So, I wrote little snippet a while back introducing what amounts to my dream character for Mistborn. I'm wondering how folks would go about stating it up for play?
The beast sensed something was amiss. Borren promised himself to dock the pay of whole thrash-team for giving the game away so early. Assuming any of them survived.
Still, the beast was close enough, no reason to wait. He sounded the whistle strapped to his right wrist. The thrashers leaped out of their boltholes and blinds at the beast, swinging their signature hardwood blades.
To an experienced hazekiller, the moment was electric, the knowledge that the beast had just started to burn, casting aside the ruse of humanity, invisibly swelling into an inhuman juggernaut. They said a good hazekiller could actually sense the burning of metal as a tingling on the skin. Borren was a very good hazekiller and he'd never felt any such warning sign. The only tingle he knew was the tingle of imminent death. Any dangerous foe induced that unpleasant crackling of the nerves.
A thrasher was already down, plowed under by a fist swung like a sack of stones. But the thrashers were doing their job - making the beast lash out, putting its arms away from its body where... Yes! The binders made their tosses. Three missed, but the fourth got his lasso around one of the beast's limbs, the loop drawing tight in a flash.
Confused, the beast swung wide, trying to yank the binder to him, but the rope was slack, the binder having let go the instant the loop closed. The beast began to bring its other hand over to rip the flopping tether off, but the thrashers seeing victory in their grasp redoubled their efforts to hound the beast with their sticks. Borren frantically blew upon a second whistle bound to his other wrist. There was no more precious resource than time and his men were burning it like novice mistlings.
At last, the stone-filled barrel tied to the far end of the single successful line was kicked off the nearby roof top. For good measure the binder there grabbed the line and jumped with it, adding his weight to the balance as the cord snapped tight and the beast was suddenly heaved into the air at an angle, pulling it both up and deeper into the alley where the squad had spent the day in preparation.
The beast roared, and Borren felt no shame that some of his men would need fresh trousers after hearing the sound. The best of his thrashers didn't break stride as they threw loose cobles at the wildly swinging beast, not hoping to harm it so much as keep it distracted from its true predicament: the trap about to close on it at last. Likewise, the well-drilled binders took up bows and shot headless, stinging shafts down at the swaying target.
Hanging in mid-air from a rope around its arm, the beast's great strength was nullified, but only for a few moments. When the wild swinging-spinning slowed, the flea-bite annoyances of stones and arrows were classified and set aside, the beast reached up and snapped the rope with a disdainful flick of two fingers. The hunted was about to hunt, and the alley would soon be painted with the blood of its tormentors. It dropped to the ground, ready to make this vengeance manifest...
...And fell squarely into the tarp-covered pit beneath the crossbar it had been suspended from. In a flash the thrashers tipped a waiting iron grate into the pit. Crates, barrels, and a few hefty stones unearthed by their earlier digging followed in rapid succession. The beast had clearly gotten a grip on the grate, and was using it to fend off the bombardment, but the weight pressing down had its back pinned to the floor of the pit, arms and legs thrust upwards to preserve what space was left to it.
It bellowed. "Is that it? You think to bury me alive? Or perhaps to starve me out? I'll dig out of this little hole and kill you ALL!"
The end close, Borren finally dared to think of the beast as a man, and not an animal to be hunted for the common good. He answered, "as much as I'd love to see you starve, villain, none of us have time for that." He gestured and his binders, now come down from their perches, tipped two final barrels into the edges of the heap covering the Pewterarm thug, their fluid contents slipping through the gaps, running down to the lowest point available to them. He heard sputtering, then pleas that fell on ears deaf to such nonsense for nearly a decade now.
Had it been nearly a decade since his brother had died? Time flies.
Borren waited until the pleas turned to screams, the screams to gurgles, and the gurgles to silence. Then, just to be certain, he lit the pool - not water but grain alcohol - and watched the pile burn. His men stood by with buckets to protect the surrounding buildings from the trap-come-pyre. They had seen him like this before. They knew the drill.