All things Brandon Sanderson

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Molten Core Raider
23d 21h 47m
Yeah the beginning of three dragged on pretty hard. From the rift onward I dug it though.
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Vyemm Raider
75d 14h 43m
Hit a lack of interest about a third of the way through Oathbringer. Does it get better, or am I OK with leaving it for the future? It's just not as gripping as the first two books, and seems to be pretty poorly written for a Sanderson book.
It ends pretty strong
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Blackwing Lair Raider
27d 21h 49m
Hit a lack of interest about a third of the way through Oathbringer. Does it get better, or am I OK with leaving it for the future? It's just not as gripping as the first two books, and seems to be pretty poorly written for a Sanderson book.
I'd say most people thought Oathbringer was the worst of the series so far, mainly due to the long boring stretch in the middle (and the cucking of Kaladin for most of the book, imo). There are some nice backstory drops in the book though, and it does end very well.


Ahn'Qiraj Raider
21d 19h 18m
Kaladin is an annoying character. I couldn't stand him half way into book two. Show some mental growth at some point you whiny manbaby.
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Trakanon Raider
16d 8h 14m
I listened to it and it might have been the voice actor but I couldn't stand anything with Shallan it was horrible
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Vyemm Raider
36d 12h 36m
After hearing so much about him, I finally starting reading Sanderson this summer by jumping into the Stormlight Archive. Incredibly enjoyable. I could not put down the first two books. I struggled with the 3rd in parts mainly because I dislike/am bored by a lot of the Shallan only chapters. It really picked up in the back half and obviously the ending is will read through the night good.

I guess I'll dive into Mistborn next.
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<Bronze Donator>
9d 11h 24m
Stormlight Archive $2.99 a piece on Kindle.

Skyward $1.99

New book releases today as Slippery said.


Molten Core Raider
15d 22h 13m
New Skyward is out today or tomorrow
Overall an excellent book, however I offer two middle fingers and a chorus of 'booo's to Sanderson for the ending.

Shows it's YA'ness a lot more than Skyward did, with a plan so ludicrous that even a team made up of Leeroy Jenkins and Wile E Coyote would raise some concerns about lack of planning.


French Madman
30d 6h 44m
What bothers me is the cliffhanger ending. I think he is going back to Mistborn books after this one, so it'll probably be years before tome 3 where we figure out what happens.


Always on your mind
<Gold Donor>
16d 11h 7m
I recently finished Mistborn Era 1, and tried to jump right into Mistborn Era 2, but it felt off to me.

I really liked the first story, but that might have been propped up on the fact that I really liked Vin, Kelsier, Breeze and a few others quite a lot.


French Madman
30d 6h 44m
Read the current tomes of Mistborn era 2, then read Secret History. You might be surprised.


Naxxramas 1.0 Raider
49d 3h 18m
Mistborn era 2 is better imo, I think he became a lot better writer between era 1 and era 2


Molten Core Raider
31d 17h 58m
I don't know if Mistborn 2 is necessarily objectively better, but I did definitely prefer the tone of it over Mistborn 1. The more lighthearted vibe was more my jam than era 1's bleaker tone.


Trakanon Raider
16d 8h 14m
I will say mistborn era 2 was better the 2nd time, also listening to the graphic audio versions is the best way to consume these
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Bronze Knight of the Realm
8d 5h 51m
Here is the opening chapter of Stormlight 4 if you're interested. Some people like advanced leaks some don't so I figured I would post it.
Exclusive Fiction: Opening of Stormlight Four
I read about half of this chapter at a convention somewhere, I believe, but the full version has never been seen. It’s what will likely be the first chapter of Stormlight Four, which (hopefully) will come out next Christmastime.
I’ll warn you though, it’s an early draft—and is likely to have not only errors like awkward language, but the occasional continuity problem as well. It also spoils a ton from earlier books. But with those warnings in place, here is chapter one of the next book in the Stormlight Archive.
Chapter One of Stormlight Four
First, you must get a spren to approach.
The type of gemstone is relevant to this, as some spren are naturally more intrigued by certain gemstones. More importantly, it is essential to provide the spren with something it knows and loves. The spren must be made to feel calm. A good fire for a flamespren, for example, is a must.

—Lecture on Fabrial Mechanics as presented by Navani Kholin to the Coalition of Monarchs, Urithiru.
Lirin was impressed at how calm he felt as he checked the child’s gums for scurvy. Years of training as a surgeon served him well today. Breathing exercises—intended to keep his hands steady—worked just as well for harboring fugitives as they did for surgery.
“Here,” he said to the child’s mother, digging from his pocket a small carved carapace chit. “Show this to woman at the dining pavilion. She’ll get you some juice for your son. Make certain he drinks it all, each morning.”
“Very thank you,” the woman said in a thick Herdazian accent. She gathered her son close, then looked to Lirin with haunted eyes. “If . . . if child . . . found . . .”
“I will make certain you’re notified if we hear word of your other children,” Lirin promised. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She nodded, wiped her cheeks, and carried the child toward the town. The morning fog obscured Hearthstone, so from the outside, it seemed a group of dark, shadowy lumps. Like tumors. Lirin could barely make out the tarps stretched between buildings, offering meager shelter for the many refugees pouring out of Herdaz. Entire streets were closed off, and phantom sounds—plates clinking, people talking—rose through the fog.
Those shanties would never last a storm, of course, but could be quickly torn down and stowed. There just wasn’t enough housing otherwise. He glanced at the line of those waiting for admittance today. Storms. How many more could the town hold? The villages closer to the border must be filled to capacity, if so many were making their way to Hearthstone.
It had been over a year since the coming of the Everstorm and the fall of Alethkar. A year during which the country of Herdaz—Alethkar’s small cousin to the north west—had somehow kept fighting. Two months ago, the enemy had finally decided to crush Herdaz for good, and that’s when the refugees had started appearing. Like usual, the soldiers fought while the common people—their fields trampled—starved and were forced out of their homes, looking to escape the conflict.
Hearthstone did what it could. Aric and the other men—once guards at Roshone’s mansion, now forbidden weapons—organized the line and kept anyone from sneaking into town before Lirin saw them. He had persuaded Brightness Abijan that it was essential he see each refugee and judge if they’d bring dangerous diseases into the city. More, he wanted to intercept those who might need treatment.
The woman he’d just seen carried her child up to the watch post outside of town. Here, a group of armed parshmen lifted her hood and compared her face to drawings that had been sent by the fused. Hessica, Lirin’s wife, stood nearby to read the descriptions as required. She was one of the few women in the city who could read, though Brightness Abijan and several of the other parshwomen were learning quickly in their lessons.
Parshmen carrying swords. Learning to read. Even a year after their awakening, Lirin found the notions odd. But really, what was it to him? In some ways, little had changed, despite the coming of the Everstorm and the awakening of the parshmen. The skin was different, but the same old conflicts consumed them as easily as they had the Alethi brightlords. People who got a taste of power wanted more, then sought it with the sword. Normal people bled, and Lirin had to try to put them back together.
He turned back to his line of waiting refugees. He still had at least a hundred to give medical assessments to today. Hiding among them was one in particular, a specific refugee. In some ways, that man was the author of all this suffering.
It wasn’t, however, the next person in line. That was a ragged man who had lost an arm in battle. The wound was a few months old at this point, and there was nothing that Lirin could do about the extensive scarring.
Lirin held up his finger and moved it back and forth before the man’s face, watching his eyes track it. Shock, Lirin thought. “Have you suffered recent wounds you’re not telling me about?”
“No wounds,” the man whispered. “But brigands . . . they took my wife, good surgeon. Took her . . . left me tied to a tree. Just walked off, laughing . . .”
Bother. Mental shock wasn’t something he could cut out with a scalpel. “Once you enter the town,” Lirin said, “look for tent fourteen. Tell the women there I sent you.”
The man nodded dully, though his stare was hollow. Had he even registered the words? Memorizing the man’s description—graying hair with a cowlick in the back, three large moles on the upper left cheek, and of course the missing arm—Lirin made note to check at tent fourteen for him later tonight. He had assistants there watching refugees who might turn suicidal. It was, with so many to care for, the best he could manage.
“On with you,” Lirin said, gently pushing the man toward the town. “Tent fourteen. Don’t forget. I’m sorry for your loss.”
The man walked off.
“You say it so easily, surgeon,” a voice said from behind Lirin.
Lirin stood and turned with surprise, then immediately bowed in respect. Abijan, the new citylord, was a parshwoman with stark white skin and fine red swirls on her cheeks.
“Brightness,” Lirin said. “What was that?”
“You told that man,” Abijan said, “you were sorry for his loss. You say it so easily to each of them—but you seem to have the compassion of a stone. Do you feel, surgeon, for these people?”
“I feel, Brightness,” Lirin said, “but I must be careful not to be overwhelmed by their pains. It’s one of the first rules of becoming a surgeon.”
“Curious.” The parshwoman raised her safehand, which was shrouded in the sleeve of a havah. “Do you remember setting my arm when I was a child?”
“I do.”
“Such a curious memory,” she said. “That life feels like a dream to me now. I remember pain. Confusion. A stern figure, bringing me more pain—though I now recognize you were simply seeking to heal me. So much trouble to go through for a slave child.”
“I have never cared who I heal, Brightness. Slave or king.”
“I’m sure the fact that Wistiow had paid good money for me had nothing to do with it.” She narrowed her eyes at Lirin, and when she next spoke, there was a cadence to her words . . . as if she were speaking the words to a song. “Did you feel for me, the poor, confused slave child whose mind had been stolen from her? Did you weep for us, surgeon, and the life we led?”
“A surgeon must not weep,” Lirin said softly. “A surgeon cannot afford to weep.”
“Like a stone,” she said again, then shook her head. “Have you seen any plaguespren on these refugees? If those spren get into the city, it could kill everyone.”
“Diseases isn’t caused by spren,” Lirin said. “It is spread by contaminated water, improper sanitation, or sometimes by the breath of those who bear it.”
“Superstition,” she said.
“The wisdom of the Heralds,” Lirin replied. “We should be careful.” Fragments of old manuscripts—translations of translations of translations—spoke of ancient diseases that had killed thousands, spreading quickly and persistently. Such things hadn’t been recorded in any modern texts he’d been read, but he had heard rumors of something strange to the west—a new plague, they were calling it. Details were sparse.
Abijan moved on without further complaint at him. Her attendants—a group of elevated parshmen and parshwomen—joined her. Though their clothing was of Alethi cuts and fashion, the colors were lighter, more muted, than human women might wear. The fused had explained that singers in the past eschewed bright colors, as to not distract from their skin patterns.
He sensed a search for identity in the way Abijan and the other parshmen acted. Their accents, their dress, their mannerisms—they were all distinctly Alethi. But they grew transfixed whenever the fused said about the lives of their ancestors, and tried whenever they could to emulate those long dead parshmen. Or, eln-singers they were being called. Old singers, in their language. Contrasted with the niv-singers, the modern punch of parshmen who had awakened.
Lirin turned to the next group of refugees—a complete family for once. Though he should have been happy to see that, he couldn’t help wondering how difficult it was going to be to feed five children and parents who were flagging from poor nutrition.
As he sent them on, a familiar figure moved down the line toward him. Laral wore a simple servant’s dress now, with a gloved hand instead of a sleeve, and she carried a water bucket. Ostensibly, she was giving water to the waiting refugees. Laral didn’t walk like a servant, though. There was a certain . . . determination about the young woman that no forced subservience could smother. The end of the world itself seemed roughly as bothersome to her as a poor harvest once had.
She paused by Lirin, offering him a drink. Ladled into a fresh cup, rather than taken straight from the bucket, as he insisted.
“He’s three down,” Laral whispered as Lirin sipped.
Lirin grunted.
“Shorter than I expected him to be,” Laral noted. “He’s supposed to be a great general, leader of the Herdazian resistance. He looks more like a traveling merchant.”
“Genius comes in all shapes, Laral,” Lirin said, waving for another drink to give an excuse for them to keep talking.
“Still . . .” she said, then fell silent as Durnash passed by, a tall Parshman with marbled black and red skin, a sword on his back. Once he was well on his way, she continued softly. “I’m honestly surprised at you, Lirin. Not even once have you suggested we turn in this hidden general.”
“He’d be executed,” Lirin said.
“You think him as a criminal though, don’t you?”
“Criminal? I’m not sure. He bears a terrible responsibility for certain; he perpetuated a war against an overwhelming enemy force. He threw away the lives of his men in a hopeless battle.”
“Some would call that heroism.”
“Heroism is a myth you tell idealistic young people—specifically when you want them to go bleed for you. It got my son killed and my other son taken from me. You can keep your heroism and give me back the lives of those wasted on foolish conflicts.”
At least it seemed to almost be over. Now that the resistance in Herdaz had finally collapsed, the fused had secured dominance of the country, like they had Alethkar. Hopefully, the refugee flood would slow now, and everything could settle back down.
Laral watched him with those blue eyes of hers. She was a keen one. How he wished life had gone another direction; that old Wistiow had held on a few more years. Lirin might, in that case, call this woman daughter, and have both of his sons beside him—with Kaladin trained to be a surgeon, not a killer.
“I won’t turn him in,” Lirin said, looking away from Laral’s questioning gaze. “Stop looking at me like that. I hate war, but I won’t condemn your hero.”
“And your son will come fetch him soon?”
“We’ve sent him word. That should be enough. Just be sure your husband is ready with his distraction.”
She nodded and moved on to offer water to the parshmen guards at the city entrance. Lirin got through the next few refugees quickly, and then moved on to a group of cloaked figures.
He calmed himself with the quick breathing exercise his master had taught him in the surgery room all those years ago. So it was that though his insides were a storm, his hands didn’t shake as he waved forward the first of the men.
“I will need to do an inspection,” Lirin said softly, “to not make it seem so unusual when I pull you out of the line.”
“Begin with me,” said the shortest of the men as he stepped forward. The other four shifted their positions, placing themselves carefully around him.
“Don’t look so much like you’re guarding him, you fools,” Lirin hissed. “Here, sit down on the ground. Maybe you’ll seem less like a gang of thugs that way.”
They did as requested, and Lirin pulled over his stool, settling down beside the shortest of the men. He bore a thin mustache on his upper lip, silvered to grey, and was perhaps in his fifties. His sun-leathered skin was darker than most Herdazians; he almost could have passed for Azish. His eyes were a cool, soft green.
“You’re him?” Lirin whispered as he put his ear to the man’s chest to check his heartbeat.
“I am,” the man said.
Dieno enne Calah. Dieno “The Mink” in Old Herdazian. Hessica explained that enne was a very specific kind of honorific—with an implied “greatness” to the wording.
One might have expected—as Laral apparently had—the Mink to be a brutal warrior cast from the same forge as men Like Dalinar Kholin or Meridas Amaram. Lirin, however, knew that killers came in all kinds of packages. The Mink might be short, and might be missing a tooth, but there was a power to his lean build, and Lirin spotted not a few scars in his inspection. Those around the wrists, in fact . . . those were the scars manacles made on the skin of slaves, if worn too long.
“Thank you,” Dieno said as Lirin continued his inspection, “for offering us refuge.”
“It wasn’t my choice,” Lirin said.
“Still, you ensure that the resistance will escape to live on. Heralds bless you, surgeon.”
Lirin dug out a bandage, then began wrapping a wound on the man’s arm that hadn’t been seen to properly. “The heralds bless us with a quick end to this conflict.”
“Yes, with the invaders sent running all the way back to the Damnation from which they were spawned.”
Lirin continued his work.
“You . . . disagree, surgeon?”
“Your resistance has failed, general,” Lirin said, pulling the bandage tight. “Your kingdom has fallen, like my own. Further conflict will just leave more men dead.”
“Surely you don’t intend to just obey these monsters.”
“I obey the person who holds the sword to my neck, general,” Lirin said. “Same as I always have.”
He finished his exam, then did cursory looks over the general’s four companions. Now women. How would the general read messages sent to him?
Lirin made a show of discovering a wound on one man’s leg, and—with a little coaching—the man limped on it properly, then let out a painful howl.
“That will need surgery,” Lirin said loudly. “Or you might lose the leg. No, no complaints. We’re going to see to that right now.”
He had Aric—one of the town’s former guards—fetch a litter. Positioning the other four soldiers, general included, as bearers for that litter gave Lirin an excuse to pull them all out of line.
Now they just needed the distraction. It came in the form of Toralin Roshone. The former citylord stumbled out of the town—at this distance through the fog, he was just a dark figure that wobbled on unsteady feet.
Lirin waved to the Mink and his soldiers, slowly leading them toward the inspection post.
“You aren’t armed, are you?” he hissed under his breath.
“We left obvious weapons behind,” the mink replied, “but it will be my face—and not our arms—that betrays us.”
“We’ve prepared for that.” Pray to the almighty it works.
As Lirin drew near, he could better make out Roshone through the fog. The former citylord’s skin hung in deflated jowls these days, still reflecting the weight he’d lost following his son’s death some six years ago. Roshone been ordered to shave his beard, perhaps because he’d been fond of it, and he no longer wore his proud warrior’s takama. That had been replaced by the knee pads and worker’s garb of a crem scraper.
He carried a stool under one arm and muttered to himself in a slurred voice. Despite a lifetime treating drunks who had suffered a fall or a fight, Lirin honestly couldn’t tell if Roshone had gotten himself drunk for the display, or if he was faking. He drew attention either way. The parshmen manning the inspection post nudged one another, and one hummed to an up-beat rhythm—something they often did when amused.
Roshone picked a building nearby and set down his stool, then—to the delight of the watching parshmen—tried stepping up on it, but missed and stumbled and nearly fell.
They loved watching him. Most of the parshmen in Hearthstone these days hadn’t been owned by Roshone—Abijan and three others were unique in that regard. But every one of these niv-singers had been owned by one wealthy lighteyes or another. Watching the former citylord reduced to a stumbling drunk who spent his days doing the most menial job in the city? To them, it was more captivating than any storyteller’s performance.
Lirin stepped up with his charges. “This one needs immediate surgery,” he said, gesturing to the man in the litter. “If I don’t get to him now, he might lose the foot.”
Of the three parshmen assigned as inspectors, only Dor bothered to check the “wounded” man’s face against the drawings.
The Mink was top of the list of dangerous refugees, but Dor didn’t spare a glance for the bearers of the litters. He simply held up the drawings and went through a few of them, comparing them to the man in the litter. Lirin had noticed the oddity a few days back—when he used refugees from the line as labor, the inspectors often fixated only on the person in the litter.
He’d hoped that, with Roshone to provide entertainment, the parshmen would be even more lax. Still, Lirin felt himself sweating as Dor hesitated on one of the pictures. He’d told the Mink to only bring only low-level guards, who wouldn’t be on the lists. Could it still—
The other two parshmen laughed at Roshone, who was trying—despite his drunkenness—to reach the roof of the building and scrape away the crem build up there. Dor turned and joined them, absently waving Lirin forward.
Lirin shared a brief look with his wife, who waited nearby. It was a good thing none of the parshmen were looking at her, because she looked pale as a shin man. Lirin probably didn’t look much better, but he held in his sigh of relief as he waved the Mink and his soldiers forward. He could sequester them inside the surgery room, keep them away from the public eye until—
“Everyone stop what you’re doing!” a female voice shouted from behind. “Prepare to give deference!”
Lirin felt an immediate urge to bolt. He almost did it, but the soldiers simply kept walking at an even pace. Yes, that was much better. Pretend that you hadn’t heard, or that the order didn’t apply to you.
“You, surgeon!” the voice shouted at him. It was Abijan. Reluctantly, Lirin stopped, excuses running through his mind. Would she believe he hadn’t realized who this was? Lirin was already in rough winds with the citylady after insisting on treating Jeber’s wounds after the fool had gotten himself strung up and whipped.
Lirin turned around, trying very hard to still his nerves. Abijan hurried up, and though singers didn’t blush, she was obviously flustered. When she spoke, her words had adopted a staccato cadence. “Attend me,” she said. “We have a visitor.”
It took Lirin a moment to process the words. She wasn’t demanding an explanation or ordering he be taken. This was about . . . something else?
“What’s wrong, Brightness?” he asked.
Nearby, the Mink and his soldiers stopped in place, but Lirin could see their arms shifting beneath cloaks. They’d said they’d left behind “obvious” weapons. Almighty help him, if this turned bloody . . .
“Nothing’s wrong,” Abijan said, speaking quickly. “We’ve been blessed. Attend me.” She looked to Dor and the inspectors. “Pass the word. Nobody is to enter or leave the town until I give word otherwise.”
“Brightness,” Lirin said, gesturing toward the man in the litter. “This man’s wound may not look dire, but I’m certain that if I don’t go to immediate surgery, he—”
“It will wait.” She pointed to the Mink and his men. “You five, wait. Everyone just wait. All right. Wait and . . . and you, surgeon, come with me.”
She turned and strode away, expecting Lirin to follow. He met the eyes of the Mink, nodded for him to wait, then hurried after the citylady. What could have put her so out of sorts? She’d been so obviously practicing a regal air lately, but had now abandoned it completely.
Lirin crossed the field outside of town, walking alongside the line of still-waiting refugees, and soon found his answer. A hulking figure, easily seven feet tall, emerged from the fog, accompanied by a small squad of niv-singers with weapons. The dreadful creature had long red hair—the color of dried blood, thicker than human hair—and jagged carapace to match. The face was almost pure black, with lines of marbled red under the eyes.
One of the fused. In Hearthstone. It had been months since Lirin had seen one—and that had only been in passing as a small group had stopped on the way to the battlefront in Herdaz. That group had soared through the air in breezy robes, bearing spears longer than a battlefield pike.
They had evoked an ethereal beauty, but this creature looked far more wicked—like something one might expect to have come from Damnation. The creature wore a tight black outfit, seemingly of a long piece of cloth that had been wound between its outcroppings of armor. A strange pair of carapace fins, like rising wings, broke its long hair at the sides of its head, above its ears. Lirin couldn’t remember ever seeing a parshman—or a Fused—with those horn-like protrusions.
The eyes glowed a deep, dangerous red. The fused spoke in a rhythmic language, and a smaller—more mundane parshwoman in battle carapace—stepped forward to translate. From what Lirin had heard, many of the Fused didn’t speak modern languages.
“You,” the interpreter said, “are the surgeon mentioned? You’ve been inspecting the people today?”
“Yes,” Lirin said.
The fused spoke, and again, the interpreter translated. “We are looking for a spy. He might be hidden among those you met today.”
Lirin felt his mouth go dry. The thing standing above him seemed not of this world, but of legends. A nightmare that should have remained a legend, a demon whispered of around the midnight fire. When Lirin tried to speak, the words just wouldn’t come out, and he had to cough to clear his throat.
At a barked word from the fused, the soldiers with him spread out to the line of refugees. Those backed away, and several tried to run, but the parshmen—though common beside the fused—wore bodies with fit energy and terrible speed. They caught runners while others began looking through the line, throwing back hoods and inspecting faces.
Don’t look behind, at the Mink, Lirin. Don’t seem nervous.
“We . . .” Lirin said. “We inspect at each person, comparing them to drawings given to us. I promise you. We’ve been watchful! No need to terrorize these poor refuges.”
Curiously, the interpreter didn’t translate Lirin’s words for the Fused. It seemed perfectly capable of understanding his tongue. Yet, when he spoke back, it used its own language.
“The one we seek is not on those lists,” the interpreter said. “He is a spy of the most dangerous kind. You saw each person today? We seek a young man. He would be fit and strong, compared to these refugees, though he might have feigned weakness.”
“That . . . that could describe any of a number of people,” Lirin said. Could he be in luck? Could this all be a coincidence? It might not be about the Mink at all. Lirin felt a moment of hope, like sunlight peeking through storm clouds.
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