Mini 1090: Of Rogues and Curses ~ Game Over

[Uite]

Er, hold on, perhaps I'm wrong and in fact I get to hammer xvart accidentally (though not regretfully.) It looks like we've got tanstalas, inHimshallibe, mothrax, Vi and Zorblag. If anyone has anything that needs to get said during twilight it might be good to say it (though if day one was an indication we might have a bit more time than in most games.)

-Zorblag R`Lyeh

Fuck, it seems you're right. I'll try to get my stuff out as soon as I can, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to get it in before nightfall. Otherwise, let's just hope I don't die tonight.

[Vi]

Also, the sudden jump off xvart. You were basically asking me to hammer, and now you've pretty much backed off him. The parallels between the Mariyta wagon Day 1 are perplexing.

If by "asking you to hammer" you mean "pointing out your terriscummy relationship with him", by "backed off him" you mean "unvoted him for someone better while stating that he is one of only three people I want to lynch", and by "perplexing" you mean that you don't have any solid ground for an accusation but wanted to throw something out, yes.

Allow me to explain:

And I'm to believe that gandalphim is a better vote than xvart right now?

I can see how you would take it that way.

As for the backing off part, between your unvote and my post you only mentioned him in #775, where you show doubt about him being scum, though perhaps my reaction was premature. And the parallels between the Mariyta affair really are there. To wit: You ask me to switch to the top wagon both times, which would ptretty much amount to a quicklynch. Yet very shortly after, you leave the wagon yourself to pursue another. I've commented on this before, and I think it's scummy. I'm very tempted to vote for you now, but I want to finish my reread and evaluate what's happened before doing something like that.

Good for you. Incidentally, you never bothered to contest WHY I went down from Mariyta, and in case you missed it Mariyta flipped Town.
Either you've never heard of "context" or you're pretending the same just for this game.

<claim>

How convenient. You know what would give the exact same result? Scum deciding not to kill anyone, and then exploiting that to create a fake semi-confirmed townie.

Precisely. As scum, I can't keep this act up forever, and the longer I do, the worse it is for my faction.

Way ahead of you, but thanks for being predictable!

Fuck, it seems you're right. I'll try to get my stuff out as soon as I can, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to get it in before nightfall. Otherwise, let's just hope I don't die tonight.

Spoiler: Between my claim and how wrong you've been all game, I can guarantee you you won't die Tonight.

775. Start talking about it. I'm fairly positive you'll have time.

---

Apologies for listing xvart as at L-2; I missed mothrax's vote. v.v

[nocase]

if xvart is scum then i am officially an asshole for letting claims sway reads.

[Ythill]

That was a hammer. I'm on my way out the door to work a nine hour shift, so you'll have plenty of time before I post flavor and reveal. Enjoy.

• Vote Count
  
  
  5 ~ xvart (tanstalas, inHimshallibe, mothrax, Vi, Zorblag)
  
  2 ~ mothrax (nocase, Seraphim)
  1 ~ Seraphim (Uite)
  1 ~ mothrax (xvart)
  
  Not voting:

• Notes
  
  
• With nine alive, it takes five to lynch.
  
• Deadline is Saturday, January 8th, 22:00 PST (GMT-8).
  
• Overall prods: Zorblag (2), Mothrax (1).

[Seraphim]

What the fuck.

I haven't even finished reading yet.

[tanstalas]

I'm fine with the Xvart lynch, I would have also been fine with the Mothrax lynch. Vi's "LOL - I'm not gonna die" post struck me as odd, and I thought about switching my vote to him, then I thought about it and if he really is town and has been telling the truth than noone will die tonight so even if Xvart is a mislynch we are still doing ok since Vi will not die and since the scum need to submit their kills a day in advance we are still sitting where we would have been had we not learnt of Vi's 1 shot NK immunity. Though, if scum do change their kill and someone dies tonight I will be looking at Vi tomorrow

[nocase]

tick, tock, uite.

[Ythill]

The rain started a few hours after the funeral, slicing the chilly night with fat droplets that played a dull drum-roll on the roofs of the vardos and ran sluggishly off of sagging tarps. It is almost sleet, certainly a bother. Over two days, the storm has transformed the camp into a muddy pit, doused all but the most carefully tended fires, and kept the townies and their coins nestled far away in warm abodes.

There is little comfort and less to do, now that everything has been tied down and the irrigation ditches are as open as possible in this damned mud. Bored, sodden, and forlorn, a gaggle of bedangled cousins have taken shelter beneath the brewer’s sturdy pavilion. Most are drunk, either huddled around one of the firepots or sprawled out on a table, and Stefan is grateful that their senses have been dimmed. He’d rather not be here at all. Stomach aflutter, he watches with what he hopes to seem a casual interest as the fortune-teller deals a final card into the spread.

“Damn it,” she slurs. “It’s the same every time. Death by violence; my death. My own death! I have asked who, have prayed for release, for some clue that could lead to my salvation. And I get this… this…” She picks up that last card and shows it to everyone: the four of clubs. Stefan cringes. “The magician,” the cartomancer shouts. “Balance, foundation, the roots of a great tree. It doesn’t make sense!”

“Perhaps you’re looking too deeply,” hiccups the hypnotist in his normally calming baritone.

“We

do

have an illusionist on the bill,” adds the brewer as she pours stout from a frothy pitcher.

Mrs. Mrenica lifts her goblet and drains it, licking the froth from her ancient lips. Stoically, she says, “The crates where poor Beznik was found… they were trick boxes. Kind used to stage disappearances. Kind used to saw a woman in half.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Stefan blurts. Suddenly, everyone is looking at him. Stefan’s nervousness has grown tenfold. His eyes are wide, his face pale and sweaty. Nostrils flaring, clinging precariously to the fleeting notion that few will recognize him without his costume and makeup, he argues, “I mean, think about it. That would be pretty stupid for a stage magician to kill someone by sawing him in half in

his own

trick boxes.”

Chairs scrape across the floor as several Ungrika braves stagger to their feet and surround Stefan. One leans close, growling through the sweet stench of gypsy beer. “What is it that you do here?”

“Me? I’m a liar. I mean… well… a charlatan. A person who lies for money, for us, for the caravan.” Strong hands lift him roughly from his seat and the story starts to change. “I mean I, break into places and… I hide.” Shoved and manhandled, he struggles to find the words that will stop them. “I mean, I steal stuff, and then I use it to…”

Slaps become slugs. Growls become drunken roars. Stefan fights back, going down in a tangle of bodies. As he falls, he reverses the direction of his resistance, spinning, levering the arms of his captors against one another and squirming from their collective grip beneath the pile. Drunk beyond reason, the spectators rise to get involved, some of them waking in confusion, others responding from outside. In the chaos, stray elbows and hot tempers lead to spin-off scuffles and, within moments, the scene has interrupted into a full-blown rumble.

Stefan is terrified, but he’s also flexible, quick, and very good at disappearing. Leaving his bright cloak and cap in the meaty thicket, he backs out through the legs of a man who is looking for him elsewhere. He crawls nimbly into the shadows as the rumble is starting and, by the time the chairs are flying, has already scurried up a particularly gloomy support post and used a chimney-flap to emerge into the fierce storm. There, muttering appeals to the dark Servika goddesses, Stefan inches carefully along the crossbeam, grimacing into the wind and rain.

His prayers fall on deaf ears.

Cursing at every shattered mug and torn tapestry, the brewer uses her tray as a shield and wades through the crowd to the serving station. Taking cover, she shouts as loudly as she can, warns the drunkards to stop one last time, but to no avail. Then, sighing, she pulls her shotgun from under the bar and checks quickly to ensure that both barrels are loaded before standing up and firing a warning shot into the ceiling.

Everyone stops moving at once. Immediate silence.

“Blast you all to the moon! You’re wrecking the place. It’s the lad started this. Bring him here. Bind him. Question him. If he’s one of them…”

Her speech is interrupted by the sound of tearing canvas. In a beam of wind and rain, a body drops from the ceiling, landing with a sickening thump on damp thresh. Half of his face is gone, torn away by buckshot. Spooked by the impact, two white doves explode from one of the dead magician's hidden pockets and, in a flurry of flapping wings, escape into the cruel night.

Xvart’s role was shot during a drunken brawl, he was a

Servika Magician (goon)

The deadline for night actions is Friday, January 7th, 05:00 PST (GMT-8).

[Ythill]

New Mexico ~ January, 1930.

Swish.

Terror in their eyes. Pads scraping against cool stone. Her scream.

Swish.

The juggler’s throat, warm and supple; fragile, like baked fruit; swollen with salty juices.

Swish.

The wagon creaks like a windmill. Old pots clang gently together; loosened stones, flung by banded wheels, clatter against the undercarriage; above it all, the memory of the howl echoes; from somewhere nearby, a calming baritone drones on.

Swish.

“Now I’m going to count backwards, as you drift deeper. Five. Four.”

Swish.

“Your eyelids feel heavy. Three. Feel yourself drift. Two.” The screams will not be forgotten. The taste of her blood, alkaline and full of tangy adrenaline. The terrified moans of sobbing onlookers.

Swish.

“One.”

Suddenly and yet as easily as a curtain, the darkness has fallen and is complete. The sounds of the road are gone. The terrible visions, vanished. In that timeless slice of innocence and helplessness, only the soft voice remains. It suggests, reassures, reprograms. Slowly, it begins to heal.

Swish.

~ ~ ~

Stretching, the hypnotist steps from his vardo, which is still parked in the staging area. Just beyond a stand of juniper, in a high meadow speckled with snow, the camp in being constructed. It is refreshing to be in the highlands, away from the rain and mud. Here, the clear mountain air is reminiscent of the Carpathians and the dry soil crunches reassuringly beneath his boots. It’s been almost two months since the magician’s death and, though the flu has finally claimed a few, no more have died by violence. It seems like the Servika have been vanquished for good.

The hypnotist stands happily watching the poles and lines go up, but eventually feels the twin pin-pricks of a powerful gaze burning into his cheek. He turns to find Old Man Mrenica appraising him thoughtfully.

“I trust it went well?”

“Depends on what you mean,” the hypnotist sighs. “There’s been some progress, but not nearly enough. This isn’t going to be a quick fix.”

The Kris tilts his head to one side, considering the news. “And the lycanthropy, is it likely to reoccur?”

“I don’t think so, but some sensitivity to the moon cycle remains. I think it’s best if we keep using the chains, at least while the moon is full.”

“Very well,” Mrenica agrees. “We must do what you feel is best, of course.” They are words of dismissal. The hypnotist casts around uncomfortably for a moment and then wanders off to lend a hand with construction. Nodding, the ancient chieftain heads into the meadow as well, but his gait is feeble and his staff unsteady on the uneven soil. Before long, the hypnotist has disappeared into a buzzing swarm of busy vagabonds.

Mrenica walks past mostly-built pavilions and drooping tarps. He circumvents haphazard stacks of crates and barrels, unhitched carthorses, and the slowly unfolding contraptions that will become the stage. He greets his many grandchildren with smiles and pats and mumbled accolades as he strolls amongst them; their spirits are floating, hope has been rekindled among them.

A plodding path takes the Kris across the bustling meadow and up the hill, betwixt tall firs that stand like shaggy sentinels along a crisp alpine stream. Though on his way to the spring, he is old and the hill is steep, so he finds a bare spot on the southern face of a large boulder and he sits.

Old Man Mrenica considers the feud and the blood that has come of it; he considers the seven weeks of peace that have reigned more recently, and the quickness with which his grandchildren have fallen back into their routines. His eyes scan the ridgeline and the cockscomb of trees along it. He considers each of the clouds, each of the branches, every ripple in the stream. The omens are there, as they always have been, as they always will be. One needs only be patient to see them.

Mrenika finds his sign on the snow-dappled carpet of dried pine needles at his feet. Nearly hidden behind a small rock, a single, silvery feather twitches in the breeze. Leaning into his staff, the Kris stoops painfully to retrieve it. He rolls it between wizened fingers and meditates for a moment before abandoning his quest for the spring and turning, instead, to bear a prophecy to his people.

It is the feather of an owl.

There were no deaths during the previous migration.

The second encampment phase begins! With eight alive, it takes five to lynch. Deadline is Saturday, January 22nd, 23:00 PST (GMT-8).

[Vi]

Hypnotist... mothrax claimed that earlier. That's not really the effect that he claimed, though... Oh well.

To no one's surprise, I was told I would die Tonight. Troll, I suggest you just let it go through.

Of course, it's entirely possible that we don't have to let that happen.

Vote: Uite

(L-4)
Game, set, etc.

[tanstalas]

I'll sheep - your reads are far better than mine

Vote: Uite

I think you should unvote then revote though Vi, so I can be the first person on each wagon

[Vi]

Unvote: Uite
Vote: Uite

(L-3)
~

[tanstalas]

yay!

[mothrax]

And for some reason my Post didn't post.... Tl;dr I am sheeping because my reads have been craptastic.

Vote Uite

L-2

And yes I claimed hyptonist and I am a delayed roleblocker, so I have no clue what that is about.

[inHimshallibe]

Ha, I should start rearranging my categories, putting my Fringe-Town reads below my Scum reads. There's probably a reason it's that way...

[Zorblag]

My guess is that the hypnotist bit in that last one is just flavor (much like my shotgun from the end of the day yesterday; it'd be nice to have a shotgun but sadly I do not.)

@mothrax, I need to think about it and make sure that I don't just want a claim from you now but at this point I don't want to know who you blocked for the coming night unless it was Uite. If it was Uite then you should speak up right now. Hopefully I didn't even have to say that but just in case there it is.

-Zorblag R`Lyeh

[Zorblag]

@inHimshallibe, if you choose to let someone control your votes for a day do they get to communicate with other dead town or does that only happen if you channel someone for a message? Regardless of the answer to this question you want to use your ability tomorrow at the earliest given Vi's information from last night.

-Zorblag R`Lyeh

[nocase]

i am an asshole.

okay, guys, i'm a cutpurse. i choose a player each night and discover a flavor item that player is carrying.

two nights ago i checked inhimshallibe and found an ungrika clan seal.

last night i checked uite and found a . . . lol, did uite ever claim his role? i can't find it.

[Zorblag]

@nocase, and you really weren't voting for xvart after his claim? It's a good thing I'm essentially sure you're town.

On the plus side that seems as though that should probably give us a town inHimshallibe. Now we need to see if mothrax blocked Uite (and even if he did we need to get a claim from Uite to compare to what nocase has to work with.) Vi is off limits as a lynch as once again we've got a claim that that's where the night kill will go. If it's not then I don't want to hear about it this time; I've been given the information I need to make a decision and we can sort through any death other than Vi's tomorrow should it be an issue.

We can sort through what that leaves when we've got the information we're missing but it feels like a good spot just now.

-Zorblag R`Lyeh

[nocase]

no, troll, because i was considering the possibility of some sort of sane-insane combo.

[nocase]

which, you're right, probably would have been ridiculous since your role is also investigative.

[Zorblag]

@nocase, well there's that and the extra hider/commuter ability that xvart was claiming, but so be it. He got lynched yesterday without you so the result was what we needed regardless.

Now we wait for mothrax and Uite I think.

-Zorblag R`Lyeh

[Vi]

last night i checked uite and found a . . . lol, did uite ever claim his role? i can't find it.

No. However, I have some expectation for what that claim will be.

[mothrax]

Yes I did block Uite, i had already decided to follow Vi's reads at that point. (ps I have never played an rb before so I'm sure that was the wrong play...but that can wait till post game)

[Vi]

Is that so.

If you blocked Uite and Uite is the last scum, then I shouldn't be dying Tonight.

This leads to one of two conclusions.

*Uite is scum WITH someone else (yes, 4 scum - not out of the question given the increasingly huge number of power roles being claimed relative to the weakness of the scum roles flipped so far)
*Uite is not scum, and someone else is (and has some whopper of a role)

The problem here is that there aren't many players left who CAN be scum.

# Vi

# Seraphim (gandalf5166)
# mothrax

# inHimshallibe
# nocase
# Zorblag

# tanstalas
# Uite

There are four people who are extremely likely via their roles to be Town, and four left.

My thoughts were in 776, and Uite+mothrax isn't implausible. Discuss, etc.

Unvote: Uite

with reluctance.