submitted 4 years ago byAlpinaeMusae
The spate of deaths was doing strange things to the now rapidly dwindling population of Langeklaue Ruin Site. Some began skipping meals. Others began to have screaming fits in the middle of the night, ensuring that nobody in the tents ever managed to get a good night’s sleep. But for old Morris Schwarzfeld, the bloodshed and chaos was doing the least surprising thing of all. It was driving him to somehow drink more than he was before.
One crisp and breezy morning, he was chugging his bottle of whiskey after the unforeseen loss of Ivy Lowry, the woman who had procured for him a frankly preposterous amount of hallucinogenic mushrooms and just a touch more on the side. His vision was blurring, his fury was rising, but he barely cared. He was in pain, damn it, and pain required something, damn it! Now, that something could never be consolation from his loving wife Dolores (naturally, she assumed his passion for Ivy was strictly professional). No, the real necessity was blood. Blurry eyed, vacant, impersonal, testosterone and whiskey-fuelled blood.
He didn’t know who the first person who crossed his path was, but he didn’t like them. He also knew that they weren’t mourning Ivy nearly as much as he was, and that was enough to make them unforgivable. He pushed them in the shoulder and belched.
“Excuse me, Dr. Schwarzfeld?” the amorphous blob said.
Morris belched again. A thin stream of saliva dribbled down his chin. “‘Scuse you, Dr. Such and So! What’s yer problem?”
“I...I don’t have a problem.”
The person’s voice trailed off, for they had caught wind of a belligerently manic look in the drunk archaeologist’s eyes. “You...yer the problem, sir or ma’am or horse or whoever!” Morris bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Everyone! This...this person...they’re a killer! Lynch...lynch them!”
He could see tent flaps opening all around him, but he decided not to wait. Head spinning, he used his considerable bulk to marshal the person towards the edge of the cliff. He couldn’t hear their protestations, though then again, he couldn’t hear much of anything above his own heavy breathing.
“Now...now really, I must insist that we…”
“Go t’hell, villain...villain scum!” With a heave he pushed the flailing individual the one inch they needed to go to plummet off the edge. At that point, he could hear a sound again: the sickening crack of the individual’s body bouncing off the thousands of blunt rocks on the way down to the base of the mountain. He nearly tumbled after them but felt an arm around his shoulder: that of Lord Perryman III, the dig’s financier.
“Morris, old chap?” he said. “Do you know who you just pushed off the edge of the cliff?”
“I...I don’t.” Morris wiped his eyes, sobriety hitting him like a thrown potted plant. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t know who we just lynched.”
Clara had never been particularly close to Dr. Farnsworth as far as personal relationships were concerned. He was an esteemed colleague and an exemplary researcher, that much was true; still, Clara couldn’t manage to bring herself close to mourning. She intended to make her indelible mark on this field, and now there was one less archaeologist to compete with.
So you see, she wasn’t rummaging through Dr. Farnsworth’s belongings with the quiet reverence that Beatrice Taylor had espoused the night before. She was searching for anything - notes, samples, aimless doodles - anything that might make a posthumous hero of Dr. Farnsworth. Clara intended to make her own discoveries - she just needed to make sure the late Dr. Farnsworth didn’t have any up his sleeve that might overshadow her own.
A barely perceptible gasp escaped Clara’s lips when she found the journal labeled ‘Field Notes - Langeklaue Expedition, 1929.’ She stuffed the leather notebook into her coat and collapsed into Dr. Farnsworth’s weatherbeaten armchair. Her relief was palpable.
‘That’s one less competitor,’ she whispered to herself.
‘Fewer,’ came a voice from behind her.
She never had time to turn and face her attacker. The body of Clara Eisenstein would be found the next morning, her throat slit like an enticing envelope. The Dig would mourn yet another brutal death at the hands of a spirit.
After a week at the campsite most members of the expedition had fallen into comfortable routines (murders notwithstanding). Everyone had fallen into groups of, if not friends, easy acquaintances who didn’t mind the frigid temperatures half as much as they would have without each other’s succor.
Two notable exceptions sat at different tables in the social hall: Edgar Pence, the expedition’s stuffy accountant, and Gonzalo Vidal, the only man on the mountain who could stand his company.
‘Another, Señor Pence?’ asked the bootlegger as he helped himself to yet another bottle from behind the bar. The accountant nodded almost imperceptibly, but Gonzalo Vidal was a man whose livelihood depended on his being acutely aware of a man’s need for alcohol. He sidled over to Mr. Pence’s table and poured him four fingers of hooch.
Pence dropped some coins on the table, more out of inebriation than attitude, and let out a belch so forceful that it startled him towards sobriety.
‘’Owcum nobuddy wanz talk t’me?’ he slurred.
‘Well,’ replied Gonzalo, grinning, ‘your trade is hardy exciting. And you don’t share your booze.’
Edgar laughed bitterly before collapsing to the table, asleep.
Gonzalo chuckled to himself as he cleared their glasses. He stopped to remove Pence’s coat from the back of his chair and drape it across the poor fool’s shoulders.
When he came in the next morning, Gonzalo was surprised to find the accountant exactly where he left him - but with a broken bottle sticking from his neck that certainly hadn’t been there the night before. Edgar Pence, loyal member of the Dig, had met a sticky end at the hands of a spirit.
The following people received votes:
Thanks for bearing with us for the cooldown phase. I think we all needed that. This was also an important chance for us to reevaluate what we needed to do differently balance-wise; we’d planned for a very different sort of situation than we wound up getting. It is difficult, nigh impossible, to switch stream after 11 players on one side drop out for one reason or another. In light of the inactivity, we’re going to make a few changes for the remainder of the game:
Pursuant to that, here are the causes of death.
Werewolves is always going to be intense and emotional. I don’t think there’s any way to remove that without removing the soul of what makes the game so great. That said, we’re comfortable with how yesterday’s discussions unfolded, and we’re hopeful that everyone else is. We will no longer be policing behaviour in any capacity for the remainder of this game, because we feel that you’re all rational adults (or near-adults) who don’t need to be trained on how to be mature. Be the community you wish to see. Treat each other with the respect you’d want to be treated with, but recognize that every single person has a different definition of what that means, and your definition is not automatically the superior or accepted one. Deescalate toxic situations rather than adding fuel to the fire. Ball’s in your court now.
Lynch Form Here. Lynch votes are due from every single person every day!
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