Spoiler for Rolepay (will continue the story later too):
The villagers were gathered in Sandover's inn. It seemed like the safer place to be, especially because it had wine.
No one said anything. In the firdt few hours, it was due to the sadness of the loss of several of their friends during the last night and the fear that they could still be next. But, as time passed and the wine barrels strated to become empty, the silence wasn't based on fear anymore...
The air was so heavy with suspision that you could almost grab it with a hand. All the villagers, the 22 that were there, were about to say who was the one to blame about all that tragedy. The problem is, everybody suspected a different person and, at this point, this suspisions were not based on facts. Everybody had a grudge with at least another villager that happened before the Baron's visit. And, coupled with the harsh situation they were in, these old grudges were starting to get the power of death sentences.
When one of the villagers suddenly got up to trow the first accusation, they heard a scream. It came from the gallows in the village's center. Could it be that the werewolves were attacking already?
When they got there, they saw a strange man. He was very tall, thin and his skin was so white, that it seemed to never have clashed with the sun before in his life. He was trembling with fear, crouching near a wall.
Seeing all the villagers, he asked with a shrieky voice, with a not-costant tone, with a lot of ups and downs:
"Why the kids didn't go to school today? Where are they? Why is the mayor dead?"
Before anyone answer those questions, one of the villager stepped forward and said what all the others were thinking:
"Hold up your tongue for now, freak. Who are you? What are you doing in our town?"
Scared by those questions that seemed like accusations, the strange man quickly replied:
"I'm Ichabod, the village's teacher. Don't you guys know me?"
Gameplay relevant part:
uberfish Wrote:I vote to lynch Novice, defending MJW (a player known to spread confusion when he's on the village side) is definitely something a wolf could see advantage in doing.
That was the best post until now, IMO. But I think you could have wait a bit before saying that, Uberfish, since we would have more information based on MJW's defense attempts.
Oh, well... Still not enough to cast a vote, though...
I groaned and slowly opened my eyes, adjusting them to shafts of light that broke through the Venetian blinds behind me. Still slumped over my desk, I slid one arm forward to grasp the closest bottle, while I glanced down at the watch on my other. It was past Noon. I poured two shots of whiskey- one to remember where I was, the other to forget the previous night. As I felt the liquid burn down the back of my throat, I bravely repressed the attempts of my stomach to liberate itself from my body and take most of my other internal organs with it. The stuff tasted like shit, but I looked like it, which made us third cousins twice removed- legal in this province. I should know; I'm a private detective. "Personal Investigator" according to my door, an "amateur snoop" to some of the less respectable residents, just a plain "dick" to my ex-wife.
I manfully looked around the walk-in closet which doubled as my office. Inside the air was an ENT's wet dream of fog, cigar smoke, dust, and charisma. Outside the rain was cats & dogs, like a celestial kindergartner was dumping her Littlest Petshops on the ground in some cosmic tantrum. But perhaps I'm jaded. In a profession like mine, you get used to children dumping on you. Despite the best efforts of my old friend Jack Daniels to assist, I could still remember the previous night- the screams, the howling, the bravely locking myself in my office and cowering under my desk. When the Baron appeared, everyone knew it was bad news. "Dewey defeats Truman" bad. But while he had since skipped off to parts unknown, our story was far from over. Wherever the Baron stayed, a plague of Lyncanthropy inevitably followed. For the first time in far too long, I had a case. Finally rising, I grabbed my Fedora, flung on my trench coat, and checked my ever-present permanent 2-day stubble.
Outside, the town was already a flutter of panicked activity, like a crate of doves casually chucked into a hot tub. An election was being held for the new mayor. I quickly jotted down novice's name and stuffed it in the ballot box, since I thought I smelt a whiff of leadership whenever he walked past. The list of suspects on my notepad was a census of the surviving villagers, with details as sparse as my pantry. Of them MJW stood apart from the rest. His story didn't check out. A traveling inquisitor who could barely speak his own language? Where did he come from, and what was he investigating? What was his true game?
I looked at my watch again. Half past one. Time for another drink.
[OOC- Many thanks to Sareln for starting up this game, and for the brilliant establishing write-ups ]
Just a quick placeholder note to say that I'm checking in. I'm going to be gone until this afternoon so I don't want people already throwing around accusations of people avoiding the thread.
uberfish Wrote:I vote to lynch Novice, defending MJW (a player known to spread confusion when he's on the village side) is definitely something a wolf could see advantage in doing.
So you're not even saying I'm a wolf defending a fellow wolf? You're saying I'm a wolf defending a villager? Doesn't make much sense to me.
Look, I would love to lynch MJW, but it is slightly silly if we think he's innocent.
By the way, have you noticed that the endgames tend to be processes of elimination? On that note, maybe it's easier at first trying to identify villagers rather than identifying wolves? And another random musing - with just five wolves, we should consider today a success as long as we don't lynch a power role.
Zakofonix was surprised to see so many people crowding the village square. Usually, almost no-one showed up for his weekly poetry recitals; they were even less popular than the sermons of Father Tryx.
Today, the square was teeming with villagers. Many of them were talking excitedly (arguing, even); Zakofonix felt suddenly nervous in the face of such high expectations. After all, he had grown accustomed to somewhat poor reception. Feedback in the form of eggs and tomatoes was not unheard of, and a common conclusion of his performances---particularly if Domeena, the Father's youngest daughter, was present---was a firm gag and rigid hogtie.
As he climbed a barrel of tar (his usual podium), his nervousness turned to panic as he realized he hadn't actually prepared anything. He froze, but it was too late to back out gracefully. He was already drawing the crowd's attention; people were pre-emptively covering their ears, the blacksmith started banging furiously on his anvil, while Domeena drew a sharp breath and expectantly eyed the coils of ropes stacked over by the stables.
For a moment, the *BANG*s and *CLANG*s from the blacksmith were all that broke the silence. Rather than writing poetry, Zakofonix had spent the previous night enjoying wine and biscuits with the Innkeeper's daughter---and they quickly ran out of biscuits. In his growing desperation,
the memory of last night was a pleasant but ultimately unwelcome distraction. Then, inspiration (of sorts) struck.
He cleared his throat.
*ahem*... *BANG*.... *CLANG*
There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose *BANG* was so long he could *CLANG* it
And he said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin
If my ear were a *CLANG* I would *BANG* it
A stunned silence followed. Apparently, the villagers had expected something a little more... high-brow. They did not know how to react to this new style of poetry, but before they could decide, fate intervened. The lid of the barrel that was supporting Zakofonix gave in, and he promptly fell into a pool of tar. That brought a roar of laughter from the villagers, which didn't abate when the Innkeeper, enraged for previously alluded to reasons, came storming out of the crowd and kicked the barrel into the chicken pen of Farmer Cull. Covered in tar and feathers, and hailed by a storm of mocking laughter, Zakofonix stumbled off.
As poetry recitals went, he was prepared to call it a success.
Bobchillingworth Wrote:I quickly jotted down novice's name and stuffed it in the ballot box, since I thought I smelt a whiff of leadership whenever he walked past.
I think that might be manure actually, but thanks for the votes of confidence, Bob and Zak. [And brilliant writing, both of you!]
Bobchillingworth Wrote:I quickly jotted down novice's name and stuffed it in the ballot box, since I thought I smelt a whiff of leadership whenever he walked past.
Must be a very fine nose to smell such a thing. Perhaps unnatural enhanced because a certain Baron visited you?
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