Name: Rathlan Hardwyl
Species: Human (Terrisman)
Gender:[ Male
Age: 34
Metallic Abilities: Pewter/Steel Twinborn

Appearance: Rathlan has narrow grey eyes sitting above a prominent nose and a shadow of a beard on his chin. He has tanned skin, long legs and a solid, muscular chest. The Terrisman’s dark hair is very short and close to his scalp. He kept his head shaved for a long time, and is only now beginning to grow it back.

History: Rathlan Hardwyl grew up as a Pathian in a predominantly Terris neighbourhood in the Third Octant, and followed in his mother’s footsteps to Elendel’s university, where he studied for four years. He took a particular interest in history, and the last years of the World of Ash. Soon before his graduation, the young feruchemist was assisting on a project that used new technologies, such as the microscope, to examine relics from before the Final Ascension.

He was returning a group of coins to the Tindwyl Museum at the Field of Rebirth along with a friend and fellow student, Delan Brazek, when the pair was accosted by a group of street toughs who, seeing the ornate box that held the coins, assumed the contents must be extremely valuable. Rathlan attempted to explain otherwise and keep the relics from them, but this only provoked them more. When the pair tried to break free and run, Delan was shot in the back.

Overwhelmed at the sudden death of his friend, Rathlan snapped and came into his abilities as an allomancer and twinborn. Burning what little pewter he had in his system and then flakes scratched from the lamp he had been carrying, he felled his attackers and dragged them to the nearest precinct station. When the officer on duty heard his story, she attempted to recruit him on the spot. A few days of consideration later, he accepted and joined the Elendel Constabulary.

Over the next few years as a constable, he developed his skills as both an officer and a twinborn, and gained advancement due to his effectiveness against violent offenders. His true test, however, came when he accepted an assignment to go undercover and infiltrate the criminal crews of Eleldel’s underground. Under the assumed identity of Drazon the foundryman, he spent the next ten years undercover, feeding information back to the constables about the plans, identities and methods of his fellow gangsters. The work and lifestyle hardened him considerably, but he assured himself the danger and secrecy to be worthwhile, leading as it did to the protection of many vulnerable citizens. Most recently, his information and inside influence led to the complete collapse of three organised crime syndicates in one telling raid by the constabulary of the Sixth Octant.

With practically all of his underground contacts now imprisoned or aware of his betrayal in the final raid, Rathlan finally re-emerged from cover. He remained away from active duty for two months, taking time to rest up and recover physically and mentally from the long infiltration. Tekiel’s kidnapping and the 17th Squad is to be his first case back with the constabulary.

Personality: Gone is the idealistic history student who stammered at amateur robbers to give his coins back. In fact, the new man considers it a miracle that the old lived through that night. Necessity has made Rathlan far more practical and down to earth, making him a cautious man accustomed to keeping his friends close and his enemies closer. He is frank of speech and assured in action, valuing competence and doing things right the first time. He likes to keep himself occupied with some task or other, because when he slows down he sometimes wonders if his years in the gangs were really worth it. He had to compromise his morals to keep up his fake identity, and the Path teaches it adherents above all to do more good than harm. He wanted to keep to the right side of that line, but were there times when he crossed it?

Strengths: Rathlan is skilled in the use of his steelrunner and pewterarm abilities, and has a sound mind. He is accustomed to working under pressure and gives due consideration to his action, rarely acting rashly. Thanks to his university education, he has a broad base of knowledge, and has gained particular insight into criminal networks. He is an excellent liar.

Weaknesses: Rathlan has poor night vision and, after getting to close to an explosion, is partly deaf in one ear. He cannot swim.

Personal items: Rathlan’s time undercover taught him to be ready for danger at any moment, and that’s a lesson he hasn’t forgotten just because he left the streets. His weapons of choice are a pair of hardwood duelling canes, made extra thick to withstand his enhanced strength. On top of them he keep an obsidian dagger in each boot and a Heispel pistol on his hip.

A twinborn is nothing without his metals. Rathlan keeps a pair of steel bracers on each arm, piercing the skin to keep them from the influence of other allomancers. In addition, he keeps four vials of pewter on his person, each containing enough for a full hour’s burning, and replenishes them whenever possible.

Finally, Rathlan carries his constable’s badge, signifying his authority as a lawman, and a pen and paper for noting down important details.

Other: Even though Rathlan has been put into the 17th Squad as leading constable, he is not there to lead the group. His role is to advise on legal issues, lawkeeping policy and to lend his experience in dealing with criminals. He has been instructed to guide those who have less experience in law and order when they need it, but not to be authoritarian. After all, why bring together such brilliant people and then keep them on so a tight leash that they cannot work effectively?

Introduction: Sun was streaming in through the curtains when he awoke, and he didn’t immediately wonder what was wrong. It had been two months since he’d stopped sleeping in alleyways and darkened gang lairs, and for most of that time he had come to in a blast of awareness and flared metal in response to the unexpected illumination and unfamiliar surroundings.

The fact that this morning was different boded well, he thought. It meant that his time of relaxation and recovery was doing its job. He could adjust back to a reasonably normal life, or at least a less stressful one. He would be returning to the force soon, and the life of a twinborn constable could hardly be considered normal.

Stretching as he rose from the bed, Rathlan downed a vial of pewter. He may not have been setting an alarm these days, but he still had things to do. Top of that list this morning would be breakfast, and then his morning run.

Stepping out the door and locking it securely after himself, Rathlan turned away and jogged down the tree-lined Third Octant Street. When he reached the corner of his residential block, he took a deep breath and began filling his steelminds. It felt like hitting a wall. Instantly, his speed dropped, his muscles helt heavy and slow to respond to his commands. His run suddenly required the effort of wading through thick mud whilst he had the flu.

A moment later, all of that fell away as he burned pewter. Strength flooded back into his limbs, and they moved smoothly once again as he ran, just as fast as he had been going before. The two processes overlapped enough to roughly cancel one another out, and while the sensation of being both slowed down and empowered at once was a little odd, he had become used to it long ago. Using the two metals at once in this manner would allow him to gather a lot of speed in his metalminds for later use, and far more quickly than an ordinary steelrunner ferring ever could.

Rathlan nodded to other passers by as he moved towards the industrial district of the octant. The factories were in full swing by this hour, though the streets themselves had quieted since the early morning rush. The quiet was suddenly broken with a bang, a yell and the roar of an engine.

An unpainted automobile burst from a workshop door and screeched across the roadway, nearly colliding with the buildings on the other side as it turned in a wide arc and the driver wrestled the wheel for control.
“Out of my way!” screamed the woman behind the wheel as a pair of pedestrians dived for cover. “I’ve got no brakes!”

The car roared up the street, tires squealing in a cloud of black smoke as Rathlan stopped filling his metalminds and tapped speed. He had to catch that car before it plowed into something, or worse, someone. His feet became a blur as he chased after the swerving vehicle, but pewter let him keep his balance. The distance between them closed as the buildings to either side flashed by and the two of them came towards a bend in the road. Beyond that was a wide park with a small stream running through it.

Car and runner reached the bend together and crashed over the footpath, heading straight for a fig tree on the park’s border. Rathlan had to shove his shoulder hard into the front section to keep the car from smashing into its thick trunk. He grunted from the impact as he hit the metal, hard.

The automobile swayed heavily on its wheels as it made the dodge. Inside, the driver seemed to have given up on gaining control of the errant machine and was simply clinging on for dear life. The engine continued to cough smoke as it stubbornly refused to die. The car was slowing down slightly over the softer groud, but it wasn’t going to be enough. At this rate, it would still reach the stream, jump over the narrow depression and plow head on into the opposte bank. That would stop the car, but would surely be lethal for its occupant.

As the distance closed, Rathlan flared his pewter and shoved the car again while keeping abreast. It listed heavily to the side but then rocked back towards him. He hit it again after it swung back, getting a better effect this time. With the bank looming large, he pushed at the car a third time, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against the door handle. With a shout of effort, they found it and he got a good lift, upending the vehicle and rolling it over onto its side. It skidded to a stop in the grass, its wheels still spinning in the air.

It had been a rough ride, certianly, but better than it might have been. Rathlan could only hope that the occupant had escaped. As he stepped up to the vehicle to see inside, the first thng he saw was that she had managed to protect her head, though the way her arms wrapped around it looked wrong.

She slid out of her seat with a groan, moving free of the crashed vehicle. As Rathlan moved to try to help, she sat up, and he saw her shoulder popped back into its socket, while her other arm straightened out. He caught a brief flash of gold under her sleeve.

“Thanks, mister” she coughed. “That was right good of you to show up when you did. Saved me a big bang-up.”

“I’m just glad you’re alive, miss” He answered, then, as his pulse rate lowerd and the metal flame within him was extinguished, he asked, “What happened?”.
Rathlan had seen these horeseless carriages before, and they seemed a fine enough idea, but seeing one go out of control like this was changing his mind on the new invention.

“The brakes locked up as I launched,” she replied. “It’s a new model, and an early test drive. I tried to kill the engine but that didn’t work, and in the process somehow I think I cracked the steering cable. Not pretty is it?” She winced. “That’s why they hire bloodmakers for the early testing. The money’s good, but sometimes I wish they put a bit more effort in first, you know?”

Rathlan did know. The new technologies sweeping Elendel could do many incredible things, but often, it seemed that the people involved in making them saw little of the benefits. Injuries were common, as were stolen wages, and desperation could push the expolited workers towards crime. He had seen it in the gangs. For all that the Basin was talked about as Harmony’s paradise for mankind, their society certainly wasn’t perfect.

***

Soon, Jann was brushing off her oil-stained overalls and putting one arm around Rathlan’s shoulders for him to help her back to the workshop Her healing power wasn’t infinite, and she was still limping a little. The crashed carriage, they left on its roof in the park. Other workmen would be back for it later, and Rathlan didn’t have the pewter to carry it all the way back on his own.

They were met halfway by a messenger girl, who scampered up to them in quite a rush. Rathlan assumed she had been sent to look for the vehicle.
“You’ll find the carriage in the park in the next block” He told her. “Aside from that, there was no damage or lasting injuries. Everything will be all right soon enough”

“I’m sure it will Sergeant Hardwyl Sir,” the girl replied, “But I didn’t come for no carriage. You’re wanted urgently at the station on Byrod Street, and when you weren’t at home I came searching. Th’ captain said he was sorry to cut your leave short, sir, but he said t’was important.”

“My apologies, then” Rathlan answered. “I’ll be in uniform and on my way as soon as I’m done helping here. You can expect me in the second octant in twenty minutes”.

The messenger didn’t reply to that, she just saluted and ran off.

***

Captain Guffon Trenchant was a large, round man with a bushy moustache, and he greeted Rathlan kindly as he came into the precinct office. Still, Rathlan could see how strained he was. As the precinct office’s front man, he was having to face a constant assult of press questions and angry nobility. Their latest conference had been not half an hour ago, to announce the 17th Squad’s formation.

“You can wait in here” he told Rathlan, showing him into a side room. “I’ll usher in the team as they arrive. It’s under a coppercloud and as soundproof as we could make it, so you’ll be free to discuss anything you like.”

Rathlan thanked him and moved into the mostly empty room, taking one of the chairs that were scattered around. This was going to be interesting.

Name: Brettia “Bret” Geffenry-Tekiel
Species: Human
Gender: Female
Age: 26
Metallic Abilities: (Brass) Soother

Appearance: Average height, slight of figure, Bret has auburn hair she usually keeps slicked into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her features are sharp (aside from the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks), her brown eyes dark and appraising. Occasionally wears glasses, often wears long sleeved garments to hide various burns, abrasions, and scrapes from her experiments.

History: Bret grew up in Doriel, youngest of four daughters and three sons in the dying house of Geffenry. Bret is one of three Mistings in her family; her father, Lord Merriman Geffenry is a Rioter (not a very good one), and one of Bret’s older brothers was a Tineye, before he was involved in an accident where his Allomatic abilities were used against him during a prank gone wrong. Bret’s gifts manifested soon afterwards, a result of fear and paranoia in the weeks following her brother’s accident, which left him permanently blinded, and half deaf. Bret didn’t receive much Allomatic training, mostly due to her father’s own lack of attention. She learned most of her Allomatic skills from a Rioter from another house in Doriel, a boy her own age. From him, Bret learned the value of the barest of emotional touches, as well as the power of slamming an adversary with gale-force power. While not a widely-known Allomancer, Bret became a force to be reckoned with in her Doriel circles, both familial and social, using her cognitive and Allomatic abilities to achieve status in business and social politics.

She was married to the youngest Tekiel son, Serren, in part an effort of the Geffenrys to reclaim some influence through an alliance (however weak), in part an effort of the Tekiels to grab up some of the Geffenry wealth. Unfortunately, Serren was killed in a carriage accident six months after their wedding. Though a young widow, Bret chose to stay in Elendel, taking advantage of all the city has to offer, especially the quality education she now pursues, a far better opportunity than she ever came across in Doriel. She’s become a bit of a recluse, preferring to keep to the Tekiel estate, though she doesn’t mingle much with her dead husband’s family. Bret has informed that family of her intentions to become a history teacher at a college, but her true passion is the study of botany and chemistry, particularly herbal remedies and poisons. Bret has recently begun putting her herbal findings to use, mostly for her few newfound friends (the remedies), and, undercover, on local undesirables (the poisons).

Personality: Introverted, studious, naturally suspicious of strangers (and her in-laws), Bret is calculated, and a little cold. While externally adept at social situations, her ideal afternoon (or day, or week, or month, or year) would be spent in her laboratory/library, where she could be alone, concoct new potions and elixirs, and if happened upon by the unwelcome family member or slightly welcome rare friend, Soothe them into letting her continue her work in peace.

Strengths: Able to keep her head in sticky situations, able to blend into a crowd and appear harmless (or at least dull-witted). Able to read people’s emotions well. Well-versed on the history of the city of Elendel, avid and eager learner of all new information. Her Allomancy has become well-developed in recent years, and she can give the subtlest touch of calm to a situation, or flare Brass so heavily, the object of her power will immediately feel crushed by debilitating emotion.

Weaknesses: While excellent at reading others, Bret is terrible at reading her own emotions, and often bottles up or casts aside her own feelings and instincts, which can get her into trouble if a situation becomes overwhelming. Her lack of trust also forbids her from making meaningful and genuine connections and allies. Her small-town sensibilities have been challenged by her move, abruptly ended marriage, and subsequent adjustment to city life and widowhood. She often doesn’t think ahead, remaining calculated and in the moment, and her actions are sometimes on the fringe of the law, and/or result in consequences she didn’t give a single thought to before.

Personal items: A pouch of her Brass metal stores tucked into a pocket at her hip, a Brass ring for backup reserves, a satchel containing a few books, a few pouches of herbs, and sometimes her homemade concoctions. Her eyeglasses are often tucked into a pocket of her blouse. She also carries a small glass dagger, usually strapped to the inside of her right forearm. One can never be too careful in a large city.

Introduction:

Brettia leaned back, stretching her arms overhead, and yawned. The muscles in her back and shoulders ached from sitting at the workbench for too long, but after just a brief moment of indulgence, she hunched forward again, putting her bespectacled eyes back to work.

Her long fingers carefully pinned down a few fresh mint leaves as she chopped them into a fine, fragrant mush, then carefully scraped it into a glass vial. She quickly added a bit of water, corked it, and shook it vigorously for a moment before smiling at the result. It was a rather thick solution, and the color lurked somewhere between a grayish green and a depressing shade of brown. By the time the concoction set (the brown came from flecks of powdered bark, which would soon dissolve), the potion would look like spring sludge and taste gloriously of bitter mint. Bret quickly tucked the vial into a pocket at her breast as she heard footsteps approach. Removing her eyeglasses for a moment, feigning cleaning them with a cloth, she looked up as her friend and (sort of) colleague Seban Hothwick strode down the hallway and into the laboratory.

“Ah! Bret!” he said, his tone annoyingly loud and cheerful. “Good morning! You haven’t been here all damned night, have you?”

“No,” Bret said mildly, slipping her glasses on again as she turned to clean up her herby mess. “I got here maybe an hour ago.”

Seban’s arms folded across his rather unmuscled, professor’s chest. “You look dreadfully tired, and you’re wearing the same garments as when I saw you here yesterday afternoon,” he accused.

Bret sighed, resisting the urge to Soothe the man, rising to her feet and moving to the wash basin across the room. The college’s laboratory was small, but had far better lighting than her own little experiment room at the Tekiel estate. The college had a delightful, window-lined lab full of fine instruments, endless supplies of the common herbs, and best of all, a whole battalion of those handy little vials. Bret often worked through the night in her own quarters, then traversed the short distance between the Tekiel estate and the college in the wee hours of the morning, so as to put the finishing touches on her work. Tonight (or rather, this morning), she’d run out of mint, and had made the trek just before sunup.

“Please, Mister Hothwick, you should know better than to accuse a lady of inadequate dress. Besides,” she said, giving him a pointed look, “we don’t all have your fashion sense.”

Seban guffawed. Bret made sure she was facing away from him as she rinsed her cutting board so she could roll her eyes in peace.

“Very well. So what are you working on, then? Anything exciting?”

Whatever his faults, Bret had to smile at the anticipation that leaked into the professor’s voice. He was one of the very few people she knew who she could actually talk to about her love of botany. However, much of her ‘work’ had to be kept secret from him. Like the potion that rested in her pocket. Instead, she allowed herself a quiet smile, and crossed the room to a small shelf she’d claimed as her own. She opened one of the little drawers and removed a square vial filled with a milky substance. Holding it up to the light, she looked to Seban.

“Guess what this is.”

Seban crossed to her, and took the vial from her fingers. He peered at it, squinting. “Can I smell it?”

Bret smirked. “No. It’s along the lines of your studies, though.”

Seban was and avid scientist and researcher, and for the last several years he’d turned his studies on the mysteries of Allomancy, and whether science could play a larger role in understanding and emulating it. Not an Allomancer himself, he’d been thrilled to learn of Bret’s own status as a Misting, and even more thrilled to learn of her interest in his studies of “artificial Allomancy.”

“Tell me!” Seban’s enthusiasm was palpable.

Abruptly, Bret snatched the vial from his hand, and threw it forcefully to the marble floor, shattering the glass. Immediately, a plume of curling gray smoke burst forth, billowing upwards and concealing both of them in the fog. Bret stepped back out of the cloud, which produced a foul stench, and waved her hands about, clearing the air, while Seban’s laughter erupted just as eagerly as the smoke had. Eventually the clouds dissipated, and Seban’s grin was huge, like a child who’d just been tossed a bag of silver coins in the street.

“Artificial Mist,” Bret said, unable to keep a twinge of pride from her voice. “It needs some work yet, but there’s promise. I want to try and minimize the smell, and see what I can do about increasing the height of the initial plume.”

“Brilliant, brilliant!” Seban crowed, rubbing his hands together. “That’s excellent stuff.”

—

A few hours later, Bret emerged from the college laboratory, exhausted from her sleepless night and early morning, but energized by her mentor’s enthusiasm for her work on artificial Mist. She’d washed up as best she could at the college facilities rather than head home (was the Tekiel estate home to her now? She still wasn’t sure) straight away. The market nearby would be a good place to pick up something to eat, and she still had that delivery to make, she thought, considering the hidden vial in her pocket.

A quarter of an hour later, Bret had a small parcel of bread and cheese, and was heading to an outdoor cafe, where she would meet the Lady Giana, a relatively new acquaintance. The young woman was recently married (Giana’s new husband was a friend of Bret’s late husband, Serren, and so Bret had been dragged along to the wedding), and had a deep fear of becoming pregnant too young. Brettia hoped to ease the young woman’s nerves as best she could.

Lady Giana looked up from her little oudoor table, where she was sipping tea and reading from a novel (How silly, Bret thought). A timid smile lit Giana’s face. “Lady Tekiel! Please, sit with me?” The woman’s nervousness rolled off her in waves.

Bret flinched at the title the girl had used. But she produced what she hoped would be a reassuring smile, and began a slow, subtle burn of her Brass, Soothing Giana’s nerves with the gentlest of touches. Almost immediately, the girl’s smile became more genuine, and she didn’t sit so stiffly in her chair. “Please call me Brettia, or Bret,” she said. “And I’m afraid I don’t have much time to linger today.” Still, she eased into the chair across from Giana, smoothly plucking the minty-brown vial from her pocket, and slipping it onto the girl’s saucer plate. Giana’s cheeks flushed, and she immediately grabbed up the vial and pocketed it.

“Thank you,” the girl whispered.

Bret shrugged. “I’m happy to help. I’ll see you again in a month.” She moved to leave, but Giana caught her wrist. Bret paused, unsure of whether or not she should be alarmed by the new earnestness coloring Giana’s emotions. She certainly wears her emotions on her sleeve.

“Perhaps I could see you sooner? My h-husband wants to have a social function, some party or other, in the next couple of weeks. Perhaps you could come and keep me company?” Giana’s words came out in a jumble.

Bret hesitated. Was Giana trying to bridge the gap between helpful acquaintances to friends? Bret felt something akin to panic stir in her gut. But she composed her face carefully. “Perhaps you could send me an invitation,” she said calmly. She quickly bade the Lady a good day, and walked away, uneasiness clawing at her. She didn’t like becoming attached to others she’d known only a short time, especially when those ‘others’ were buying possibly illegal potions off her. The anti-pregnancy potion was nothing compared to some of the other experiments Bret had conducted over the past few months, though. Childsbane for warding off pregnancy. Sleeplock for a gradual (three days to be exact) death. And Bret had more such potions in development. One for decreasing the libido (to be given to the wives of overzealous husbands) was in need of testing, and one for energy sustainment was nearing completion.

Botanist, historian, widow, amateur murderer. Bret was quickly adding to her list of potential titles.

She felt a tug at her skirts, and looked down, startled.

“‘Scuse me, m’lady, I’ve got a message!” A youthful messenger waved grubby fingers in Bret’s face.

“Yes, what is it?” Bret asked impatiently, eyeing Tekiel mansion, which jutted up sharply a few blocks away. She needed sleep.

“Yer wanted at the station. The captain sent for you. Over on Byrod Street, ma’am.”

Bret felt her heart plummet. Wanted? At the station? Had she been found out already? She cleared her throat nervously, and thanked the messenger. Then, with heavy feet, she turned and made her way towards the station.

—

By the time she reached it, Bret wished it were possible to Soothe herself. Her next best option was to surround herself in a bubble of her Allomancy, so that anyone who came near her would immediately feel calmer, more at ease, less likely to view her as a threat, if indeed she was wanted for crimes committed. She stepped inside the door, and was immediately met by a tall man who introduced himself as Captain Guffon Trenchant. Rather than immediately throwing her to the ground in arrest, the man ushered her into a nearly empty room, saying something or other about a coppercloud. Bret felt in a daze. What the bloody hell was going on? Only one other person was in the room, and she entered timidly, half wishing she’d brought some of her artificial Mist vials in case she had to make an escape. She cast a look about the room, then eyed its occupant suspiciously.