Night 3 Has Begun!
Votecount:zombie urist | - 0 - | |
Tiruin | - 3 - | Urist Imiknorris, Hapah, Dariush |
Toaster | - 1 - | zombie urist |
Dariush | - 1 - | Tiruin |
IronyOwl | - 0 - | |
Urist Imiknorris | - 0 - | |
Hapah | - 0 - | |
Shakerag | - 1 - | Toaster |
- |
Not Voting | - 2 - | IronyOwl, Shakerag
|
No Lynch | - 0 - | |
The soldiers begin to argue further. This day, a glimmer of hope begins to shine out - four spies, counted the Kommandant, and three down. They had only to find one more; the rest (they hoped) would be spared. Their mission would continue anew. Words found strength, even into the approaching night - though the darkness enveloped them, and though the great night and its alien cries surrounded them, the camp, its fires and its warmth shone through like a beacon in the storm.
The Kommandant had sat with a pack of cigarettes off to the edge in his rain-shelter, watching them solemnly. The smoke, heavy and sluggish in the rainy air, clung low to the ground and sought refuge near him, surrounding him in a grey, sticky mist continually renewed by the lit flames, burning softly. In silent study, he plucks the softly glowing cigarette with his left hand, holding his revolver in his right, turning it idly about it his hand. He checked his watch.
No, not yet.
The soldiers continue, talk on as the night deepens. Eventually, calculating that the moment had arrived, the Kommandant raises his gun.
The blast rings clear through the camp. They fall silent, awaiting the Kommandant’s words. He approaches, wordlessly - the revolver lies tucked in the pocket of his long black coat, and drawing the last wafts of black smoke from the ashen stub, he flicks it onto the ground. His boots dig into the ground as he strides toward them.
“Who is it?” A simple question - everyone understood what he meant.
“Friedrich.” The answer is prompt, unhesitant. The crowd disperses to reveal him, frozen to the earth.
The next few moments proceeded quickly. The Kommandant closed in, and stood before the man so close that he could smell his breath as the giant glared down into his eyes. Raising the end of the black silencer to the man's chin, he pulled the trigger, unflinchingly, letting the now-limp body fall into the mud.
When the others regain their composure, he is already cleaning off his gun, motioning for two soldiers to search the body.
After a few moments, they silently present him with another passport. Holstering his revolver somewhere in his jacket, he takes it and leafs through it, quickly - and with a smile, he brandishes the miniature photograph for all to see.
“Good work. This is a British passport; his real name was Brian Cleeve.”
A sigh of relief fills the air. The ordeal is over.
“We have killed all the spies, now. Rest for tonight, and celebrate, if you want to. We will continue with the mission tomorrow.”
Friedrich “Tiruin” Gerig was lynched! He was a
Spy.
The Night will end Monday, 8PM GMT.