Orj
Actually, you do have a point there. If he was the Joker, he would just have happily let the votes accumulate. ****. Why didn't you say that earlier?
Unvote, Vote: Swadius
Unvote, Vote: Swadius
[Werewolf: Archives] The Joker, The Jack and The Brotherhood. Innocents Win!
- Thread starter Locke Foreer
- Start date
Users who are viewing this thread
Agent Griff
Master Knight
Your scum-list Villy? And that is overly objective, I am sure. Weren't you the one who voted people based on how much you liked them outside the game?
Not that this is the case now but you seem to be missing the possibility that Swadius might just be a clever Joker. If he is, then you are all playing into his scheme right now. My vote stays on Captain Kris. If Swadius does survive the lynch and the night as well then he will surely become our next target so either way I think the truth will be revealed in his case.
Not that this is the case now but you seem to be missing the possibility that Swadius might just be a clever Joker. If he is, then you are all playing into his scheme right now. My vote stays on Captain Kris. If Swadius does survive the lynch and the night as well then he will surely become our next target so either way I think the truth will be revealed in his case.
Orj
Agent Griff said:
But the thing is, if Swadius is the Joker, he wouldn't have needed to say anything. If he had just kept lurking, he probably would've been lynched, and won, anyway. There would be no reason for his claim to know the wolves. The only reason he'd have to look like the Joker is to try to avoid a lynch, and get at least get one night-kill before he dies.
arbites_augmented
Count
Unvote
Vote: Swadius .
A convincing argument.
Vote: Swadius .
A convincing argument.
Captain Kris
Squire
Unvote, Vote: Swadius
Lets put it this way, how can he know the villains unless he is a special or a villain himself?
Then whoever heard of a special that could find out all the villains roles in 1 day?
Epic fail IMO
Lets put it this way, how can he know the villains unless he is a special or a villain himself?
Then whoever heard of a special that could find out all the villains roles in 1 day?
Epic fail IMO
arbites_augmented
Count
Then again, a wolf wouldn't know ALL the villain's.
FrisianDude
Archduke
Exactly. Therefore it now seems probable to me that Swadius is the Joker trying to get everyone to hang him by saying he knows the alignments of all players.
Orj
Well, we'll find out what he is now, I think that's 9 votes.
FrisianDude
Archduke
Is it already? Could very well be actually. Lemme see.
FrisianDude
Archduke
Locke said:
Seff said:
Captain Kris said:
Alex_Augmented said:
AWdeV said:
Vasara said:
Orj said:
Hmm... seems so. I'll hope this majority is right.
Captain Kris
Squire
Ah well, at least day 1 is finally over
Agent Griff
Master Knight
Now let's see who lasts the night.
FrisianDude
Archduke
The exnocents, no doubt.
Day 1: The Lynch
Swadius. Swadius you are going to die. Say your prayers, eternity awaits you. Etteil, take note; Ekcol, be ready.
Two pairs of eyes swivelled in transparent sockets and all present felt suddenly that they were being watched. It was an uncomfortable feeling, to be sure, and unable to relax, they were well motivated to kill the Alchemist, Swadius, use the Pills, and turn in for the night - turn in to a crooked, mackle-spack house of warping, rotten wood and leaky tiles each; and what’s more, surrounded by razors, and neighboured by villainy.
New to the situation, many were enveloped in apprehension, and simply, their only thoughts were the following, childish as they sound: When I go naked into the dark room and close my eyes, there will be things outside my door, looking in through the window, intent on entering, and hurting me.
If they could find covers, they would undoubtedly long to hide under them.
Dusk was present in full, but they got not a heartening sunset, but a gradual dimming of the grey, dust colour of overcast industry. Captain Kris cheerfully announced his vote – the ninth, and damning – and in stages they conveyed themselves to the muddied gallows. Crusty manure still clutched to the boots of Vilhjilly, who still hung from the noose from days past. She was cousin to Vilhjalmr, and strikingly similar to him in appearance. He and Agent Griff brought her down gently, carrying her to an unused shed, and laying her atop the workbench therein.
Moss had been resizing the noose in their absence, which after days taut, and crusty with blood, was tight and difficult to pull loose. The two returned from the shed, Agent Griff giving Vilhjalmr a consoling pat on the back, and Vasara and Orj brought Swadius up to the platform of the gallows. Both holding an arm tightly behind Swadius’ back, it was Hershey who did the honours. The stare he received from Swadius as he tightened the noose suggested he would nut Hershey in the blink of an eye, but he did not - he only wait.
‘Well this is it,’ said Moss, and then found that he had nothing else worth saying. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, under Swadius’ off-putting stare, and then stepped down from the gallows. After a scan of the horizon, which glinted silver at the camp of the werewolf hunters, he touched Vasara’s shoulder, who then dramatically pulled the stiff lever for the trap door.
Squeeeak…
‘Oh for the love of Rei,’ said Swadius as the trapdoor gradually creaked open under his weight. ‘Ack-‘ he choked, as he sank and the rope pulled tight. Meanwhile Orj jimmied the lever to hopefully quicken the fall, and others looked away from what would now be a slow and ugly death… Queerly though, Swadius began to convulse quite violently for how long he had been hanging. His face had barely purpled, and yet he was thrashing as if in his death throes. Those who had turned away looked back to the commotion as he kicked and swung himself about more crazily...
Now, tugging himself about on the end of the rope, he did purple, but also, his chest tensed frighteningly, pulling taut the ragged jerkin he wore. The cords in his neck stood out like swords, and the muscles in his arms – tied behind his back – swelled, doubled in size, and the veins popped out like blue spaghetti trailed in and around his muscles. They slid around under his skin, now like worms, and as more blue worms rose to the surface, the group noticed that many of the worms had made their way up and down the cords in his neck, and up to his face. His eyes had closed in apparent pain, but now opened to show misshapen pupils. The veins pushed their way towards his eyes, and when it seemed they were about to burst forth into the open air, they sank back from view bit by bit, following his heartbeat.
He was no longer thrashing, and gradually all activity stopped, and his eyes lost their brightness. He became still, and in the equally still air, he soon stopped swinging back and forth on the rope. A clump of his hair fell in silence to the ground.
‘Holy ****,’ uttered Alex. ‘So was he a-?’
‘Aye, a werewolf.’ The group turned to the voice in surprise. It was the werewolf hunter again. ‘Apples, bring ‘em up tomorra’ he said from atop his warhorse, then trotted away as unannounced as his arrival.
They trudged back to the church hall, where Moss and Captain Kris each swallowed one of the two Pills with water – ‘Ack, Gads, it tastes like ****’, ‘I think I’m going to be sick… Urp.’ – and then satisfied that the mouldy pills had been irreversibly digested, they broke up and each went to a separate house to hole up for the night.
Swadius was lynched by majority vote. He was a
Night has begun. Send night choices by PM.
Swadius. Swadius you are going to die. Say your prayers, eternity awaits you. Etteil, take note; Ekcol, be ready.
Two pairs of eyes swivelled in transparent sockets and all present felt suddenly that they were being watched. It was an uncomfortable feeling, to be sure, and unable to relax, they were well motivated to kill the Alchemist, Swadius, use the Pills, and turn in for the night - turn in to a crooked, mackle-spack house of warping, rotten wood and leaky tiles each; and what’s more, surrounded by razors, and neighboured by villainy.
New to the situation, many were enveloped in apprehension, and simply, their only thoughts were the following, childish as they sound: When I go naked into the dark room and close my eyes, there will be things outside my door, looking in through the window, intent on entering, and hurting me.
If they could find covers, they would undoubtedly long to hide under them.
Dusk was present in full, but they got not a heartening sunset, but a gradual dimming of the grey, dust colour of overcast industry. Captain Kris cheerfully announced his vote – the ninth, and damning – and in stages they conveyed themselves to the muddied gallows. Crusty manure still clutched to the boots of Vilhjilly, who still hung from the noose from days past. She was cousin to Vilhjalmr, and strikingly similar to him in appearance. He and Agent Griff brought her down gently, carrying her to an unused shed, and laying her atop the workbench therein.
Moss had been resizing the noose in their absence, which after days taut, and crusty with blood, was tight and difficult to pull loose. The two returned from the shed, Agent Griff giving Vilhjalmr a consoling pat on the back, and Vasara and Orj brought Swadius up to the platform of the gallows. Both holding an arm tightly behind Swadius’ back, it was Hershey who did the honours. The stare he received from Swadius as he tightened the noose suggested he would nut Hershey in the blink of an eye, but he did not - he only wait.
‘Well this is it,’ said Moss, and then found that he had nothing else worth saying. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, under Swadius’ off-putting stare, and then stepped down from the gallows. After a scan of the horizon, which glinted silver at the camp of the werewolf hunters, he touched Vasara’s shoulder, who then dramatically pulled the stiff lever for the trap door.
Squeeeak…
‘Oh for the love of Rei,’ said Swadius as the trapdoor gradually creaked open under his weight. ‘Ack-‘ he choked, as he sank and the rope pulled tight. Meanwhile Orj jimmied the lever to hopefully quicken the fall, and others looked away from what would now be a slow and ugly death… Queerly though, Swadius began to convulse quite violently for how long he had been hanging. His face had barely purpled, and yet he was thrashing as if in his death throes. Those who had turned away looked back to the commotion as he kicked and swung himself about more crazily...
Now, tugging himself about on the end of the rope, he did purple, but also, his chest tensed frighteningly, pulling taut the ragged jerkin he wore. The cords in his neck stood out like swords, and the muscles in his arms – tied behind his back – swelled, doubled in size, and the veins popped out like blue spaghetti trailed in and around his muscles. They slid around under his skin, now like worms, and as more blue worms rose to the surface, the group noticed that many of the worms had made their way up and down the cords in his neck, and up to his face. His eyes had closed in apparent pain, but now opened to show misshapen pupils. The veins pushed their way towards his eyes, and when it seemed they were about to burst forth into the open air, they sank back from view bit by bit, following his heartbeat.
He was no longer thrashing, and gradually all activity stopped, and his eyes lost their brightness. He became still, and in the equally still air, he soon stopped swinging back and forth on the rope. A clump of his hair fell in silence to the ground.
‘Holy ****,’ uttered Alex. ‘So was he a-?’
‘Aye, a werewolf.’ The group turned to the voice in surprise. It was the werewolf hunter again. ‘Apples, bring ‘em up tomorra’ he said from atop his warhorse, then trotted away as unannounced as his arrival.
They trudged back to the church hall, where Moss and Captain Kris each swallowed one of the two Pills with water – ‘Ack, Gads, it tastes like ****’, ‘I think I’m going to be sick… Urp.’ – and then satisfied that the mouldy pills had been irreversibly digested, they broke up and each went to a separate house to hole up for the night.
Swadius was lynched by majority vote. He was a
Werewolf
Night has begun. Send night choices by PM.
Night 1
Full darkness had not yet established itself over the village when activity began. A pair of worn boots trampled through the dried mud, tripping now and then on a dip where the path was well used. He tripped often, each time with an overly angered curse. “****in’ ****”, “piss!” “Silly ****!” Muttering almost constantly as he went, he carried a lumpy sack over his shoulder, and coming to one of the houses, he swung the sack down and knelt with a small knife in front of it. After some hidden fiddling, he shook the sack about in a way one might fluff a pillow, then kicked it and left, hands buried in pockets and head down. He looked over his shoulder and from side to side now and then, but quite easily he made it to his chosen house, pushing furniture against the door and windows once he was inside.
At the sack the man had placed, from around the corner of the house, a shadowed figure peered back and forth before retreating back into the shadows at the sound of more footsteps, and the dragging of cloth.
A figure in a long, black, hooded robe was approaching. In his hands he carried a book. Not the Journal, but one embossed and illuminated; an expensive and important book; The Scriptures of Etteil. This man was the Father of the Brotherhood: A teacher, a mentor, and a recruiter - he was a missionary of the God of Night.
Reaching the building he knocked a pattern on the door and waited. There were sounds from within, though he may have imagined it. Either way he got the sense that someone had become conscious of him, very much like the sense of being watched. Out in the open, and at night, this wasn’t a comfortable feeling. He was relieved when he heard further sounds from within, and footsteps cautiously approaching the door – nothing that resembled the supernatural. His relief only lasted a moment, however, when he and the inhabitant both heard something else from a building close by.
The moon was hidden behind a cloud, but its presence was enough. Within the neighbouring building, at the window, stood the shape of a man. He grinned, his teeth shining visibly in contrast to the rest of him, which was all black. The teeth seemed to grow into points, and then the grin began to reshape oddly. The man’s entire body now was reshaping, also, and his grin faltered as he began to bulge and stretch, and crack, and he fell from the view of the window.
All that could be heard then was the flailing oh his body, and the snapping of bones that were shook into a new configuration within the man’s skin like dice in a sack. The Father, now hammering on the door of his chosen recruit, was all but ready to give up and flee back to his own house, which he had spent some effort barricading.
Too late though, as the flailing ceased, and with the sound of the clicking of new set joints, a growl grew from something almost imagined, to a roar in the ears of Ativan, chilling him with a terrible shiver that shot through his black cloak, up his spine, and rang his skull like a bell. The Werewolf had transformed. With a crash it bounded through the window with incredible force, sending thick glass flying like draggers through the air.
“AAARGH!” Cried Ativan, choking back blood and looking down at several shards of glass stuck in his chest. The Werewolf landed with a thud in front of him, and in a moment had pawed itself up to Ativan’s shoulder and bit into his neck. Ativan collapsed and the Werewolf ragged him back and forth like a doll until he passed away. The Werewolf then dragged Ativan’s corpse away to feed in private.
At the opposite end of the village, the door to one of the houses swung open weakly, rattling on its hinges as it hit the wall. Quietly, there stepped from within, a tall skeletal figure. His head like a skull, and his eyes resting within their hollows. His fingers were long and thin, coming to sharp pointed nails. He took one step, his spine perfectly straight, and in his gait, he seemed to float. His head looked this way and that, independently to the rest of his body. He began to stalk the village, his head looking all around while his body walked on automatically. He came to his destination, but pushing on the door revealed that like most others, the inhabitant had pushed furniture against the door. The Vampire was too weak to force it open. He looked up, and seeing a stumpy chimney, he ascended, hovered over the opening, and then fell gradually down into the room below.
There he drank blood from the neck of his sleeping victim, paralysed under the grip of his thin, white fingers.
Unnoticed, a figure crept past the window. Pulling his cloak tightly around him, the Jack made his way past the rickety houses. Coming to his destination, he peered in the window, and knowing the inhabitant to be sleeping, he forced open the door and searched the room. He found some books and diaries, and inspecting them learnt about the man, asleep in his bed, defenceless...
He hadn't intended it, but... there was nothing to stop him now… Unconsciously, a hand went to the knife at his belt...
The air behind him flurried powerfully.
Before he could react to the movement, he had been slammed in the back between the shoulder blades, propelling him out of the door and onto the ground.
The Jack tried frantically to get back up and take out the knife as the Joker closed the door quietly behind him. “Hello Jack!” he said, striding forward and kicking the Jack in the ribs. He went down under the impact, but immediately got back up and was pulling the knife from its sheath when- Joker! The Joker’s face was an inch from his own, and there was a mad fury in his eyes. He took a punch to the stomach, sending his face straight into the line of the Joker’s head-butt which sent him sprawling back to the ground. The Joker was smiling now, and as the Jack tried to rise he jumped down excitedly and grinned with pointed teeth as he pummelled the Jack into submission.
The knife. The knife! His left hand quested blindly for the pommel, catching hold of it and pulling it forth, he drew it back intending to strike, but- The Joker punched with precision, driving the Jack’s wrist into the mud with such force that a bruise welled up instantly and the knife jumped out of his hand, and fell point first onto a paving stone that lay just below the surface. The black blade cracked with a bizarre, high pitched whistle, and bounced back into the air slightly to be caught up by the Joker.
He looked closely at the break in the blade with utter revulsion. It seemed as if he were about to vomit, but instead his features became sharper, and two points grew out from his head – horns. Controlling his anger, and like sucking in a pot belly, he composed his face and the horns retracted. Turning around, he took a running kick at the Jack’s torso, again and again. “DOES THE KING KNOW YOU’RE HERE? DOES THE QUEEN?” The inhabitant of the house beside woke up with a fright from the screaming of the Joker.
“SHE SHOULDN’T KNOW. I KILLED HER. I ****ED HER DEAD!”
The Jack rolled away, and began to crawl away gradually into the night. The Joker let him go, giving a resounding scream of irritation before striding away from the scene…
The rest of the night passed by without disturbance, and barely noticeably, dawn arrived with a steady lightening grey.
The village woke to find the splintered bones of Ativan spread throughout the village..
They assembled outside the church hall, favouring the colourless air to the long dull hours of discussion that waited within. Many were hit with nostalgia of many other typical Sunday mornings spent dreading the boredom of a church service. They were ready to trickle in when they noticed the unsavoury werewolf hunter making his way down the hill on horseback yet again…
He arrived before them, with crusty eyelashes and gunk around his lips. “You haven’t brought me apples…”
The group looked to one another. They had forgotten, not that they had ever taken his request seriously.
“WHERE ARE THEY?!” He screamed, making them all jump. “’Ow many times did I tell you?! Eh?! Everyone was too stunned to reply.
He leered at them for a moment, and still no one replied. He drew his silver sword threateningly.
- AU-AOOOOOOOOOO –
At the top of the hill, at the silver camp of the werewolf hunters, a large force had arrived, flying dozens of banners and flags, all bearing the royal sign; and at the head of the column, speaking to one of the silver knights, was King Nosferatu, recognisable by the gilded, crowned helm he wore. A moment passed before another, different horn was blown. A battle horn… The cavalry was hurrying into formation and the encircling line of regular troops began to march in on the village. They were readying to slaughter them...
The werewolf hunter turned back to them with a smile, only to see the end of a large, ornamental cross being used as a battering ram against him, held by Alex_Augmented, Seff and Bulle, whose quick thinking was admirable. It hit him in the chest, pushing him off his stallion to fall heavily into the mud. He grunted with pain as he landed awkwardly on his arm, but the others were already away, running up the hill behind Vilhjalmr and AWdeV who were heading towards the mountainside. Few knew what AWdeV, the first to start running, was hoping for by fleeing from a force of over two hundred, now, and right into the face of a cliff, but with little else to do but die, they were ready to follow him.
It so happened that he was making for the opening in the mountain – a mine, presumably, and probably just as much as a dead end as the mountainside, but it was worth running; worth extending their lives right until the very end. They leapt the crude stairs three at a time, but it was hard work, and behind them they heard the knights break into a gallop, accompanied by another blast from the war-horn. The troops encircling, too, began to sprint, and in a second there were bolts whizzing past and glancing off the stone staircase.
The galloping became louder, and their breath became laboured with the ascent. The opening was right in front of them, but the cavalry were on them. On them, and soon their skulls would be lanced and trampled into the stone, but the horses struggled with the steps, and they received more time than they'd counted on. In a second more they were flying into the opening, sprinting as fast as they could, though their lungs seared and their hearts strained.
They followed a rail track going in a gentle downward slope. The knights behind them barely fit in the tunnel and had to slow down to a trot to safely advance. The tunnel was getting darker and darker as they ran deeper, and at a curve, the opening was lost from sight. It was almost pitch black, and they began to stumble, but ahead, they saw a soft blue light come into being. The commotion behind them was fading as they outpaced the knights, and before any of them knew it, they had come out into a large open space filled with branching tracks and mining carts, and all around, the rock glowed with a brilliant blue. They faltered, and slowed to a jog, and then a walk as they gazed up and around at the rocks in awe, but all too soon they came to their senses when the sounds of advancing troops reached them.
With great desperation, every single one of them began to push one of the carts up the track into the tunnel to barricade the room against the knights. The car ran smoothly, and behind it was another, and another, and another. They pushed them all up into the tunnel, blocking it almost completely. The last one was full of the glowing rock, which blocked the tunnel all the way to the ceiling of the tunnel. Behind that last cart, they overturned two more which wedged the other carts on the track in the tunnel. The knights had reached the beginning of their barricade, and by the sounds of it had discarded their battle cries for curses. They were safe for now, and after an hour's work in which they upturned every single cart in the room against the tunnel, they were almost impregnable. They could hold out, for a while...
They collapsed against one another, and against carts, and allowed themselves to rest.
A short period of exploration followed, leading them to living quarters, storage rooms, and a dining hall, all lighted by the precious glowing rocks, left in this place, unused, since the beginning of the werewolf infestation of the region. They found tunnels that lead deeper, and became oddly hot, but for now they had a task that could not wait for their curiosity. They must come to a lynch by the end of the day.
Begin Day 2.
*collapses*
Full darkness had not yet established itself over the village when activity began. A pair of worn boots trampled through the dried mud, tripping now and then on a dip where the path was well used. He tripped often, each time with an overly angered curse. “****in’ ****”, “piss!” “Silly ****!” Muttering almost constantly as he went, he carried a lumpy sack over his shoulder, and coming to one of the houses, he swung the sack down and knelt with a small knife in front of it. After some hidden fiddling, he shook the sack about in a way one might fluff a pillow, then kicked it and left, hands buried in pockets and head down. He looked over his shoulder and from side to side now and then, but quite easily he made it to his chosen house, pushing furniture against the door and windows once he was inside.
At the sack the man had placed, from around the corner of the house, a shadowed figure peered back and forth before retreating back into the shadows at the sound of more footsteps, and the dragging of cloth.
A figure in a long, black, hooded robe was approaching. In his hands he carried a book. Not the Journal, but one embossed and illuminated; an expensive and important book; The Scriptures of Etteil. This man was the Father of the Brotherhood: A teacher, a mentor, and a recruiter - he was a missionary of the God of Night.
Reaching the building he knocked a pattern on the door and waited. There were sounds from within, though he may have imagined it. Either way he got the sense that someone had become conscious of him, very much like the sense of being watched. Out in the open, and at night, this wasn’t a comfortable feeling. He was relieved when he heard further sounds from within, and footsteps cautiously approaching the door – nothing that resembled the supernatural. His relief only lasted a moment, however, when he and the inhabitant both heard something else from a building close by.
The moon was hidden behind a cloud, but its presence was enough. Within the neighbouring building, at the window, stood the shape of a man. He grinned, his teeth shining visibly in contrast to the rest of him, which was all black. The teeth seemed to grow into points, and then the grin began to reshape oddly. The man’s entire body now was reshaping, also, and his grin faltered as he began to bulge and stretch, and crack, and he fell from the view of the window.
All that could be heard then was the flailing oh his body, and the snapping of bones that were shook into a new configuration within the man’s skin like dice in a sack. The Father, now hammering on the door of his chosen recruit, was all but ready to give up and flee back to his own house, which he had spent some effort barricading.
Too late though, as the flailing ceased, and with the sound of the clicking of new set joints, a growl grew from something almost imagined, to a roar in the ears of Ativan, chilling him with a terrible shiver that shot through his black cloak, up his spine, and rang his skull like a bell. The Werewolf had transformed. With a crash it bounded through the window with incredible force, sending thick glass flying like draggers through the air.
“AAARGH!” Cried Ativan, choking back blood and looking down at several shards of glass stuck in his chest. The Werewolf landed with a thud in front of him, and in a moment had pawed itself up to Ativan’s shoulder and bit into his neck. Ativan collapsed and the Werewolf ragged him back and forth like a doll until he passed away. The Werewolf then dragged Ativan’s corpse away to feed in private.
At the opposite end of the village, the door to one of the houses swung open weakly, rattling on its hinges as it hit the wall. Quietly, there stepped from within, a tall skeletal figure. His head like a skull, and his eyes resting within their hollows. His fingers were long and thin, coming to sharp pointed nails. He took one step, his spine perfectly straight, and in his gait, he seemed to float. His head looked this way and that, independently to the rest of his body. He began to stalk the village, his head looking all around while his body walked on automatically. He came to his destination, but pushing on the door revealed that like most others, the inhabitant had pushed furniture against the door. The Vampire was too weak to force it open. He looked up, and seeing a stumpy chimney, he ascended, hovered over the opening, and then fell gradually down into the room below.
There he drank blood from the neck of his sleeping victim, paralysed under the grip of his thin, white fingers.
Unnoticed, a figure crept past the window. Pulling his cloak tightly around him, the Jack made his way past the rickety houses. Coming to his destination, he peered in the window, and knowing the inhabitant to be sleeping, he forced open the door and searched the room. He found some books and diaries, and inspecting them learnt about the man, asleep in his bed, defenceless...
He hadn't intended it, but... there was nothing to stop him now… Unconsciously, a hand went to the knife at his belt...
The air behind him flurried powerfully.
Before he could react to the movement, he had been slammed in the back between the shoulder blades, propelling him out of the door and onto the ground.
The Jack tried frantically to get back up and take out the knife as the Joker closed the door quietly behind him. “Hello Jack!” he said, striding forward and kicking the Jack in the ribs. He went down under the impact, but immediately got back up and was pulling the knife from its sheath when- Joker! The Joker’s face was an inch from his own, and there was a mad fury in his eyes. He took a punch to the stomach, sending his face straight into the line of the Joker’s head-butt which sent him sprawling back to the ground. The Joker was smiling now, and as the Jack tried to rise he jumped down excitedly and grinned with pointed teeth as he pummelled the Jack into submission.
The knife. The knife! His left hand quested blindly for the pommel, catching hold of it and pulling it forth, he drew it back intending to strike, but- The Joker punched with precision, driving the Jack’s wrist into the mud with such force that a bruise welled up instantly and the knife jumped out of his hand, and fell point first onto a paving stone that lay just below the surface. The black blade cracked with a bizarre, high pitched whistle, and bounced back into the air slightly to be caught up by the Joker.
He looked closely at the break in the blade with utter revulsion. It seemed as if he were about to vomit, but instead his features became sharper, and two points grew out from his head – horns. Controlling his anger, and like sucking in a pot belly, he composed his face and the horns retracted. Turning around, he took a running kick at the Jack’s torso, again and again. “DOES THE KING KNOW YOU’RE HERE? DOES THE QUEEN?” The inhabitant of the house beside woke up with a fright from the screaming of the Joker.
“SHE SHOULDN’T KNOW. I KILLED HER. I ****ED HER DEAD!”
The Jack rolled away, and began to crawl away gradually into the night. The Joker let him go, giving a resounding scream of irritation before striding away from the scene…
The rest of the night passed by without disturbance, and barely noticeably, dawn arrived with a steady lightening grey.
The village woke to find the splintered bones of Ativan spread throughout the village..
The Father of the Brotherhood
They assembled outside the church hall, favouring the colourless air to the long dull hours of discussion that waited within. Many were hit with nostalgia of many other typical Sunday mornings spent dreading the boredom of a church service. They were ready to trickle in when they noticed the unsavoury werewolf hunter making his way down the hill on horseback yet again…
He arrived before them, with crusty eyelashes and gunk around his lips. “You haven’t brought me apples…”
The group looked to one another. They had forgotten, not that they had ever taken his request seriously.
“WHERE ARE THEY?!” He screamed, making them all jump. “’Ow many times did I tell you?! Eh?! Everyone was too stunned to reply.
He leered at them for a moment, and still no one replied. He drew his silver sword threateningly.
- AU-AOOOOOOOOOO –
At the top of the hill, at the silver camp of the werewolf hunters, a large force had arrived, flying dozens of banners and flags, all bearing the royal sign; and at the head of the column, speaking to one of the silver knights, was King Nosferatu, recognisable by the gilded, crowned helm he wore. A moment passed before another, different horn was blown. A battle horn… The cavalry was hurrying into formation and the encircling line of regular troops began to march in on the village. They were readying to slaughter them...
The werewolf hunter turned back to them with a smile, only to see the end of a large, ornamental cross being used as a battering ram against him, held by Alex_Augmented, Seff and Bulle, whose quick thinking was admirable. It hit him in the chest, pushing him off his stallion to fall heavily into the mud. He grunted with pain as he landed awkwardly on his arm, but the others were already away, running up the hill behind Vilhjalmr and AWdeV who were heading towards the mountainside. Few knew what AWdeV, the first to start running, was hoping for by fleeing from a force of over two hundred, now, and right into the face of a cliff, but with little else to do but die, they were ready to follow him.
It so happened that he was making for the opening in the mountain – a mine, presumably, and probably just as much as a dead end as the mountainside, but it was worth running; worth extending their lives right until the very end. They leapt the crude stairs three at a time, but it was hard work, and behind them they heard the knights break into a gallop, accompanied by another blast from the war-horn. The troops encircling, too, began to sprint, and in a second there were bolts whizzing past and glancing off the stone staircase.
The galloping became louder, and their breath became laboured with the ascent. The opening was right in front of them, but the cavalry were on them. On them, and soon their skulls would be lanced and trampled into the stone, but the horses struggled with the steps, and they received more time than they'd counted on. In a second more they were flying into the opening, sprinting as fast as they could, though their lungs seared and their hearts strained.
They followed a rail track going in a gentle downward slope. The knights behind them barely fit in the tunnel and had to slow down to a trot to safely advance. The tunnel was getting darker and darker as they ran deeper, and at a curve, the opening was lost from sight. It was almost pitch black, and they began to stumble, but ahead, they saw a soft blue light come into being. The commotion behind them was fading as they outpaced the knights, and before any of them knew it, they had come out into a large open space filled with branching tracks and mining carts, and all around, the rock glowed with a brilliant blue. They faltered, and slowed to a jog, and then a walk as they gazed up and around at the rocks in awe, but all too soon they came to their senses when the sounds of advancing troops reached them.
With great desperation, every single one of them began to push one of the carts up the track into the tunnel to barricade the room against the knights. The car ran smoothly, and behind it was another, and another, and another. They pushed them all up into the tunnel, blocking it almost completely. The last one was full of the glowing rock, which blocked the tunnel all the way to the ceiling of the tunnel. Behind that last cart, they overturned two more which wedged the other carts on the track in the tunnel. The knights had reached the beginning of their barricade, and by the sounds of it had discarded their battle cries for curses. They were safe for now, and after an hour's work in which they upturned every single cart in the room against the tunnel, they were almost impregnable. They could hold out, for a while...
They collapsed against one another, and against carts, and allowed themselves to rest.
A short period of exploration followed, leading them to living quarters, storage rooms, and a dining hall, all lighted by the precious glowing rocks, left in this place, unused, since the beginning of the werewolf infestation of the region. They found tunnels that lead deeper, and became oddly hot, but for now they had a task that could not wait for their curiosity. They must come to a lynch by the end of the day.
Role | Player | Class | Fate |
Alacritous Mind | | | ||
Father of the Brotherhood | | Eaten on Night 1 by Werewolf | ||
Alchemist | | | ||
Werewolf | | Lynched on Day 1 by Majority | ||
Blessed | | | ||
Blessed | | | ||
Seff | Insomniac | | | |
Moss | Insomniac | | | |
Martyr | | | ||
Orj | Martyr | | | |
Oneironaut | | | ||
Oneironaut | | | ||
Recidivist | | Ill Through Poisoning. Has Developed a Fever. | ||
Recidivist | | | ||
Sage | | | ||
Sage | | |
Begin Day 2.
*collapses*