Roleplay: Game 1

Slowly stepping forward from the shadows of a nearby thatched hut, the town woodcutter, Boris Durkinshield, strode forward. His short, but stocky frame was largely obscured by his long and ornately jeweled beard, contrasting a weathered face; deep scars indicative of a life lived largely in the wilderness. Leaning on the handle of his axe (which may have been slightly too large for him) he cleared his throat loudly, before beginning in a low Scottish-tinged burr :

“Och aye, tha crazy fellow makes a near-reasonable argument on the subject of that unusually lofty firecrotch thar, being both of unusually high stature and having hair so bright to damn near set these here thatched huts alight. However, a young lassie also of the redheaded persuasion passed through this town once, long ago and softened me heart to that there particular cause…”

Boris gazed loftily off into the distance for a moment, and produced a short but noticeable sigh before continuing, slightly Scottish-er than before,

“plus he looks a smidge too high for our current set of gallows, and I nay have the time to chop enough wood for an extension before sundown. I know we’re all anxious to see this whole werewolf thing dealt with so we can go back to the pub, I mean, errr, our regular daily duties, but I nay think that this be the time for rash action. What with all the cart-wheeling, random premonitions, and , Grimnir help us, family values, I think a little more rumination may be nucessary.”

With that, Boris produced an intricately carved wooden pipe form the folds of his tunic, sat heavily upon a prominent, old stump in the town square, and with a long stroke of his beard, began to smoke…

Veronica suddenly stirred in the corner. Staggering over to the town folk, wild eyed and incoherent she caught sight of Boris, leaning on a stump. "YOU!" she yelled and marched over to him. "How many times do I have to tell you - I have seen the future and cutting down trees and all your smoking will cause nothing but death to everyone! Is that what you WANT?! Why don't you heed my warnings!?" Exhausted she stormed back over to her corner muttering that no-one ever listens to her before settling down to meditate. Only in meditation can one get intelligent conversation.

Mrs Dunsnoopin and her quickly-turning-out to-be-completely-irrelevant-husband once again take the stage.
"Boris is a valued member of the community - a salt of the earth worker. He is just the sort of person we need to protect from this great affliction. Help us to help Working Families."

A weary sigh from Freddy.

"I feel that we must act quickly. These afflicted individuals are not only murderous killing machines, but insensitive and insulting to those members of the wider community, who suffer from other debilitating illnesses. As you all know, I suffer from a terrible illness. And I find these people, with their changing of form, to be insulting to my serious, and personally tormenting condition. That is why I intend to hunt down these monsters, and found the charity for persons affected by Clinical Lyc..."
Mrs Dunsnoopin suddenly stops, brings her hand up to her face, a horrified expression on her face. She screams, then drops to the floor on all fours, and begins to prowl and growl (and rhyme apparently). For as all the villagers knew, Mrs Dunsnoopin was terribly afflicted by the rare psychotic condition, clinical lycanthropy. It was only going to make everything more confusing.

Boris spat noisily to one side before breathing deep of his pipe, taking particular enjoyment in the scowl on Veronica's face.

"Thar be few simple pleasures in life lassie, mine be chopping, smoking pipeleaf, and a nice drop of whisky and a cuddle in the evening, and yours be talking to your imaginary friends. Each to thar own be what my mammy taught me, and if you keep to yourself, like a woman should mind you, then we'll all be just fine. But another little outburst like that and I might ask the lad with the horse legs to look up the bit in the constitution on witchcraft."

A wry smile crosses his face

"I'm not sure about the wording exactly, but the phrase 'penalty of death' springs to mind."

Suddenly, his face is grim, the ghosts of his past glowing vividly in his eyes.

"I be but a simple woodsman, but I chop the wood that keeps this village in shape, just like my pappy, and his before him, and my (slightly too large) axe will be involved long before that changes. If you've nothing valuble to say, shut your crazy trap so I can smoke in peace."

Delia watches Mrs Dunsnoopin, amused, for only a moment (That's not going to help matters at all... she thought), before looking towards Boris and shrugging. "Regardless of your passive smoking and the effect it has on our health, you do have a point. I'll go to my home for a while to think things over. My sewing will keep me focused as I consider things." She smiles and gives a parting nod of her head. Then she turns and goes to her house, ready to continue practicing the sewing skills she will need to become the village's tailor, a position she has longed for since she was a child. She pauses and looks over at the rest of the group. "Don't decide anything without me," she says. "Send someone to get me before dusk. Please." And with that she disappears into her house, thinking about all of those around her, those she has lived with her whole life, and wondering how exactly she is going to make this decision.

Boris helped Freddie take Lady Dunsnoopin back to her hut(1), bidding Delia a gruff goodbye in the process, before storming back into the town square, now a fierce look of dissatisfaction on his brow.

"Now look what you've done with yur too-ing and frow-ing, this poor...'young' lass nearly had a conniption. I too need some peace and quiet for a good hard think, and I suggest you young whipper-snappers do the same. I'm as jumpy as anyone that that horse...man...guy will be earning a new pair of...horseshoes at sundown, but I for one don't want to end up as dog food, so choose wisely. If you're looking for me, well, you know where i'll be..."

Boris snuffed his pipe, and hoisting his axe over his shoulder, moved surprisingly swiftly for one of his stature, heading for for his favourite table at the local tavern. He drank deeply of the amber mead the barlass brought to his table, admiring both its quality and hers, before settling his mind to the task at hand. So many crazy people, only one gallows. Boris let his mind wander back to Veronica's premonition, he knew she was XXXX Mead-grade crazy, but her ramblings had proved useful in the past. With a long stroke of his beard, the venerable woodsman had an idea...


(1) My bad for interference, but she has gone to bed

Shaun, known to his slater bugs as His Highness Emperor of all that is Unreasonable or Narcotic and Readily Available the Honourable Smhut (they have difficulty pronouncing Shaun), seemed to suddenly lose interest in the whispered conversations and drama pervading the atmosphere.
"My spleens hurt. My say, if it counts for anything with anybody, which is unlikely I suspect, given that time where I ran through the village naked save for copious amounts of women's underthings which I had stolen from your washing lines. One of many things I've done that you do and do not know about that I am very prod of I must say. Anyway we should lynch Johnald... violently."
He walked off in the direction of his leanto shack.
"Oh," he called back, "don't call me, I'll call you... on my fellytone."

“Wolf, wolf, wolf,” The chanting began before the woman had even realised the vote had been called.

“Kill the wolf,” they cried. Townspeople, the very people she thought to be her friends, baying for her blood to be spilled. The mad hunt, the terror of the Affliction, had touched them all with its madness.

As the chanting reached a crescendo, Belladonna slowly rose from her chair. Head lowered, she walked to the centred of the town hall. The sound of her death sentence ringing in her ears, she slowly raised her head and tugged off the hood of her cloak. Solemnly she gazed about the room and the chanting grew muted as none could meet her eye.

“This is a dark day indeed for Calla,” she whispered, though in the absolute silence, none were unsure what she had said. “I will gladly accept my fate, though I demand that I be able to choose the manner of my death. I wish for those who accused me to kill me. Here and now. Let my innocent blood that stains your hands hopefully wash the sins from this floor.”

Twitching his fingers towards his axe, Boris glanced towards Belladonna, a frown creasing his face. Lunging for him, the young woman twisted her hands into his shirt collar. “Do it!” she hissed dangerously into his face.

Boris’ eyes flicked uncertainly towards the rest of the crowd. “Transform, wolf!” Belladonna cried at him. “You assume a human form, but it is only fitting for you to kill me as your true self.”

As Boris blanched, Belladonna suddenly threw a handful of dark powder into the air. Wrenching herself away from Boris, she pushed past stunned villagers who had been temporarily blinded by her powder.

“Stop, wolf.” A voice cried. As Belladonna’s powder settled to the floor and vision was restored to the villagers of Calla, they found that the cry was quite unnecessary as Belladonna lay on the floor mere steps from the door. Her cloak was already soaked with blood from the wound in her back.

"Cold," she whimpered, and it was uncertain whether she was referring to the feeling of her life spilling out onto the floor, or the cold steel of Boris’s axe embedded between her shoulder blades.

The stunned villagers watched as Belladonna slowly raised her head to watch Boris stride towards her. Her face contorted, but she did not cry out as Boris removed the bloodied axe. “How….fitting,” she wheezed, small pink bubbles of blood appearing at her mouth as she drew breath. “Stabbed in the back, Boris.”

The villagers awoke to a pleasant day, a gentle breeze blowing through the village. The angry howls that had echoed through the village the previous night left the villagers in no doubt as to the presence of werewolves within the village, but in the morning all the villagers were present and accounted for.

Meanwhile in a shady glade

Ophira placed her hand on Eachann's shoulder, her smile waning as she studied his brooding expression. "I'm overjoyed with my student's handiwork. Why are you so sombre?"
Eachann heaved a great sigh, "It's true, one was saved from the jaws of the wolves."
"Nevermore!" Screeched Edgar
"But now we must watch the villagers turn and murder another. At least the wolves cannot help themselves, the villagers fall upon each other with violent anger to save their own skins. I know it is the only way, there is no other way to root out the evil, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it."
"None of us enjoy this, but you need to take the small victories for what they are."
"I cannot share your outlook on life Ophira"
"Fine then" Ophira turned her back "I'll leave you to your sulking"

Ophira walked through the village, though to all but one pair of eyes she was a meaningless figure, not even worth noting her presence. She kissed her student on each cheek and handed them a golden rose, whispering a warm congratulations before leaving. The rose too, along with its heady scent, remained unnoticed.

Veronica looked around the assembled group and her heart soared as she saw everyone accounted for. She had hardly slept the night before, terrified of the oncoming pack and plagued with guilt over the death of her friend. It was a great comfort to know that there was one in the village who's sight was clear, watching over her friends. She stepped forward to address the gathering, taking Delia's hand as she did so. "Friends, now is a time for solidarity and openness. It saddens my heart to think some of you believe that we went behind your backs and agreed on the only choice we thought we could make. But now is a time to be open. We know that one among us has sight surpassing my own and that still three remain who wish to destroy this village. Please do not see friendship and trust as betrayal and cruelty. Now is a time for a new day and we must once again face a serious choice. But it is a choice made with far more people wanting the best for this village than the enemy. We out number them and we can and will make the right choice." She offered her free hand around the circle. "Let us join together and breathe together and see what we, as a group, as a whole, can see."

Johnald flinches at the outstretched hand, sensing...something. He is unsure of what is wrong, but the events of the past night have plagued him. Visions of Belladonna, bitter-sweet flower; plucked ever so suddenly, so...heavy handed. Such physicality...he had not known what to expect from death, but not that.

"Not that," he murmured to the breeze. He closed his eyes, sighed, and looked from person to person. "I cannot enter into pacts with any; not with the knowledge of what we have done, what all have done. We stood there! We stood there and let it happen, not by the gallows, but by self appointed executioner."

He was becoming more frantic now, his face turning pink with the anguish, the sheer anger it took to rail at them, to stop from railing at himself, coward that he was. "What of our constitution? What of our rules, our order? If this is what happens now, what are we trying to protect? What use the intricacies, the votes, the pretence at democracy, when this unholy alliance spreads!?"

His voice lowered, hoarse. "Who among you can I trust?"

He turned his face into his red cowl; today he wore the robes of his order...today, he mourned, although who, he was not sure.

Did he mourn three? He cast his eyes about the group: Veronica? Boris? (His heart quavered...so quickly, so suddenly!) Delia? Dunsnoopin? Belle? Did he mourn the sweet villager who fell, Belladonna, she who had spoken only to be silenced?

"Who can trust even me? We must each help only ourself."

Or perhaps his robes of mouring were for himself.

Delia's eyes widened and filled with tears as she looked at Johnald. She dropped Veronica's hand and stepped forward, towards him, her hands held out pleadingly.

"I wouldn't betray you," she said softly, emphatically. "Please, we won't get through this if we don't form some alliances! I'm sorry for Belladonna... I..." She paused, her throat working as sobs threatened, and managed to say in a voice strained but surprisingly composed, "She looked after my father when he died...I didn't want her to be killed so...viciously..." She hurriedly wiped her eyes, before tears could fall and stain her clothes. "Please, Johnald, you can trust me." She looked around at the rest of the villagers. "All of you can trust me. I swear to you, I am no wolf!"

The blood rushed from her face, turning her formally pink cheeks a pallid white, and she swayed slightly on her feet, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before she regained her balance and sighed quietly to herself, her hands falling back to her sides.

"He's right," she said quietly, dejectedly. "No matter how much I insist, no one will believe me... I am sorry, Belladonna, if you can hear me. I am sorry everyone."

She turned and stumbled from the hall, tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn't want to see the betrayal in their eyes; it hurt too much. The curse of the wolf was tearing the village apart, and they hadn't even killed any of them yet. No, the only blood that had been spilled had been partly due to her, and she didn't think it would ever stop hurting.

This morning, Shaun looked somehow less unkempt than the previous day. He was even swaying slightly less than usual. "Is a terrible thing we have all done, through action or inaction. I never expected it, but am sorry to say I did not even attempt to stop it. But what have we in these times but to rely on the constitution and the rule of the majority?"

His eyes were bleary, not unusual for one who abuses liquor so, yet this time they were bleary with tears uncried, sorrow witheld. "I must admit, the events of yesterday have shaken me so much I have turned from my fement (a righteous hangover I have too, without my eyeopener), partly out of fear - needing my wits about me - but mostly out of duty. How can I roll around on the ground like a lunatic when my village needs my rational judgement?"

"We have heard the reasons why Belladonna was voted against, and they are rational. I remember a feeling from yesterday: suspicion. And it was not for Belladonna, nor for Boris or Veronica. Ms Deux I suspected, although her actions have a naivety about them. In truth, I still suspect Sir Johnald."

"We have seen what happens when we stand divided, and so we must be united in our decision to trump the werewolves. I will concede to rational argument, but we must be more forthcoming with our suspicions if we are to defeat this scourge."

Mrs Dunsnoopin, dressed today in a rather fetching outfit of scarlet silks, stands up, unsure of what f*&@ing tense she is actually supposed to be using, but sure that she has something important to say.

"Yesterday saw a great miscarriage of justice. But Mr Dunsnoopin and myself urge you not to use that as an excuse to give up on the righteous fury of capital punishment. For there is no more logical way to punish a person for any crime, be it murder, adultery or petty theft."

She pauses a moment, a small look of triumph entering her eyes. "Sadly, today we have lost our chief lettuce farmer, and winner of all associated lettuce farming prizes. But on the other hand, now I have the best lettuce n the village."

With a happy smile that yet another rival has been righteously removed from her life, she sits back down.

“You’re making a mistake” Johnald cries out to the villagers as he is taken to the gallows. “I can protect you; protect some of you, anyway! If any among you can See, SEE me now! I have been granted knowledge, and power, but only against the lycans, of which I am not one!”
A more dignified death would have been to die peacefully, gracefully, resigned to the noose. That fate was not for Johnald the Red. He dies screaming until his throat snaps, a rapture of distress.

As the rest of the village froze in shock from the sudden and violent death, a small, simple village girl placed her cookie down and walked to where Johnald now lay, and knelt beside him.
“Johnald was right” she whispered to herself.
“Johnald was right,” she repeated louder, looking around at all of the villagers, “Who can we trust?”

She had kept silent during today’s voting (my bad – grandparents house=no internet or phone charger ), as she had not formed definite suspicions of anyone in the village. Although, in the mayhem the previous day she had voted, she had thought it pointless for her to place a vote today. Now, however, after the death of Johnald the Red – someone she had known for a long time, and trusted – she felt a need to put an end to this.

Having silently observed the villagers while they voted, and watched their reactions to Johnald’s dying plea, she began to formulate suspicions in her mind. She looked around the room; was Mrs Dunsnoopin’s vanity a personality trait or a cover? Did Belladonna’s dying words mean anything? Were Shaun’s constant accusations of Johnald wolfish(??) attempts to rid him from the village, or drunken ramblings??

She rose, deciding to head off to bed and contemplate where her vote would lie on the morrow. She looked around one last time, looking for something obvious – a sign – that would tell her who among them were wolves. Most were avoiding eye contact, either staring at Johnald, the floor, or their cookie, not giving her much to go on. She made brief eye contact with Veronica, and instantly felt uneasy. She wasn’t sure what it was, or if it meant anything, but she quickly looked away, before rising and shuffling off to bed.

That evening, Freddy took his wife out for an evening walk. She crawled around in the mud for a little while, yelping excitedly as the mice ran by her. She hunted and devoured on of the cute little bunny rabbits that lived in the surrounding fields. As Freddy took her home, she frolicked with her new friends, a group of wolves who had just moved into the neighbourhood. It was a pleasant, clinical lycanthropic evening.

Shaun, off his poison of choice and suffering withdrawal, intermittently fitting and falling into a very light and disturbed sleep, frothing from the mouth and making loud accusations at werewolves unseen.

The next day, the village awoke to find Mrs Dunsnoopin dead in her parlour (of her rather nice manse - you don't really think she'd live in a hut do you Boris?) The attack had been ferocious, blood covered the walls. From what they could tell (it was a little difficult as they seemed to have taken her head), in the midst of one of her psychotic episodes, Mrs Dunsnoopin had actually tried to frolic with her "fellow" wolves before being viciously decapitated. One of the wolves had even written the word "Piggy" on the walls in Mrs Dunsnoopin's blood (giving town anthropologists a fascinating insight into the intellectual capabilities of their newest inhabitants). Surprisingly, Helter Skelter was not forthcoming.

Within 24 hours Freddy Dunsnoopin could be found in the bed of Belladonna ,which was odd, considering she was already dead. The villagers decided it would be a good idea if he went too. With cries of "Kill the Pig Farmer. Spill its blood! Kill the Pig Farmer! Spill its Blood!" he was driven into the main square. Before they could do anything a large boulder came hurtling towards Freddy and, in the absence of a high cliff over a violent surf which he could be swept off into he was squashed to the death. Confusing, considering the village was situated on a completely flat plateau, with no a mountain in sight. Since pig farming was all the town really had going for it, the tourists having been lost after that unfortunate lynching of the hairy Italian, the villagers had managed to cripple the economy of Calla for a hundred years. Inbreeding: it's actually a serious problem.

"I AM CONFUSED AS TO WHAT JUST HAPPENED AnD I AM AFRAid OF THE FUTURE!"

"Who wants COOKEHS?!"

Delia Deux, who had been notably absent for a while, locked in her hut with her sewing held loosely on her lap while she stared vacantly into the distance, finally ventured forth. She was wearing her usual demure colours and strikingly low-cut dress, but had a band tied around her upper arm. It was in mourning of Johnald, but instead of black (which he would have hated; vibrant person that he was) it was a striking shade of red. She walked through the village, avoiding everyone's eyes, before finally stumbling across Veronica as she was leaving her own hut.

"Veronica!" she cried, lunging forward and latching tight to the other woman's arm. "I'm so relieved I've found you! Listen, I'm in a spot of trouble."

"What sort of trouble?" Veronica asked, concerned.

Delia bit her lip, then said cryptically, "I've been feeling a little whoopsie in the morning."

"...What...?"

"You know... I've been...tossing Gramma's cookies..." Veronica stared at her blankly. Delia sighed, then said bluntly, "I'm knocked up, Veronica!"

"Le gasp!" Veronica cried, and swept the young woman into her arms. "An immaculate conception! There's hope for this village yet! Surely this is a sign from the gods!!"

Delia cleared her throat. "Ahem, not exactly immaculate, Veronica."

"What could you mean, dear child?"

"Well... You know how Johnald called me 'maiden' a lot of the time? Yeah...that was...well...kind of a cover." She giggled nervously. "So you understand what trouble I'm in, Veronica darling. I was frightened because I thought my babae might be part wolf. But instead it's gonna be like Harry Potter (if it's ever born) and I'm concerned as to have the others will react." She gripped Veronica's arm tightly. "Since Belladonna's dead you're the only one with medical(ish) training. You have to help meeeee!!"

Veronica looked around in horror as the villagers moved in around her. She screamed as she felt hands grabbing at her, tearing at her, pulling her towards the hanging noose and to her untimely death.
Her eyes searched the crowd and met Delia's as she watched on sadly from the town hall.
"You can't do this to me!" Veronica choked through her tears as they the mob neared their destination. "After everything I have done for this town how is this justice?"
She saw the noose pulled towards her and stared pleadingly at it's possessor. Why the village had trusted and believed their town idiot she would never understand. But for now she must be resigned to her fate.
She stared sadly down at the surrounding crowd, taking in all the faces of her dearest friends and family.
"So this is the end?" she mumbled to herself and she was raised high in the air to die.
"Forgive me." she whispered, staring into Delia's eyes as she promptly transformed into her wolf form and died without a sound.

"Well, it's pretty obvious who's one of Veronica's accomplices" says Gertrude, glaring in Delia's direction.

"Look at her! Spreading the taint of the wolf to her children! And I thought of you as one of my own..." Gertrude shakes her head "Now, dinner time! How does roast wolf sound?"