Night 1 Has Begun!
Votecount:Jim Groovester | - 0 - | |
Tiruin | - 1 - | blackmagechill |
Toaster | - 0 - | |
Dariush | - 1 - | Hapah |
IronyOwl | - 0 - | |
TolyK | - 0 - | |
Powder Miner | - 0 - | |
Hapah | - 0 - | |
Shakerag | - 0 - | |
blackmagechill | - 6 - | IronyOwl, Tiruin, Dariush, Toaster, Shakerag, Powder Miner |
Deathsword | - 1 - | Jim Groovester |
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Not Voting | - 2 - | TolyK, Deathsword, |
No Lynch | - 0 - | |
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Extend | - 0 - | |
Shorten | - 0 - | |
The Kommandant is bored.
Reclining atop a crate with his feet, outstretched, resting on another, he smokes a long cigarette. Nestled in the webbing of his fingers, he draws it to his mouth and takes a long drag, the ember at its ashen tip glowing hotter and brighter in reply – the smoke he would let escape through his nose in two slow jets, the grey tendrils writhing about it the air and grasping at nothings. Silvery clouds would build up on each side of his face – the fog of smoke would hide his features save for the cigarette's glowing tip, a lone mote of light at its centre.
His hand would, occasionally, appear from the cloud to flick some ashes onto the ground, then disappear again. When there was only a butt left, and the butt too small to be pinched, he would throw it onto the ground. There lay a few dozen already scattered about the ground, some trodden into the dirt, others fresher and perhaps still smouldering – skeletons strewn about, broken corpses crushed under the weight of a giant, resting, proud, victorious once again and amused, growing listless, feeling bored once again.
His eyes, veiled, stare at the commotion building in the centre of the camp. The rabble of boys had begun arguing almost immediately, and even now, with the sun coming down, they had lost none of their feverish energy.
He checked his watch. “Eight,” he muttered, rising with some reluctance. The time had come.
The group quietens as they see his approach. One by one, they turn to face him.
“Who will be shot?”
Silence.
“Who will be shot?” His voice hardens, his words chill the air.
The silence, frozen, stifles. The boys struggle for breath.
He glares at them, his jaw clenched. “Fine.” He draws his revolver, cocks it and-
The group suddenly erupts in hurried whispers, quiet argument. The Kommandant, amused, lowers his revolver. He picks up a whisper from the group – “Schmidt.
Offizier Schmidt.” Eventually, the whisperings build up to a chorus of voices – and at its climax, he hears a voice speak the bottled wishes of the group, at last, “Schmidt! Kill Schmidt!”
A crack of gunfire. The Kommandant barely moved, but Dietrich Schmidt had already crumpled to the ground. His body still warm, blood still weakly pulsing, they rifled through his belongings, disheartened at first.
But then, they found it – a passport, cleverly hidden in a secret patch inside his trousers. It was American.
“We have killed a spy, but that is not enough. This mission is still compromised, and they are still here. We cannot continue with it until we are sure of their extinction. We will not continue the search for the artefact yet – go and rest now, in your tents. You will choose someone else to shoot tomorrow.”
The group disperses, leaving the Kommandant with the corpse and the passport. He opens it, flicking through it.
“ ‘Brett Parker’. Interesting name.”
Then he leaves, stuffing the leather booklet into his pocket.
Dietrich Waldemar "blackmagechill" Schmidt was lynched! He was a
Spy.
The Night will end Thursday, 8PM GMT.sorry about the lateness