer to that perfectly well, his inner voice reminded him as he slumped into a chair in the anteroom. There were only male voices in that room, not a single female. And they sounded far too calm and composed to be coming up with a plan of attack. Father had sent Camille after Phyra. You're safe in here, and she's out there fighting.

Those last moments of the Casuana ball had been so hectic, so intense, that they had passed in a blur, so of course Nevan hadn't had a chance to really process what had happened - until now. Sitting in this comfortable, silent, empty room, behind a small army of guards and Allomancers while the woman who had just poured her heart out to him was out there risking her life for a house that wasn't even her own. But was that really the right phrase to use? He thought back to that moment when he burst into the room and realized who the Mistcloaked figure in front of him was. The moment when she turned around, and the comprehension and shock that flashed through her eyes when she realized she'd been discovered. No, she hadn't just poured her heart out to him. In that moment, it was more like he had walked in to see her very soul stripped bare. And both of them knew it.

But what did it mean for their future? He had hear things about Deveaux Mistborn, of course. Frightening things. They were supposedly Snapped at a very young age, and raised from childhood to be practiced and experienced killers. Some people even claimed they were never truly taught how to be human - just how to put on a convincing enough mask.

Was that really Camille, though? There was no doubt that she was more comfortable with a mask on than without, but that wasn't just limited to Mistborn. Many of the nobility had a face or three to hide behind while at court. And while it was true that she found it difficult that mask off for him, he also couldn't find it in himself to see her as inhuman. That look they'd shared when they danced wouldn't let him. She wanted to be genuine with him. But something was getting in the way. The awkwardness of letting her guard down at court was certainly part of it; that made even more sense now that he knew she was Mistborn. But it didn't explain all of it. Was it possible that maybe she didn't actually know how? Had Deveaux's training really stripped so much from her that she simply didn't understand how to function without a mask?

A wave of nausea swept over him at the realization, but try as he might to reject that idea as foolish and outlandish, it was the only thing that fit. Everything he had seen, everything he had noticed from her all added up to that one conclusion. She had been raised as a killer - as a weapon - equipped with various masks with which to navigate a social life, and sent out into society to do her job. They either hadn't allowed her to be herself, or nobody had really cared to give her a chance.

Until he came along, that is, pressuring her to take off a mask she didn't know how to remove, and getting offended when she had trouble figuring out what to do with herself. Her voice echoed in his mind, loud and clear as when she'd first spoken: You wanted to find me? Well, you found me. The real me you wanted to know so badly. Or at least, realer than that courtly mask you hate so badly. So now you'll just have to deal with me. Perhaps it was just the stress of everything she had to face tonight, but she did not sound happy. He would just have to pray to the Lord Ruler that she didn't hate him for his ignorance.

He couldn't help but laugh at himself, however, at least a little bit, when he realized what he was doing. Most men, when confronted with the sudden revelation that their date was Mistborn, would likely be trying to wrap their heads around coming to terms with having a dance partner who had likely killed people before. While Nevan was sitting here worried about their relationship. Was he really that fine with the truth about Camille? Or was he simply not ready to confront it yet? Even now, the image of Camille in her Mistcloak that had been seared into his mind's eye was almost impossible to comprehend.

Well, she would come back to Keep Venture eventually. His inner voice tried to remind him that she might not, but he refused to dwell on that possibility. She would come back, and when she did, he would come to terms with it then.

Maybe.

He hoped he could.

For now, however, this chair was incredibly comfortable, and he was exhausted. Perhaps he would just rest his eyes a little until Camille came back...

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#43 Camille Deveaux


  • Daughter of Lord Deveaux

599
House Sureau
  • Age18

  • Relationship StatusSingle

  • OriginLuthadel

  • Allomantic StatusHidden

Posted 15 November 2017 - 01:30 AM

Camille danced with death, and she danced in the lead role.

Phyra was good, of course. She had talent, that much was clear, and had even trained a halfway respectable amount. But her technique was wild and unrefined; she flung herself at Camille with reckless abandon, as if to overwhelm her with unrelenting speed and sheer brute force.

But control and discipline were on Camille’s side. She was able to dodge Phyra’s wild swings, bat aside her assaults, and finally, when Phyra got too close, Pushing herself out over a wide gap to rush at Camille, Camille flared her own steel to Push herself up and out of the way, then brought her knife down towards Phyra’s back. Phyra spun in midair to deflect it, her atium shadows flailing wildly, but the trap was set. Camille brought her knee up, reached for an anchor set into the roof below, and Pulled.

Her knee, fueled by flared iron and pewter both, hammered into Phyra’s gut, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped, flaring pewter instinctively, but she was too stunned to act for the moment. Camille kept Pulling, picking up speed, until the last possible minute, when she extinguished her iron and flared Steel, Pushing herself up even as she shoved Phyra down to the roof. She hit the tiles with a sickening crunch. Camille arced gracefully through the air to land crouching on the steep roof, watching Phyra slide in a heap towards the edge.

She wasn’t about to trust a fall to kill Phyra, though, so she skidded carefully down the slope of the roof, watching tassels flail and tumble as Phyra tipped off the edge. She would follow, carefully, and see the job compl---

An atium shadow shot up from below, and Camille jerked back just in time to see Phyra soar up past her, tassels flaring dramatically. Phyra hung suspended for a frozen moment, hanging in the swirling sky like a specter, and then her figure split into several shadows as she began burning atium again.

And all of them were plunging towards her.

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