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[lordnincompoop]

Spoiler: Anne Morel / Katherine Boulengier, Inquisitor (click to show/hide)

You are Anne Morel, Inquisitor.

Life as a nun was easy. It was staid, repetitive - full of routine work and activities that gave comfort in certainty. Separated from the rest of the world, you and the other nuns in the convent spent your days contemplating the Lord. You would never have thought it possible, but you want it back. Everything.

The life of an inquisitor is one of constant movement. Every week, the Inquisitorial Army visits another town, pristine, bright and summery; each week, the army leaves a town, scarred and disillusioned - or, at worst, desolate. It has been years, now, since you joined on - in that time, you have visited countless towns and cities. Though not all settlements had heretics or witches, in that time, you have seen things that seemed to be plucked straight from nightmares, people with demonic powers that would have been beyond your wildest imagination before you joined, and nameless monstrosities that were as horrifying as they were real. Each one, slain by the Inquisition.

But how many innocents had to be killed, and had to die in that time? Hundreds? Thousands? No, there were many more - too many to count. This was a process that had been going on for years, and this was not the only inquisitorial force. You weren’t one of the inquisitors up there, though. You were in the crowd - something, at least, to be thankful for. But even then... There were a few dozen, at least. Many more would’ve died on their own - widowed, orphaned. You still remember their names and faces, what they did before death - and each night, another killing plays out in your head, always with you as the executioner.

Others encourage each other - and encourage you - with recounts of the monsters slain. “We’re doing good, here. We’re getting rid of those dangerouss hereticss and the demonspawn that they create - just imagine the chaos that would have been wreaked had they all been left behind for another decade!” You tell yourself this, too, but it rarely ever helps. The dead are too real to let that happen.

When the Inquisitors came to ask you to join them, you hated it in the cloister. You wanted to help the religious cause, but at the same time, you wanted to see the world - and so you left, joining one of the roving bands.

Honestly, you don’t know what you expected. Something less messy, at least.

There is, however, one thing that keeps you going - keeps you going despite the murder and roving. You had seen it yourself; everyone had seen it. The prophetic words of a dying demon; as she bled her black poison from the wound in her gut, she had spoken to you all in a new voice - a voice that resembled that of no man or woman on Earth, rumbling like an earthquake and ringing in your ears. Something was going to happen 200 years from now, a process that would usher in the end of Christ’s millenium. From beneath the taunts, you could make out aspects of their plans - there were hidden demonic associated in most settlements to spread sin.

In 200 years, the world would come to an end - unless it is stopped, and its agents destroyed.

You ride through the roads and countryside with your fellow soldiers to yet another town - Uzès, it’s called - where rumours of witches had come in. Here, you will take on the identity of Katherine Boulengier, a journeyman carpenter come to the town to work and master your craft, and stay at an inn.


Inquisitor
   [POWER] [NIGHT] T1M3 TO 1NV3ST1G4T3: Each night, you may select a maximum of three targets to investigate - they do not need to be different players, and can all be used on the same player, if you so wish, to investigate the same target thrice in the same night. Each successive investigation of a player over the course of the game will reveal more enlightening information regarding a player’s role in the game - the first investigation, for example, may be a vague detail for interpretation whilst the third or fourth investigation action may reveal something more incriminating. In all cases, there will be no definitive investigation result and the information you accrue will demand heavy use of your interpretative and analytical skills. This cannot be used N0.

   [POWER] [NIGHT] Break and Enter: A player that has been investigated three or more times by you over the course of the game can be targeted to be given your sole attention for a Night. This will allow you to learn a substantial amount of information regarding one of that player’s abilities, if any - the ability investigated is random. If the target has no abilities or passives, you simply will be told this. This ability cannot be used the same Night as T1M3 TO 1NV3ST1G4T3.

   OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches and magical entities.

Spoiler: Colin Fleury, Dark Child (click to show/hide)

You are Colin Fleury, dark child.

You never found out who your parents were. None of the priests could tell you; you had been found at the monastery’s gates, wrapped in linen and no more than a few months old. You were taken in, and cared for – along with a multitude of other orphans. You were, apparently, a quiet baby unlike the rest; the monks took a liking to you, and you grew prodigiously.

Your earliest memory is of attending one of the psalmodies after the monks – and the children – had endured two days of enforced silence. By then, you were dying to say something, anything – and when everyone picked up their books and started singing, you joined in with such force that you gave the monks pause and made the other children laugh. One almost thought that you had forgotten how to speak, the silly old man. As you lie on the bed of moist straw in the darkened workshop, listening to the draught wander across the floor and shivering as it comes near, you try to imagine, with a smile (such a sweet smile, such sweet joy) what life would have been like... If you hadn’t been apprenticed.

You would wake up in your chambers, the sun shining, the stone walls glowing in the morning’s golden light. As your eyes open, you would hear the birds sing their merry tunes in blossoming trees in the garden. During summer, perhaps even the smell of flowers, delicately sweet, would flirt with your senses. You would say your morning prayer by the bed and might recite some psalms, and then leave for the gardens; there, you would care for the vegetables. Good, honest work. Perrin would work with you, of course – playful Perrin, would be Brother Perrin by then, who would share jokes and stories with you as the summer sun caresses your back with warmth and your robes, of black linen, cool you down. Brother Hennequin would make delicious stews with the freshest vegetables from the garden for everyone to eat for dinner, and everyone would be off again for prayer or reading...

Suddenly, you hear the crack of a peal of thunder, and the quiet hiss of rain. Water drips – slowly, at first – from the ceiling down to the floor, wetting the ground and your blanket. As the storm begins to build up, more water drizzles from the wooden sieve of a roof. Beginning to shiver, you wrap your sodden blanket tighter around yourself and try to sleep.

The next morning, you wake up to the smell of rust and moist earth. It had rained all night, and the packed earth of the cooperage floor had absorbed it all and taken on a blackish brown hue. Almost automatically, you move toward the hay closet and grab the pitchfork – but just as you lift it, you notice its tines and put it down. You had almost forgotten what had happened yesterday. You turn toward the table, vaguely apprehensive of what you might find – something that would put yesterday’s actions beyond the realm of doubt.

There it is. You were hoping – just a distant hope – that it might not be true. But there it is, as real as the bed you just slept on, that infernal book.

You had found an old tome in a section of the library nobody ever went to at the monastery. Now that you think about it, it looked oddly similar to the one that is before you now; maybe it was made the same way.

The first time you found it, you were simply exploring the monastery late at night. You had taken to waking up in the wee hours of the morning, even before the sun had risen, to wander the twilit corridors. It was a completely different place to the monastery during the day;  the shadows that previously lurked behind closets, under tables and in corners where sunlight and candlelight couldn’t reach them, now grew long, stretched across corridors and flooded rooms, lightened only at intervals by weak bluish moonlight. The air was always cooler, and on cold days you could see your own breath as a mist in the air. Looking out the window, you could see a million shining motes of light that twinkled softly, serenely – infinitely more precious and vibrant than the brightest gem and the clearest riverwater. Wandering down these corridors, you went into the library, pulled books out at random and saw things you’ve never read or even seen before, like Gode cookerie and On strategie. Occasionally, you would flip through their pages and read a few lines, interested more in the spectacle than the book’s content – but on that fateful day, your attention was caught not by the books but by a door, at the far end of the library that was always locked and never tended for but on this occasion was left ajar.

You opened it just a crack more and went in. No, there was nobody there, nothing but dust and shelves. You inspected each of the aisles, titillated at the prospect of forbidden knowledge – and there it was, a book without any title on its spine. It looked to be built of ivory and a sort of pale leather, warm to the touch. Out of all the books there, that one seemed to have a strange attractive power. It was the only thing you really looked at in the room, though you dared not open it. You thought about it, though, for weeks on end; and when the monks told you that you had been apprenticed early to a dry cooper, just after your tenth birthday, you couldn’t bear the thought of having to leave it behind and stole it.

Some good it did you. You couldn’t muster the courage to read it; the spirit of the monastery hung along and you were still afraid – for the longest while – that you’d receive some punishment for it. For two years, it went unopened; you would take it out and look at it for a while, when you thought you were alone – the pale leather had darkened patches on it, but they were too smudged and blurry to make any recognisable pattern – but that was all you dared to do. It only happened a few days ago.

The cooper had been drinking too much. He had received a large and very lucrative order on barrels the day before, and had (for once) been successful in demanding advance payment. He had spent the entire day, from morning to night, drinking hippocras from the finest wine he could afford. You were working on the barrels of that order while he sat on an old faded armchair he called his “throne”, which he would use whenever he felt affluent, and drank his stupid wine while boasting about his business acumen and how “that idiot must’ve been a foreigner” for consenting to advance payment. As you toasted each barrel and bent the staves, he grew silent, observing you as you took out each barrel from the fire, slightly browned, bent them slightly with your lever, put it back and took it out, a darker shade, bent it, put it back and took it out, now slightly blackened- “BOY!” He screamed at you. “What the fuck are you doing to that barrel?”

You said nothing. You knew from experience that anything you could say would only make him angrier when he got started.

“Gone mute, have you?”

Of course, saying nothing could also make it worse.

“Listen here, you little shit – do you think our client wants charred barrels, eh? If he’s paid so much, you think he’d want shitty barrels? Take it off the fucking fire, you dumb cunt!”

You took it off and grabbed the lever.

He grimaced and threw away the cup. “Give me that-” he snatched the lever from you- “No wonder your parents threw you away, dull as you are. You just destroyed good wood!” He hit you over the head with the lever to make his point. You fell onto the still-hot iron hoop from the force of the strike, burning your face – as you screamed and recoiled, he took it for belligerence and struck you again.

“That wood cost more than you ever will, boy! Now do the next one properly!” He kicked you in the back as you started to get up, pushing you down again to the ground, and staggered back to his throne for more wine. Eventually, too drunk to do anything else, he staggered into his house beside the workshop with his flasks.

You worked on in sullen silence until you were sure he was asleep. Though that day wasn’t quite as bad as some other days, you couldn’t resist any longer – you just had to read that book. You rustled beneath your hay bed and brought out the book. But when you opened it, you found something altogether different from what you were expecting. Instead of those tales of a bygone era, you saw a blank page. Slowly, you could make out words emerging from the parchment – faded, weak, but visible – in another script at first, sharp and angular, but which transformed before your eyes into French. It described the process of a ritual that would fulfill the greatest wish of the person who performed it; flipping through the book, there were pages upon pages of notes, accounts and inscriptions.

You were taught to fear magic, even the good kind. But as your master went on a massive drinking binge, each strike removed that much more from that fear. Eventually – yesterday, in fact – you performed the ritual. You were pitching hay when it happened, and it was late in the evening; he had decided it was a good time to argue with you. It wasn’t much, not much at all, but it was enough for you to decide that you would take no more of it. You lifted the rake and drove it into his chest, as far as it would go, and pulled it out. His face went pale, and he fell immediately, blood pulsing from those three wounds and staining his clothes red. He never said a word, and how shocked he was, and you were shocked yourself – shocked at what you could do. You stabbed him again and again until he bled out and stopped moving, then stabbed some more out of spite until your arms were too tired to puncture his flesh.

Horrible though it was, you felt – and it was undeniable – a small twinge of satisfaction, even joy, for each stab.

All that was left, then, was to follow the ritual; and after a few moments of reading, you began. You slit his throat as it said and pulled out his tongue through the wound, cutting it off at the base; you cut off both of his ears and his nose; using your finger, you carefully gouged out both of his eyeballs, then cut off both of his thumbs. Dragging the body to an empty area, you arranged each type of body part neatly around him in a circle, and smeared out a circle of his blood with your fingers as best you could. Wiping your hands on your trousers, you lifted out the book and said the words. They were quite simple.

The book evaporated from your hands. The workshop darkened almost immediately, as if light had been sucked away from the world. The circle began to glow and the grisly parts rolled along it, and the body lifted slowly, inching into the air. As it climbed ever higher, your surroundings darkened even further – dark tendrils appeared at the corner of your vision, slithering silently like a hundred snakes, and your skin shifted from deathly cold to fiery warmth. Then, in the blink of an eye, the cooper’s body exploded. The skin tore away from it in a whirl of air and its flesh melted off the bones, forming a crimson blob of matter. The blood that made up the circle slid up your legs, onto your chest – you felt a searing pain in its path – and flowed into your eyes and mouth. Then... Darkness.

You don’t know how long you were unconscious. But, after what seemed like an eternity, you awoke again in a world of impenetrable gloom. You couldn’t move – you couldn’t see your body. Maybe you were still in your mind, but what you’re certain of was that you heard a voice. Far away, at first, but it was coming closer.

It laughed. It wasn’t mirthful, not directly; it was one of those laughs you heard the oldest monks do when they thought they had known everything, seen everything – and then had something happen that they had never seen before. Something unthought of. A novelty.

“I am Ashmedai, King of Demons. You seek something from me.” The voice was dark and luscious, soft as finest silk. “Yes. You may not know your desire yet, but it is there. You want change. You want revenge. I will give it to you.”

The darkness dissipated, and you found your body had been covered in intricate patterns from the blood. There was also a book there, similar to the one you saw before – but fresher, and with the cooper’s pained face embedded in the cover. You ran to a puddle to look at yourself.

There, in the reflection, you saw the designs on your body disappear as if they were never there – along with the burn mark on your face. But before you rose, you glimpsed a dark silhouette behind you in the puddle, three-headed and more than twice as tall as you.

“Yes, child. You remember.”

You jump a little as you hear the voice once more in the quiet workshop. You look around, but see no-one.

“We have made a pact. We will begin tonight.”


Dark Child
   [PASSIVE] [DAY] [NIGHT] Blood Pact: If you die, your soul will be consumed immediately by the demon. You cannot be resurrected and you will lose.
   
   [PASSIVE] [DAY] [NIGHT] Feigned Innocence: You are difficult to accurately inspect.
   
   [POWER] [NIGHT] Murder: You may kill a player each night. This cannot be used N0. This cannot be used the same night as Consume.
   
   [POWER] [MAGICAL] [NIGHT] Consume: Using Consume on a fresh corpse (one that died no earlier than the previous Night) will strengthen your bond with the demon and improve your abilities - but will also strengthen the demon’s grip on your soul and your mind. This cannot be used in conjuction with any other power.
   
   OBJECTIVE: Kill everyone. Survive.

Spoiler: Denis le Breton, Death Shaman (click to show/hide)

You are the Death Shaman.

Death comes for all things in time. Whether it is a poor farmer, dying from cholera or starvation; or a warrior dying in battle as the spear pierces his gut; or a fat king, ruler of an empire dying from old age; death comes for them all equally. An ancient, powerful force with infinite patience, death may come each day for those trampled blades of grass or killed deer, but it knows that the crossbowman skinning his game will die soon enough, and that each tree in the forest they were in will wither and dry. Death is what you are, what you were before birth, and what you will be when the time comes for you - you are the human embodiment of Death, and exist only to serve it.

Born anew under a perfect storm of events that happens only once every few centuries, Death has become your soul. You remember your past self, already a shaman, dedicated to serving death while close to the earth, finding a secluded grove that was permeated with magic. He had performed a sacred ritual, the last of the rituals to be performed, under a literal storm - and instead of reuniting with the earth and soil that had borne him, he was struck by lightning. Now, you are changed forever - no longer a person, but something more.

Death had brought forth the darkness from the hidden places in your heart. It had freed you from the shackles of expectation, conditioning and society - as the outer layers that were presented to society were stripped away, the core that remained embraced death.

Once, you walked the lands seeking purpose. Now, it lies before you as clear and self-evident as the solidity of the stone beneath your feet.

For days, now, you have walked the plains and forests going in a single direction, strangely drawn to a point on the horizon - and at last, in the cover of darkness, you have found what you came for. You have come to this town - Uzès - to bring on another wave of death. This town, unlike the others nearby, has been spared from the recent waves of the Black Plague - leaving it with an overabundance of life.

But, as you approach the gates, you sense something - something that was not meant to happen. The hairs on your skin prickle, your face and back begin to flush and feel warm - it is unmistakable!

Life has entered this place - not the births, nor vitality, but a Life Shaman. Come to oppose you, no doubt. You must tread carefully.

“Who goes there?” A guard by the gate calls out at you, his hand at his sword-hilt.

“I am Denis le Breton, an old-clothes seller. I am simply returning to my wagon of goods in the city.”

“I don’t believe you. Why-” you walk past him, and he falls asleep.

You steal an empty wagon to sleep in during the nights.


The Death Shaman
   [POWER] [3-SHOT] [MAGICAL] [NIGHT] Power of Death: Kills oneself immediately. No roleflip will occur; your death message will be “[PLAYER] has died during the Night”. You may only use this power three times.
   
   [POWER] [1-SHOT] [MAGICAL] [NIGHT] I Will Drag You With Me: Can only be used the same night Power of Death is used for the first time. The player targeted by this power will die the same Night.    This cannot be used N0.
   
   [POWER] [MAGICAL] [NIGHT] Grasp of Death: Can only be used while dead. Kills one targeted player. Cannot be used the same night as Power of Death. This cannot be used N0.
   
   [PASSIVE] [NIGHT] Cheating the Reaper: You may choose to resurrect at any time. You may only remain dead for two Nights, excluding the night Power of Death was used, before being forced to resurrect. You may only die safely three times. None of these three deaths will reveal your role; you will die with the message “[PLAYER] has been lynched” or WTTE. Upon your fourth death, by any cause, you will die permanently and lose.
   
   OBJECTIVE: Eliminate the Life Shaman. Then eliminate everyone else.
   
   NOTE: I recommend you wait with using the suicide power and deathkill until you’re reasonably sure who the Life Shaman is. Otherwise, due to the visibility of your death, you will find it difficult to win.

[lordnincompoop]

Spoiler: Estienne Moreau, Witch Mother (click to show/hide)

You are the Witch Mother.

“Is this the place?” The Maiden turned to ask the Crone.

“This is the place.”

Though the Maiden couldn’t detect it yet, it was obvious enough for the two of you. It really couldn’t be missed, unless one happened to be very distracted; you could detect the disturbance from several towns away. The Crone found it even earlier, though she didn’t mention it until later. Whatever it was exuded raw, chaotic energy, the kind you’d almost never find anywhere. Coming here, it grew stronger and stronger seemingly without end; now that you are here, your eyes confirm without a shadow of a doubt that it is the biggest rift you’ve ever seen – and right over this town. You sigh. People have difficult lives as it is. To have to suffer through a new rift’s entire lifespan and the appearance of two Shamans... You wouldn’t even wish that upon your enemies. Even if they’re one of the really annoying ones.

The Maiden concentrates for a moment – then her eyes widen. “It’s... Massive. And active. This is bad.”

“I imagine the Inquisitors will be coming,” you say.

“They won’t be a large problem once we come under the rift ourselves,” the Crone replies. “But the activity... Will be an issue. This will attract more than just the Shamans. If the rift opens any wider, the beings on the other side will find it easy to pass through. As it is, it’s already easy for anyone with summoning spells; there’s a whole array of them, all very powerful ones, that would only work here.”

“Will the elves come, as well?” The Maiden says.

“I doubt it. The fair folk are not given to opportunism, nor do they generally disrupt the Way of Things. When the time is right, they will open a rift themselves.” The Crone pauses for a moment. “But who knows – things can change unpredictably. Magic at this concentration doesn’t necessarily need a wielder; perhaps they’ll be drawn here regardless. Be wary.”

She turns toward the two of you. “Closing this rift will be almost as important taking care of the Shamans, and there are only a handful of ways to close a rift like this.”

You look at the town. It looks, in a certain sinister way, majestic; a great gash across the sky, held open by ethereal moorings. On the other side, a great conflagration that crawls around inside the hole as if alive. Beams, clouds and waves of octarine light, flowing from the wound onto the town and spread into the surrounding lands, slowly but surely staining all that it touches with an invisible glow. Soon enough, the accumulation would be lethal – and unstable.

The Crone begins speaking again. “There is a way to stop both at once, quickly. If we can get the Shamans to cooperate, we can make the five-person circle necessary for a ritual to close the rift.”

“You don’t seem especially eager,” the Maiden remarks rather pointedly.

“No. It will be very difficult to convince them to cooperate.”

“And?”

“The ritual also needs everyone else here to be dead – everyone in the town. Once the ritual is complete, they’ll come back to life, but until then, everyone but us and the Shamans need to be dead. After that, the Shamans will ‘die’ and we won’t need to do anything else. But so will we; we’ll die.”

“If that’s what it takes.” You reply. The life of a witch, after all, is to take care of the world’s edges and balances – and saving so many people livelihoods like this? You couldn’t think of a better way. Or, well... “I hope they brew good wines here,” you say – mostly to yourself.

“That’s what it’ll take. Whatever we do, we must stop the Shamans from starting their conflict here; that in itself likely won’t need us to be dramatic. But we can do that and close the rift at the same time – we should do that, if we can.

“Remember who they are. These things are not of here.”

Shamans. Ancient powers, only appearing once a millennium, if that – and two of them, appearing at the same time near a densely populated town? Well, it had to happen sooner or later.

You still remember when the Crone had first delved deep into trying to find out what Shamans were. She had gleaned all she could from old tomes, and the information was sparse and fragmented, so little had been left behind since the last occurrence – but what you had read frightened you. It still isn’t certain what causes them or what exactly they are, and there is much less information about any conditions for appearances or weaknesses. Shamans – forces of nature given human form, driven by a single-minded desire to further that force, to the point of upsetting the world’s balance. Never let two meet, especially if they are opposing natural forces; if they are, they will destroy each other along with vast swathes of countryside.

And here, the Shamans of Life and Death would meet, who represent the most fundamental and most opposed forces in existence – you can’t help but wonder about the havoc they would wreak should they be left to their own devices. No, better to end it now; if not with the ritual, by speeding up the process a little with some help.

“I don’t think any of the townsfolk would appreciate witches coming here. We’ll borrow some bodies.”

Walking some distance away from the town, you find a secluded spot in the shade under a cluster of trees. Everyone sits down, takes off their hats and begins the ritual. You concentrate, and your soul slips away from your body. You never much enjoyed Borrowing; going in yourself and taking care of things, whatever they may be, always felt like a more proper solution to you – and when any injuries would be there to stay, everything feels more serious. You suppose it’s unavoidable this time around, though.

Darkness, at first – and a dizzying sensation, almost as if you were cast into the air, tumbling around. When you wake up, you find yourself in a small bedroom dimly lit by a window embedded in a wall. The bed you are lying in is surprisingly soft considering the unimpressive decoration – dragging one hand through the cotton quilting, the cloth feels almost warm to the touch. A closet on the far end of the room holds clothing while you, for now, are wearing thin linens. On some brass hooks, you see a set of aprons – and going downstairs, you find a moderately-sized tavern room with a bar and a couple of tables, with glasses, cups and carafes. In the cellar, you find several barrels of wine, each labelled with a symbol; concentrating a moment to extract some memories, you find that many of these are ordinary wines to serve the modest craftsman or working man. All you need to do now is to assume his identity – specifically, that of Estienne Moreau, taverner.


The Witch Mother
   [POWER] [MAGICAL] [NIGHT] Weaken: If the targeted player has shot-limited powers, one will be selected at random and a shot will be removed from it (you will not gain the power). If the targeted player has no shot-limited powers, one power will be converted at random to a 4-shot power. This cannot be used N0. This cannot be used on dead players.

   [POWER] [MAGICAL] [1-SHOT] [NIGHT] Lifeforce: One shot resurrect. Resurrected person retains all non-one-shot powers and passives. Cannot be used on self.
   
   [PASSIVE] [DAY] [NIGHT] Witches’ Coven: You may speak freely with your fellow witches in a private chatroom.
   
   [PASSIVE] [MAGICAL] [DAY] [NIGHT] Magical Affinity: You have some chance of being notified of any magical events that occur during the course of the game, including any magical powers attempted by players.

   OBJECTIVE: Reverse the Shamans’ roles - keep the Death Shaman alive to endgame without him having any ability to die, and keep the Life Shaman dead to endgame without him having any ability to resurrect.

Spoiler: Gillette Doulze, Life Shaman (click to show/hide)

You are the Life Shaman.

Life governs all things. Ancient and powerful, life has existed ever since the first cell haphazardly assembled itself, countless aeons ago, and began dividing. Life was old already when the first ape grasped a stick, old when the first men hunted mammoth together with sharpened spears, old when the Sumerians first tried to write, older still when Christ walked the earth. Life caresses each seedling of every plant as it sprouts from the ground, pulses slowly within ponderous arboreal giants and rushes through the mayfly. Life is what you are, what you were, and what you will feed in death - you are the human embodiment of Life, and exist only to serve it.

Born anew under a perfect storm of events that happens only once every few centuries, Life has become your soul. You remember your past self, already a shaman, dedicated to serving life while close to the earth, finding a secluded grove that was permeated with magic. She had performed a sacred ritual, the last of the rituals to be performed, under a literal storm - and instead of reuniting with the earth and soil that had borne her, she was struck by lightning. Now, you are changed forever - no longer a person, but something more.

Once, you walked the lands seeking purpose. Now, it lies before you as clear and self-evident as the solidity of the stone beneath your feet.

For days, now, you have walked the plains and forests going in a single direction, strangely drawn to a point on the horizon - and at last, bolstered by the sunlight and clear skies, you have found what you came for. You have come to this town by the sea - Uzès - to stop a new wave of death from appearing. Spared by the recent waves of the Black Plague that infested other towns, life here has blossomed - but another agent of death has come.

He is the Death Shaman, the Yin to your Yang. Infused with the will and the power of Death, he means to thwart any advance of Life on this earth - and he must be stopped.

You walk through the gate and find an inn to rent a room in. You will take on the guise of Gillette Doulze, a peasant’s daughter here accompanying your father to sell fruits, wine and vegetables from your farm.


The Life Shaman
   [POWER] [5-SHOT] [MAGICAL] [DAY] Resurrection: Resurrects one person from the dead. Person retains all non-one-shot powers and passives, with the exception that the Death Shaman retains his/her one-shots. Cannot be used on self. Cannot be used in conjunction with any other action on the same Day. Can be used a maximum of 6 times; but on the 6th, the resurrect will happen at the cost of your own life. Can be done either via PM or via a post in the thread. The action will resolve with the next votecount.
   
   [POWER] [1-SHOT] [MAGICAL] [DAY] Lifeforce: If you are dead, you may use this power to burn one shot of the Resurrect power to resurrect yourself. If you have depleted all five proper shots of Resurrect, this power does not work.
   
   [POWER] [MAGICAL] [DAY] Ward: Prevents a person from dying the next night. Cannot be used in conjunction with any other action on the same Day. Can be done either via PM or via a post in the thread. The action will resolve with the next votecount.

   OBJECTIVE: Keep the Death Shaman alive. Survive.

Her name is a pun on Gillette razors (literally Gillette Soft in French). Originally meant to be a barber whose PM would have a million puns about Gillette products, but never happened.

Spoiler: Jean Petit, Witch Crone (click to show/hide)

You are the Witch Crone.

“Is this the place?”

“This is the place.”

There was no way you could not be certain; you could detect the disturbance from several towns away. The Mother detected it too. Raw, chaotic energy, the biggest yet – and it was right over this town. You sigh. All these people – another town full of people that will have to suffer through so many things. Perhaps they’re already suffering, if the manifestations have begun.

The Maiden concentrates for a moment – then her eyes widen. “It’s... Massive. And active. This is bad.”

“I imagine the Inquisitors will be coming,” said the Mother.

“They won’t be a large problem once we come under the rift ourselves. But the activity... Will be an issue. This will attract more than just the Shamans. If the rift opens any wider, the beings on the other side will find it easy to pass through. As it is, it’s already easy for anyone with summoning spells; there’s a whole array of them, all very powerful ones, that would only work here.”

Not only that. You didn’t mention it to the others, but there was something here – something very old, powerful and sinister. It may not come through at all, but if it did – and it likely will, being that rifts such as these rarely if ever occur – you wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. Such magical force... At least you won’t lack in power.

“Will the elves come, as well?”

“I doubt it,” you reply. “The fair folk are not given to opportunism, nor do they generally disrupt the Way of Things. When the time is right, they will open a rift themselves.” You pause for a moment. “But who knows – things can change unpredictably. Magic at this concentration doesn’t necessarily need a wielder; perhaps they’ll be drawn here regardless. Be wary.”

You turn toward the other two witches. “Closing this rift will be almost as important taking care of the Shamans, and there are only a handful of ways to close a rift like this.”

Your gaze turns toward the town. Though no common person would see it, it was obvious enough to you – a great gash across the sky, held open by ethereal moorings – on the other side, a great conflagration that crawls around inside the hole as if alive. Beams, clouds and waves of octarine light would flow from the wound onto the town and spread into the surrounding lands, slowly but surely staining all that it touches with an invisible glow. Soon enough, the accumulation would be lethal – and unstable. But in that case, would it close itself after some time, or would it simply grow larger?

“There is a way to stop both at once, quickly. If we can get the Shamans to cooperate, we can make the five-person circle necessary for a ritual to close the rift.”

“You don’t seem especially eager,” the Maiden remarks rather pointedly.

“No. It will be very difficult to convince them to cooperate.” You look down for a minute.

“And?”

“The ritual also needs everyone else here to be dead – everyone in the town. Once the ritual is complete, they’ll come back to life, but until then, everyone but us and the Shamans need to be dead. After that, the Shamans will ‘die’ and we won’t need to do anything else. But so will we; we’ll die.”

“If that’s what it takes.” The Mother replies, face unmoving. “I hope they brew good wines here.”

“That’s what it’ll take. Whatever we do, we must stop the Shamans from starting their conflict here; that in itself likely won’t need us to be dramatic. But we can do that and close the rift at the same time – we should do that, if we can.

“Remember who they are. These things are not of here.”

Shamans. Ancient powers, only appearing once a millennium, if that – and two of them, appearing at the same time in your steading? Well, it had to happen sooner or later, you suppose.

All you know about them had to be gleaned from old tomes, so little had been left behind since the last occurrence. You still aren’t quite sure what causes them or what exactly they are, much less any conditions for appearances or weaknesses. Shamans – forces of nature given human form, driven by a single-minded desire to further that force, to the point of upsetting the world’s balance. Never let two meet, especially if they are opposing natural forces; if they are, they will destroy each other along with vast swathes of countryside.

And here, the Shamans of Life and Death would meet, who represent the most fundamental and most opposed forces in existence – you can’t help but wonder about the havoc they would wreak should they be left to their own devices. No, better to end it now; if not with the ritual, by speeding up the process a little with some help.

“I don’t think any of the townsfolk would appreciate witches coming here. We’ll borrow some bodies.”

Walking some distance away from the town, you find a secluded spot in the shade under a cluster of trees. Everyone sits down, takes off their hats and begins the ritual. You concentrate. So many years and countless Borrowings left you with a tenuous hold on your body – even now, as you slip out easily into the open air to float in the wind, you feel your soul lose itself ever so slightly. You won’t be able to return, soon enough – but after this, that shouldn’t matter. You fly invisibly to the town, seeking a suitable host – the currents from the rift make it difficult to navigate, but when you find one, you come down and into the body.

Darkness, at first – and a dizzying sensation, almost as if you were cast into the air, tumbling around. When you wake up, you find yourself lying face-down on the floor in a small, fairly modest bedroom. The floors consist of a rough wooden planking, scarred and scratched on innumerable occasions. A rough chair sits by the window, and on a low cabinet rests your clothes – worn and faded, mended in some places, but clean. Searching around, you find a small leather pouch under the pillow of the bed – blanket still unmade – with some small coins in it. Focusing, you try to remember some details from your host’s life – though still difficult, a few come up. His name is Jean Petit, a moderately successful farmer, and his wagonload of vegetables to sell at the summer markets are in the stables by the inn, covered by cloth.


The Witch Crone
   [POWER] [MAGICAL] [1-SHOT] [NIGHT] Blood Ritual: Alternate hidden wincon for all factions. For Blood Ritual to succeed, both Shamans must be alive, all Witches must be alive, all other roles must be dead or otherwise removed, Blood Ritual must be cast the night after the first day of when only these five players remain, all of the remaining players must cast a No Lynch/No Vote that day, and all the remaining players other than the Crone must not action, be actioned or die during that night. If casting succeeds, everyone, including dead players and the Town faction, will win. If cast in any other circumstances, all players will die and the game will end with no winner.
   
   [PASSIVE] [DAY] [NIGHT] Witches’ Coven: You may speak freely with your fellow witches in a private chatroom.
   
   [PASSIVE] [MAGICAL] [DAY] [NIGHT] Magical Affinity: You have some chance of being notified of any magical events that occur during the course of the game, including any magical powers attempted by players.

   OBJECTIVE: Reverse the Shamans’ roles - keep the Death Shaman alive to endgame without him having any ability to die, and keep the Life Shaman dead to endgame without him having any ability to resurrect.

[lordnincompoop]

Spoiler: Marie Bouvet, widow (click to show/hide)

You are Marie Bouvet, widowed kitchen maid.

“Wash those cups again, Marie. Look at them - look how dirty they are!”

“Of course.”

You would never say it to his face, but frankly, you didn’t see anything wrong with those cups. Sometimes, you get the impression that the cook only does it to torment you - the bastard.

Well... It’s working.

You vigorously scour the invisible grit off of the cups before drying them and putting them in the tableware cupboard with a satisfying thunk. That was the last of them. You turn toward him, expectantly.

“Here’s your denier for the week.”

A paltry sum. That same thought always pops into your head when you receive your wages; you try to stifle it, but it always lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you of those years of your life that were worse but better. The only daughter of an armourer, your childhood had been extremely fortunate. Richer than many, but not so high in stature and wealth so as to be truly rich or exposed to the sometimes-lethal drama of politics, you had - in retrospect - a sheltered existence.

Your family, by necessity, lived very close to the lord’s castle and the guardposts and training fields for his men. Your father wouldn’t often let you leave, warning about combat, stray arrows and swords, and drunken soldiers during the evenings. When you became old enough to understand that these fears were not all that valid, he resorted to simply giving no explanation when forbidding you. No matter - you loved to read, ever since you learned how during your few years at convent school. There, you would read at least a dozen pages a day, whether it came out of Psalms or elsewhere in the Bible, or even a few chansons and romans. But the stories you loved best were the tales of heroes, of fantastical deeds and magical worlds; the geste du roi, Yvain the knight, and Perceval were only a few among them.  Your father, quite indulgent, often rented books under the pretext of copying them but gave them to you to read - with the time you had, you could very often finish them within the year of rent. Your family had only a few books to call their own; even the plains, poorly copied, cost a livre tournois each. A major investment, considering your father only made fourteen livres a year.

You did sneak out once, away from home - admittedly without a goal in mind - but what was the use? You were awkward, weren’t familiar with nightly activities in the city, and your surroundings were dominated by knights and acres of sparring grounds.

You were married to a rising spice merchant as a young woman. Though kind, he had very traditional ideas of gender roles. He refused to let you rent books or buy them for leisure reading, trying to fill time with “womanly” activities like many of the other conservative men you’ve heard about - cookery, crocheting, nursing children. You still remember those days with a strange mixture of bitterness and nostalgia; how, after several months of living in that house, you would try - desperately, wretchedly - to write down what you could remember of those books of heroism and chivalry you read whenever you could sneak in the time, trying to remember, trying to construct a narrative of your own to read in lieu of real books. Once, even,  you secretly rented a book when you were out in the city for some affairs and hid it under your linens at home.

He steadily became richer over the years - eventually, he made four times as much as your father and ran a business that supplied most of the spices in the city. Though the marriage was still loveless, despite your two sons, you grew more distant to literature and grew more accustomed to your new lifestyle. You attempted to contribute to the business a few times, but he always blocked them. Perhaps you were changing, slowly - or perhaps the hostage had simply stopped panicking.

You loved - you still love - your sons. They were your own, they were simple, undemanding. When they cried, you understood, and you cared for them - you still care for them - as best you can. They were ten and twelve when their father died from typhoid - still a few years left until they would’ve apprenticed, still too young to understand the full scope of what happened. In his wake, you sold the remaining stock at a high price and tried to buy more, sending letters and making visits to suppliers to try and start negotiations - but without his contacts, his network of colleagues, friends and acquaintances, you couldn’t find anyone to sell at the rates or amounts you needed. You were a woman, too - only a handful of people were willing to trust a woman to conduct business.

The family business suffered, naturally - and other merchants filled the gap and began pushing you out. Year by year, you grew poorer - slowly, at first, but the pace increased precipitously. You had to sell the estate and move to a poorer part of town, working as best you could - mostly at menial jobs - where they accepted women without experience of an apprenticeship. Even as you worked long hours and both days and nights, you found the wage hardly sufficed; as you burned through your savings trying to feed your broken family, you decided this wouldn’t work. You used the last of your money to buy supplies to travel to Uzès, a nearby port town where food was supposedly cheaper from trade and the viscountess was soon to be married.

The journey was tough. What poor sustenance you could scrounge turned out to be grossly insufficient; enough only to feed one person, you resolved to starve as your children took thin slivers of the salt pork and coarse rye bread. From Toulouse to Uzès - it took more than a week, and even that when walking several hours a day. Your shoes, their shoes - beautiful, soft and luxurious once, painted with bright colours, had over the years already faded, scratched, pitted, worn and wrinkled over the years. Through plains, through countryside, through forest, you marched on day after day - and only after three days, the shoes wore holes so large they had to be carried. Then, eventually, you saw it in the distance - walls of warm golden stone, shining towers that seemed to glow with the sun’s aura. You ran, then, toward the gates - open for all - and went to the castle, asked for her mercy.

Then they told you she wasn’t there. Pale, shocked, trapped in a city you’ve never been to, you asked her - desperately - if there was anything you could do.

There wasn’t. You and your sons could only live off of alms for that entire year, having to find food each day and a safe place to sleep. You would entertain yourselves by retelling all the fantastical stories yo had read in your youth - but now, the stories had taken on a different tone and aspect. You were possessed by them; when you recalled them you were both mournful and hopeful.

When the Viscountess Simone had come back with a husband, you came to the castle again to ask for work and patronage. In a stroke of serendipity, she herself was in the courtyards at that time - she looked up and down at you, remained quiet for a moment, and smiled. You were given food, drink and a home, and you were told to work in the scullery.

The years passed, and you went by on the castle food and saved your meagre pay for their education. After a few years, you had gathered enough to pay the premium for both to apprentice as carpenters, in the hope they could have a more fortunate life.

You pocket the coin. It’s a paltry sum, certainly, but you’ve survived on less.


Town
   OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.

Spoiler: Martin Brouillart, farmer (click to show/hide)

You are Martin Brouillart, farmer.

“Is that all the plums we have?”

“Yes-” thud, as another basket of vegetables entered the cart. “I’ll be making the rest into preserves.”

“All right, then.” You lifted a load of turnips off the ground and loaded them on. You took one out and looked at it for a moment – small, rather misshapen – before putting it back. “The vegetables don’t seem to be growing right lately,” you say, while shuffling the baskets around to make more space.

“Maybe it’s the cold.” Your wife didn’t seem especially concerned. Maybe she was right; there had been good harvests and bad harvests, but you had noticed a lot more of the latter lately. “There’s not much we can do about it. We could try growing some of those Northern vegetables.”

“True, but it’ll be difficult to grow. More expensive seed too, most likely – might not be worth it.” Thud. Another basket. You handed a sprouting onion back. “We’ll have that.”

“Here. This is the last one.” She handed you a large hamper full of carrots.

“Lorens – you know, him on the next plot – he says that it might be witches. That they’re going about, cursing the crops and causing bad weather to please the Devil. You think it’s possible?”

“Well, he says a lot of things.”

“He does, but he seemed serious that time. Says even the clergy are looking for them, now.”

“Anything’s possible.” She came over to the horse, patting its neck. She began tying a jug of something to the saddle. “I wouldn’t bet on it, though.” She smiled. “Do you remember what we need from the markets?”

“Mais bien sur, ma mie. A set of buttons, two yards of cloth, two pins, six ounces of black pepper...”

“And the fever medicine. Don’t forget that.”

“Right.” Sitting down on the seat at the front of the cart, you took the reins as the horse begins plodding forward. “I’ll be back in a few days!”

If everything were to go right, you would arrive in Uzès just in time for the third day of the summer markets, to sell the crops your family had just harvested. You always enjoyed seeing the hustle and bustle of town life – not only would it always be a novelty for you, but the sheer number of people and the amount of things to see and do there always overwhelmed you. There, you would buy necessities and come back to work again in the farms, as usual, wishing ever so slightly in the back of your mind that you could live a different life. Maybe as a merchant in the city. Or a blacksmith, or a carpenter. Sadly, you never managed to develop any talents for craft, and now, with a wife, two children and a farm to tend to lest the former two starve, you don’t have much time to do anything else.

This time, you travel to the town to sell various summer vegetables, and will sleep in the cart; you’ve never managed to afford a room at an inn, and your goods might be safer this way.


Town
   OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.

Spoiler: Mathieu Gendre, stonemason (click to show/hide)

You are Mathieu Gendre, stonemason.

Stone is tough, unyielding. Stone is ancient; it is not just close to the earth but is the earth, and as individual stones are taken from the ground, they remember that connection forever. It is self-assured, certain of who it is; once they leave the stonemason’s chisel and hammer, they keep that shape, though the details may change over the years. It may chip or pit or scratch, and individual bricks from walls or buildings may move or fall, but the stones themselves endure.

You yourself have endured quite a great deal. Your parents - both of them, in fact - were strict and rule-abiding. Your parents defined daily life by etiquette, routine and rules - outside of that, they were fairly distant. Your father, in response to rule-breaking or insubordinance, would often resort to slaps or, rarely, punches.

Stone is shaped by the mason. Though you often vented your frustrations regarding your parents with your brother in secret - he had gone through the same kind of upbringing - you began, slowly, to adopt many of the same principles. Working together with your father in the carpentry workshop, you began learning how to use your hands to ply a trade, and learned the need for rigour. You respected your father, for working such a demanding trade in order to take care of his family of five, and your mother for having to spend her days taking care of, cooking for and nursing three children as well as managing money. You were apprenticed early, as was the norm in your family, to the master mason Gieffroy Hemon who managed a masonry workshop. When you found out, you approached it with mixed feelings; while happy about receiving an external education and time away from oppressive parents, you thought it strange that in a family mostly of carpenters, and when your brother was going to be apprenticed to a master carpenter close to your father, that you would be chosen for masonry instead.

“You must understand, Mathieu, that this is for your own good. Masonry will become a valued skill, now that more buildings are being built. As more art comes in from Italy, people here will change - and masons have always been paid more than carpenters.”

The master mason treated you well. If you were upset, or made a mistake, or forgot about something, he would simply remind you instead of resorting immediately to punishment. As you learned how to shape stone yourself without cracking it or creating stress lines, you found that you were being shaped yourself. The mason held in high regard the four virtues oft discussed in the profession, and would try to pass them on to you; at any rate, at least some of it rubbed off.

It was around this time that your parents started declining in health. Perhaps they were eating poorly - though they seemed to be eating just as much as before - or perhaps their food was tainted; you never found out why, and it didn’t matter in the end. Shortly thereafter, your younger brother and your father were ill with the ague in a twisted stroke of chance. Your mother and you still had hope for them, since the ague isn’t commonly lethal, and tried over the course of a few weeks to nurse them back to health despite dwindling finances. You remember coming back from a day of working at the masonry workshop and seeing your mother still by their bedsides, comforting them as best she could - compassionately, uselessly. You would see them running high fevers, then waves of chills. Their skin turned a pale yellow, and a bucket had to be kept nearby for them to vomit in. Whenever they could muster enough willpower to speak, they often simply complained about how much of a headache they had.

It got worse a few days afterward, and your mother, too, began suffering from mild fevers. Your father and brother began convulsing on occasions, and their eyes would flicker about the room as if observing spirits; their words, which became less and less frequent, lost coherency later on. As the second week passed, they were silent; the only impression of life left was how they would squeeze back - weakly, but it was there - if one held their hand. Even that disappeared eventually, and after a few weeks, all three were dead and the family in poverty.

The mason - kind soul as he is - took you in as a ward. By his words, he had seen a promising young mason in you - though you find it just as likely he took a pity on a poor orphan boy that he happened to know. Your youngest brother, Colin, was the only survivor besides you and was only a few months old when it happened. The mason made it clear that he could only afford to take care of one ward, and you were forced to leave him in the care of a monastery.

You work, now, as a journeyman in the workshop. Though Colin has left the monastery and is somewhere, you had heard news that he was apprenticed to a dry cooper. You wish you could meet him again sometime.


Town
   OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.

[lordnincompoop]

Spoiler: Michiel Verdomme, Witch Maiden (click to show/hide)

You are the Witch Maiden.

“Is this the place?”

“This is the place.”

You aren’t quite sure what prompted the coven to come here. It seems like a rather ordinary town – moderately sized, castle and its courts slightly off centre, surrounded by plains, and farmland. They were sure, right from the beginning, that there was something massive here, something extremely magical, but to your annoyance, you can’t see much at all. You felt your skin tingle and the hairs rise a little, but that was it. The Mother could detect the disturbance from several towns away. The Crone found it even earlier, though she didn’t mention it until later. Whatever it was, they said, exuded raw, chaotic magical power, the kind you’d almost never find anywhere. Coming here, they grew quieter and quieter – now, they seem to be standing in awe at the invisible.

You concentrate for a moment, trying to remember all your lessons on magic detection – then, just as your senses open, you drown in a crushing surge of energy. Your eyes widen. “It’s... Massive. And active. This is bad.”

“I imagine the Inquisitors will be coming,” the Mother says.

“They won’t be a large problem once we come under the rift ourselves,” the Crone replies. “But the activity... Will be an issue. This will attract more than just the Shamans. If the rift opens any wider, the beings on the other side will find it easy to pass through. As it is, it’s already easy for anyone with summoning spells; there’s a whole array of them, all very powerful ones, that would only work here.”

“Will the elves come, as well?” You ask.

“I doubt it. The fair folk are not given to opportunism, nor do they generally disrupt the Way of Things. When the time is right, they will open a rift themselves.” The Crone pauses for a moment. “But who knows – things can change unpredictably. Magic at this concentration doesn’t necessarily need a wielder; perhaps they’ll be drawn here regardless. Be wary.”

She turns toward the two of you. “Closing this rift will be almost as important taking care of the Shamans, and there are only a handful of ways to close a rift like this.”

You look at the town. Now that it’s visible to you, it looks, in a certain sinister way, majestic; a great gash across the sky, held open by ethereal moorings. On the other side of the hole, a great conflagration that crawls around as if alive, and the whole thing shimmers brightly, fading in and out like a mirage. You see the faint outlines of beams and waves of octarine light, flowing from the wound onto the town and spreading into the surrounding lands, leaving a slight glow on everything.

The Crone begins speaking again. “There is a way to stop both at once, quickly. If we can get the Shamans to cooperate, we can make the five-person circle necessary for a ritual to close the rift.” She frowns.

“You don’t seem especially eager,” you remark.

“No. It will be very difficult to convince them to cooperate.”

“And?”

“The ritual also needs everyone else here to be dead – everyone in the town. Once the ritual is complete, they’ll come back to life, but until then, everyone but us and the Shamans need to be dead. After that, the Shamans will ‘die’ and we won’t need to do anything else. But so will we; we’ll die.”

You feel a chill run down your spine.

“If that’s what it takes.” The Mother replies. “I hope they brew good wines here.”

“That’s what it’ll take. Whatever we do, we must stop the Shamans from starting their conflict here; that in itself likely won’t need us to be dramatic. But we can do that and close the rift at the same time – we should do that, if we can.

“Remember who they are. These things are not of here.”

You feel your lungs closing up. Death. If you were to sacrifice yourself here, there would be nothing left but the void, the black sands and night skies. Is that... Is it necessary? Why you? Why, when you’re so new, when all this is new? You shake your head and try to convince yourself that this is right, that this is for the good of the world – but your lungs won’t open. Do you really believe in all that?

You still remember what the Crone told you about the Shamans on the way. The knowledge had been passed down for generations, losing a piece each time, as old as it was, so little had been left behind since the last occurrence – but what you had heard frightened you. It still isn’t certain what causes them or what exactly they are, and there is much less information about any conditions for appearances or weaknesses. Shamans – forces of nature given human form, driven by a single-minded desire to further that force, to the point of upsetting the world’s balance. Never let two meet, especially if they are opposing natural forces; if they are, they will destroy each other along with vast swathes of countryside.

And here, the Shamans of Life and Death would meet, who represent the most fundamental and most opposed forces in existence – you can’t help but wonder about the havoc they would wreak should they be left to their own devices.

“I don’t think any of the townsfolk would appreciate witches coming here. We’ll borrow some bodies.”

Walking some distance away from the town, you find a secluded spot in the shade under a cluster of trees. Everyone sits down, takes off their hats and begins the ritual. You concentrate, and your soul slips away from your body. You were never good at overt magic or sensing magic, unlike the other two – but spirits, ghosts and souls? You were familiar with those. Even in childhood, you could sense the dead who remained, and spirits of nature. Borrowings came easy to you – something most others find to be very difficult.

Darkness, at first – and a dizzying sensation, almost as if you were cast into the air, tumbling around. When you wake up, you find yourself fallen over beside a reclining chair in a fairly large workshop – several tables and racks, well made and cared for, laden with bolts of cloth lie in the room, along with numerous tailoring tools. Some unfinished garments lie on the benches – mostly fine garments, in lustrous blue or green silks or fine wools, for wealthy patrons. On the racks rest a wide array of cloths, from long rolls of rough linens and coarse wools to exotic fabrics – though there are many more bolts of ordinary material. With some concentration, you manage to extract a few key memories: The host’s name is Michiel Verdomme, and is tailor who makes and sells his clothing to affluent patrons, also selling various types of cloth by the yard.


The Witch Maiden
   [POWER] [MAGICAL] [NIGHT] Rapport: A targeted player can be psychically contacted during the night with the aim of establishing private communication; the player does not need to be alive. The targeted player will learn of your identity as the Witch Maiden, and will be offered the opportunity to enter a QuickTopic chat with you that will be held open for the remainder of the game. The target player may deny the offer and is under no obligation to keep your identity hidden.
   
   [PASSIVE] [DAY] [NIGHT] Witches’ Coven: You may speak freely with your fellow witches in a private chatroom.
   
   [PASSIVE] [MAGICAL] [DAY] [NIGHT] Magical Affinity: You have some chance of being notified of any magical events that occur during the course of the game, including any magical powers attempted by players.

   OBJECTIVE: Reverse the Shamans’ roles - keep the Death Shaman alive to endgame without him having any ability to die, and keep the Life Shaman dead to endgame without him having any ability to resurrect.

Spoiler: Pierre Guiot, mercer (click to show/hide)

You are Pierre Guiot, mercer.

Born to a family of poor and illiterate weavers, your childhood was defined by hunger and hardship. In the wake of the Black Death, farming had grown in importance as labour was in short supply and few people had enough to eat. In a much poorer society, there was little need for new wool and linen or other purchases.

You remember only being able to eat one regular meal a day. You had never heard of seconds, or dessert, or pies, and there would only ever be a second meal for special or important occasions. Though you were constantly hungry, you tried to keep quiet; your parents had much less than you did. In order to feed that growing child that they loved so, they gave you what was to be their food so that you could have even that one meal a day. You saw them go without food as often as you saw them eat some meagre portion with you.

You remember those days well. At the end of a day of helping your mother weave, your father would come back with a few coins from what he had sold. In the mornings, you would always see him leave with an armful of bolts of rough cloth, the ones you had woven the day before. You always hoped they were good enough.

Usually, he’d come back with the same armful, only a little smaller.

Dinner would be a reminder of that. Most often, it would be watery stewed beans or cooked turnips and beets, shades of grey or dull brown. You would pretend that the lumps you found in those bowls were bits of chicken, perhaps pretending also that you were happy farmers or craftsmen during those meals - though deep inside there was always the melancholy thought that none of it was true. With it there could also be barley bread - grainy, tough and often dry - as sops when they could be found by alms. Sometimes, if it was a good day, or an occasion, some salt pork would be cut out of whatever small lump was hung from the ceiling; the white mould that invariably developed would be brushed and scraped off as well as possible.

As soon as you were able, you were sent to sell the cloth that your parents would weave every day. It was hard work, and standing out there hawking cloth was demanding on your voice and your mind, but these original training grounds refined your sense for the sale and for a good bargain. As an adult, you sometimes wove your own cloth but more often bought and sold cloths made by others, making a small profit as the middle-man. That was enough for a while, but you quickly realised how flawed it was as you saw each meal with your family was the same as it was before.

There was never any “big break” for you. Instead, it happened more gradually - as more affluent people began frequenting your shop, freemen and craftsmen at first, then armourers, then other merchants, you began to earn more money from each customer and to sell more luxurious cloths. Using the connections you made with merchants that travelled to other lands, you began importing cloth as well - which attracted the attention of nobles still interested in foreign silks but running out of vendors to buy them from. You ate regularly, then could afford to add pepper, mace and nutmeg to your food - then even your wine.

Your parents, sadly, never knew what it meant to be wealthy. Your mother died of a fever, sweated all night and soaked blankets. Her last words, even, were unintelligible - such was the fever’s grip on her. Your father, then, died of pneumonia - a wheeze and cough that had gotten worse and worse over the years, until he finally stopped breathing one night. You were never there for his final breath; only for the morning thereafter, when he had already become cold, pale and clammy. If only there had been something you could do.


Town
   OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.You are Pierre Guiot, mercer.

Born to a family of poor and illiterate weavers, your childhood was defined by hunger and hardship. In the wake of the Black Death, farming had grown in importance as labour was in short supply and few people had enough to eat. In a much poorer society, there was little need for new wool and linen or other purchases.

You remember only being able to eat one regular meal a day. You had never heard of seconds, or dessert, or pies, and there would only ever be a second meal for special or important occasions. Though you were constantly hungry, you tried to keep quiet; your parents had much less than you did. In order to feed that growing child that they loved so, they gave you what was to be their food so that you could have even that one meal a day. You saw them go without food as often as you saw them eat some meagre portion with you.

You remember those days well. At the end of a day of helping your mother weave, your father would come back with a few coins from what he had sold. In the mornings, you would always see him leave with an armful of bolts of rough cloth, the ones you had woven the day before. You always hoped they were good enough.

Usually, he’d come back with the same armful, only a little smaller.

Dinner would be a reminder of that. Most often, it would be watery stewed beans or cooked turnips and beets, shades of grey or dull brown. You would pretend that the lumps you found in those bowls were bits of chicken, perhaps pretending also that you were happy farmers or craftsmen during those meals - though deep inside there was always the melancholy thought that none of it was true. With it there could also be barley bread - grainy, tough and often dry - as sops when they could be found by alms. Sometimes, if it was a good day, or an occasion, some salt pork would be cut out of whatever small lump was hung from the ceiling; the white mould that invariably developed would be brushed and scraped off as well as possible.

As soon as you were able, you were sent to sell the cloth that your parents would weave every day. It was hard work, and standing out there hawking cloth was demanding on your voice and your mind, but these original training grounds refined your sense for the sale and for a good bargain. As an adult, you sometimes wove your own cloth but more often bought and sold cloths made by others, making a small profit as the middle-man. That was enough for a while, but you quickly realised how flawed it was as you saw each meal with your family was the same as it was before.

There was never any “big break” for you. Instead, it happened more gradually - as more affluent people began frequenting your shop, freemen and craftsmen at first, then armourers, then other merchants, you began to earn more money from each customer and to sell more luxurious cloths. Using the connections you made with merchants that travelled to other lands, you began importing cloth as well - which attracted the attention of nobles still interested in foreign silks but running out of vendors to buy them from. You ate regularly, then could afford to add pepper, mace and nutmeg to your food - then even your wine.

Your parents, sadly, never knew what it meant to be wealthy. Your mother died of a fever, sweated all night and soaked blankets. Her last words, even, were unintelligible - such was the fever’s grip on her. Your father, then, died of pneumonia - a wheeze and cough that had gotten worse and worse over the years, until he finally stopped breathing one night. You were never there for his final breath; only for the morning thereafter, when he had already become cold, pale and clammy. If only there had been something you could do.


Town
   OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.

Spoiler: Regnault Coullart, shoemaker (click to show/hide)

You are Regnault Coullart, a shoemaker.

Small, fairly old, the frame dry and slightly cracked. The painting is a simple one, the panel painted with tempera – yet, you find in it an unmistakable beauty. Hung in a little-used wall in your small workshop, it remains a point of curiosity in your new life. More than its material value or subject matter, what is most important is how you managed to preserve it over the years. Yes... And silver cutlery, and a thick, soft cloak.

You sit down on a nearby stool – cold, scratched, shoddy – and stroke one of the shoes still being lasted. Dry, firm, mottled, and entirely unlike the leathers you remember – rich, waxy, flexible cordovans that were as smooth as polished steel and incredibly tenacious. The workshop seems, late now in the evening, awfully large and barren; wind howls from gaps in the walls, door and windows, nothing moves or makes a sound save for the soft creak of floorboards under your feet, and the only light left is the soft blue glow of the moon and night sky. No, nothing’s left, now – save for you.

You had lived those years - those wonderful, horrible years - in Paris, a veritable metropolis. You had met your wife for the first time as an apprentice to a master cordwainer, young, fit and foolish to the extreme. She was but a maid, then, working in Lord this-or-that’s estate. It was at the markets. You still remember the exact weather of that day – clear and bright, but not sunny. The sun had been obscured by a thin sheet of cloud that had turned all the light into shades of grey – but she, dirty though she was, seemed to you to possess an inner golden glow. You stood there, dumbstruck, and probably mumbled some stupid words she couldn’t make out – she looked at you for a moment, smiled, blushed, and left. The two of you quickly struck it off, and when you could have a shop of your own, marriage seemed a matter of course.

First she gave you a baby girl, pudgy and healthy and beautiful. She was beautiful when she turned one, beautiful at two, beautiful yet at three. There was even another – a boy, she said – just, too, when you were making your mark. You had found the patronage of rich men who paid handsome sums for your handiwork, and your business flowered – right up until the first one died. Quite a while, a surprising while, after that, even. Then people started dying in droves from the plague. It had come back.

Early on, you stayed because everyone thought it was a curse for the sinners. Your parents were one of the first to succumb, the first of many – and when you saw it wasn’t so, you told yourselves it could be staved off and prevented. Stupid! You should have known that wouldn’t work – even then, you should have known. When you did, it was too late, and your daughter, your beautiful girl, also succumbed – then, you were too afraid to move her to leave. Only a day after, your wife came down with a sickness – when you woke up again, you found her with black fingers and buboes. You tried to nurse them, as well as you could, but they died anyway – the daughter within a day, your wife – and son, whom you never got to see – a while later. A horrible storm of death, devastating your life in less than a fortnight.

You didn’t think to pack. You grabbed random possessions – you didn’t pay attention to what – and your money, and ran. You desperately searched for transport – all gone, all gone. All you found was a lone rider with a cart, you told him you didn’t care about the price – he took most everything you had left, and abandoned you here.

What was left was a painting, cutlery, and a cloak. You lived on, living on as they would’ve wanted you to – but what use is living on, when all you had lived for is gone?

You still don’t know. You think about it every night, with no answer. All you do is... Make shoes, eat, live.


Town
   OBJECTIVE: Eliminate all witches.

[lordnincompoop]

JdC's role PM is in Toony's post, so no need to do that again. He was vanilla town.

Background text (may not be up to date):

Spoiler: Colin Fleury (click to show/hide)

Colin Fleury:

An orphan, 13 years old. First raised in a monastery, then apprenticed to a dry cooper names Jehan Duré. The cooper turned out to be an alcoholic, routinely abusing the orphan physically; Colin was prevented from returning to the monastery by the cooper’s death threats, and severe beatings whenever he tries to escape.

His wish is to exact revenge against the town that he came to despise so much.

Made a blood pact with a demon using a ritual an old tome he found in the monatery (wouldn’t have worked it it wasn’t for the extremely thin barrier b/w magical and real world above the town). He did so by killing his surrogate father, the cooper, stabbing him to death, slitting his throat and cutting away his eyes, nose, tongue and ears. Smearing it in a circle on the floor with the body in its centre, he prayed with the words written in the tome.

The room darkened. The body exploded, its skin tearing away and the remainder forming into a homogeneous blob. It then reformed into a book, made from the flesh and skin of the cooper, and the pact was complete.

The child made for an easy target for the demon, and the demon strengthened his hatred and desire to kill. With each murder, and each ritual to strengthen the book and bond, the child loses more and more of his mind - at the game’s end, depending on how many times he chose to strengthen the bond, he may be possessed completely by the demon.

Spoiler: Marie Bouvet (click to show/hide)

Marie Bouvet, widowed scullery maid.

Originally the literate daughter of an armourer, she wwas very interested in history - particularly political history and enjoyed reading very much. Due to the particulars of society, she was wed to a rising spice merchant at a young age. That merchant, unlike her relatively indulgent father, did not deign to buy or giver her any books to read (though she occasionally procured material on her own) and mostly only allowed her to take care of domestic duties. Although frustrated at the new role forced upon her, she nonetheless tries to fulfill it to the best of her ability, knowing that a divorce is unlikely at best and that the life of a runaway wife without skills will be bleak. That merchant later became extremely successful, making the entire family rich. She slowly came to enjoy her affluence and cared deeply for their two sons and displaying a vested interest in the business.

Spoiler: Martin Brouillart (click to show/hide)

Martin Brouillart:

A farmer. Rents a swathe of fertile farmland in the countryside surrounding the town, and lives and grows a variety of crops there. Had travelled with a cart full of vegetables to sell (carrots, onions, turnips, plums) to a market gathering at a crossroads near the town, then when it was sold travelled to the city to purchase needed dry goods and sundries, but was trapped in the town when a large papal inquisition came. Sleeps in his wagon with a blanket.

Spoiler: Mathieu Gendre (click to show/hide)

Mathieu Gendre, stonemason

28 years old. Born to a family of carpenters who were very strict, and often beat him. He was apprenticed as young as possible to a masonry workshop; the master mason there treated him well. When his parents and his younger brother both died of the ague while he was still a boy, the master mason took him in, seeing a promising mason and being fairly kind anyway. His youngest brother fared a worse fate: only a few months old when your parents died, and unable to work or fend for himself - the mason had little funds himself and could only support one ward - he was sent to the monastery to live as an orphan with the name Colin. With training, he became a journeyman mason, and once heard news that his now-removed brother was sent to be a cooper’s apprentice in a distant workshop. With luck, he hopes to be able to find his brother again.

Spoiler: Regnault Coullart (click to show/hide)

Regnault Coullart:

An old shoemaker of moderate means. Was much more well-off before, and came from a neighbouring town. He had a larger house in the other town but was forced to sell it for a nominal fee. He still has some of his old possessions around - a small set of silver cutlery, a thick luxurious cloak and a small painting.

Lives alone. Parents have passed away, and his sisters have gone off and married, and no longer hold contact; they are presumably dead. His wife died some 20 years ago as the Plague broke out anew in France; his former town was one of those hit hardest. His wife died quickly, and forced to leave before he caught it himself, he packed what he could and had to give an exorbitant sum on money to an unscrupulous type to secure transport. Now too old to do the work he could do before, and the town being too small to receive the clientele he did before, he now lives a modest but comfortable lifestyle.

He had married his wife at a very young age, when he was an apprentice and she a housemaid.

Spoiler: Jacques de Crussol (click to show/hide)

Jacques de Crussol:

The ruler of Uzès. Son of Louis de Crussol, born 1460, the Crussol family acquired the lands of Uzès through Jacques’ marriage. The family, several generations ago, were simply commoners, and his parents reminded him and each other of that often; they were highly driven to rise and not fall back to their original status.

He is currently residing in his wife’s family’s estate in order to consolidate his marriage and claim on Uzès and to produce a male heir. He resides in his country estate in the outskirts of the town. When the Inquisitors arrive to quarantine Uzès, he has the misfortune to be present and is corralled in the town square with the other townsfolk. Despite protest and political threats, he is powerless to leave or influence the Inquisitors due to them having Papal authority.

Is the grand chamberlain and the breadmaster of the royal court, but detests his duties; his manners in court are simply a veneer covering his general hatred of subserviency. He does not actively scheme against others, as he believes himself honest and chivalrous, much like his father; his childhood ideals of him still remain, as his father died when he was 13. He loved his father’s stories of the war, and being born in peacetime, feels frustratingly ordinary.

He wants to better the lands under his care, and believes himself that this is his driving goal, but does not pursure this with much passion. Instead, he much more enjoys combat and the outdoors. He enjoys interacting with soldiers as he identifies with them. To relax and release stress accumulated from his court life, he spars (with an unusually high number of injuries for the opposing party, leading to a reputation amongst the footsoldiers he does this with), practices archery, and sometimes hunts (often with the aid of plenty of alcohol). He detests prostitution, as he thinks they carry diseases.

Both of his parents are dead. As the eldest son, he was betrothed to Simone d’Uzès 2 years after his father’s death as a means of assmilating a more powerful family and gaining lands in the process; the Uzès family were themselves forced to lose their name to keep their blood intact due to their only child being a daughter - Simone. The wife of Jean d’Uzès died in childbirth - in the process of selecting a family to have their daughter betrothed to, protective father Jean d’Uzès, himself at the end of his life due to disease, stayed at the Château de Crussol often in the three years leading up to the betrothal, gauging the family and seeing if he could trust them - Simone and Jacques, 1 year old and 12 years old when they met, became close and Jacques treated her as family. Jean died a couple of years after their betrothal, on his way to the castle over the spring; still stubbornly protective of his daughter and unwilling to simply leave something that for him symbolised the last of his house, he travelled even as the disease was in its last stages. Simone was betrothed at age 4, living as a ward of house Crussol, and they married when she became 15.

Is married to Simone d’Uzès since 1486, three years ago. Since then, they have not managed to produce a son or indeed any child at all (but will after the game if he survives). The reason is that Jacques is reluctant to bed his wife often enough; he is uninterested in the company of women and enjoys ducks more. Simone has discovered this early on and though she dislikes it, she remains tolerant and keeps it a secret within the household lest it escape and ruin their reputation as well as lead to Jacques’ death.

[Tiruin]

How to Dariush: be active every day, pursue leads I actually suspect (okay, maybe not NQT), get lynched over a minor technicality in the inspection flavour that isn't even indicative of being a witch.

You did say 'shaman'. Knowing that beforehand (and getting pressure voted on it) led to you cracking, somehow.

No comment on everything else.

And getting inquisitor role is a free confirmed town pass again. Hooray fairness. It is really about time there were some anti-town investigators. :-/

> Claim cop
> Live
>_>

Honestly, as soon as the Inquisitor claimed, I expected one of the two anti-town killers to kill him. It would have made sense and benefited them.

As for the DS being OP: Remember that the Life Shaman's role is essentially to stop the Death Shaman from winning - by keeping him alive. To that effect, I don't think killing the Death Shaman three times for a resurrect is necessary. Once the Death Shaman uses the one-shot kill, there is no way for him to kill the Life Shaman other than by somehow getting the Dark Child's help. Once the DS dies, he has to wait a night doing nothing and using his suicide power, which is immediately noticed the next day. Once the Life Shaman gets the hint, all she would need to do is resurrect him whenever he dies and stick around while he's alive using Ward. So, if the Life Shaman knew who he was, and was clearly preventing the DS from dying and killing anybody, and the DS was still alive by game-end - that's a fulfilled wincon. The hardest part is figuring out the DS and surviving the one-shot if that hits the LS.

The DS could also kill twice for every three nights he was dead. Not that many times, I think.

...I'm a bad player.

[Dariush]

How to Dariush: be active every day, pursue leads I actually suspect (okay, maybe not NQT), get lynched over a minor technicality in the inspection flavour that isn't even indicative of being a witch.

You did say 'shaman'. Knowing that beforehand (and getting pressure voted on it) led to you cracking, somehow.

I did that intentionally, knowing that with a possibility of 90% the shaman will be the first to jump onto the opportunity to question me about my knowledge without it looking suspicious. What led to me cracking was everyone just ignoring everything I said, planting a vote on me and going home.

[lordnincompoop]

Spoiler: Succinct List of Player Roles (click to show/hide)

Witch Crone Toaster
   ✓ Farmer - Jean Petit
Witch Mother Griffinpup/Hapah
   ✓ Tavern owner - Estienne Moreau
Witch Maiden Dariush
   ✓ Tailor - Michiel Verdomme
Life Shaman Tiruin
   ✓ Peasant’s daughter - Gillette Doulze (F)
Death Shaman Zombie urist
   ✓ Old-clothes seller - Denis le Breton
Inquisitor Notquitethere
   ✓ Carpenter’s apprentice - Katherine Boulengier (F)
Dark Child Okami/Solifuge
   ✓ Dark child - Colin Fleury
Town - Ottofar/birdy51
   ✓ Stonemason - Mathieu Gendre
Town - Vector/Shakerag
   ✓ Widow, working as maidservant - Marie Bouvet (F)
Town - Deathsword/IronyOwl
   ✓ Mercer - Pierre Guiot
Town - Toonyman
   ✓ Nobleman - Jacques de Crussol, vicomte d’Uzès
Town - Leafsnail
   ✓ Farmer - Martin Brouillart
Town - Lenglon
   ✓ Shoemaker - Regnault Coullart

Spoiler: Night Action Log (click to show/hide)

N0:
    Griffinpup -> Weaken Vector (no effect)

N1:
    ONR -> Consume Tiruin (ate left eye)
    ZU -> Nothing
    Dariush -> Contact Toony
    Toony <- Receive contact. Consented.
    NQT -> Investigate Dariush, Leafsnail and Ottofar.
    Griffinpup -> Weaken Toony (no effect)

N2:
    ZU -> Kill Tiruin, kill self
    NQT -> Investigate Vector, ONR/Solifuge and Toaster
    griffinpup/Hapah -> Weaken Tiruin (Removed a Resurrect)
    ONR/Soli -> Consume Dariush (ate hand)

N3:
    ZU -> Kill ONR/Solifuge
    ONR/Solifuge -> Kill Leafsnail
    NQT -> Investigate Vector/Shakerag x2 and Lenglon
    griffinpup/Hapah <- Notified of ZU and ONR/Soli's actions

N4:
    NQT -> Break and Enter Vector/Shakerag
    griffinpup/Hapah -> Weaken Lenglon (no effect)
    griffinpup/Hapah <- Notified of ZU's kill
    ZU -> Kill Lenglon, res self (reached time limit)

N5:
    ZU -> Kill griffinpup/Hapah
    griffinpup/Hapah -> Lifeforce ZU (too dead to action)
    NQT -> Investigate Toony x2 and Ottofar/Birdy51

[lordnincompoop]

Once the Death Shaman uses the one-shot kill, there is no way for him to kill the Life Shaman other than by somehow getting the Dark Child's help.

Wait-wait-wait, what? What about using Grasp the following night (since it will happen before LS's resurrection, and that is even assuming LS correctly decides to resurrect the flipless corpse)? Or resurrecting and lynching him? Shouldn't be too hard faking some believable story about why LS should die.

All the Life Shaman's actions are Day actions, so night action order doesn't matter. Tiruin didn't understand her role, I think.

To give you an example:

D1: Bluh
N1: Death Shaman uses suicide kill on townie. Dies flipless.
D2: LS takes the hint and resurrects DS.
N2: DS spots who the LS is and suicides. Can't suicidekill because that was a one-shot.
D3: LS resurrects DS anyway.

If the DS decides to resurrect and lead a lynch, all the better for him. It might work - but then again, it might not, and just end up exposing him.

[Dariush]

All the Life Shaman's actions are Day actions, so night action order doesn't matter.

Oh. I thought they were night actions. Sorry.

To give you an example:

D1: Bluh
N1: Death Shaman uses suicide kill on townie. Dies flipless.
D2: LS takes the hint and resurrects DS.
N2: DS spots who the LS is and suicides. Can't suicidekill because that was a one-shot.
D3: LS resurrects DS anyway.

If the DS decides to resurrect and lead a lynch, all the better for him. It might work - but then again, it might not, and just end up exposing him.

This example assumes several things:
1) DS makes a mistake and Drags a townie;
2) LS is smart enough to realize that a flipless death = DS's suicide (which may not even be the case, had there been other flipless deaths);
3) DS fails to lynch LS. Also, after D3 LS will have to resurrect DS and watch him suicide two more times. That's plenty of time for town to either get annoyed at him for not ressing DC's targets or to stop believing that those resurrects even serve a purpose and it's not an infinite loop. Or for DC to take the obvious hint and kill LS, for that matter, which he really should do to prevent resurrections from hindering his wincon. If all those conditions are met, then LS wins.

Now let's see when DS will win:
1) Dragging the LS. Instawin. Note that this requires the correct identification of his target: for LS, doing so is a _necessary_ _first_ step of many. For DS, this is an _optional_ step that leads to instant win.
2) Lynching the LS or even letting him get lynched by others. Instawin - if he resses, he either gets Dragged or DS jesters, gets lynched and Grasps the LS.
3) Even though he doesn't know this, letting LS waste three resurrections. The only thing that may cause him to lose at that point is a combined effort by the witches and the LS, which won't happen because the witches want the LS dead.

I think you see the pattern: LS can only win by relying on himself to correctly identify his target and persist in doing the same thing every day that doesn't seem to pay off while not dying and not revealing himself. DS can just do whatever and win.

Also, did you really think that 'everyone wins' ending was possible? It sounded both stupid and impossible, and I didn't even hear it from a claimed enemy of my team, unlike townies.

[Leafsnail]

And getting inquisitor role is a free confirmed town pass again. Hooray fairness. It is really about time there were some anti-town investigators. :-/

NQT wasn't actually town.  If he actually had to quadruple kill the DS it seems like a horrifically difficult role to win.

[notquitethere]

Dariush- your downfall was being reasonable with everyone but completely ignoring the person that you purported to have a case against. That's lousy playing whatever your alignment. You let your anger cloud your judgement.

LNCP- so I guess I lost? With ZU being able to remain dead for so long and needing to be killed four times how was I even supposed to win?

[Lenglon]

Also, did you really think that 'everyone wins' ending was possible? It sounded both stupid and impossible, and I didn't even hear it from a claimed enemy of my team, unlike townies.

I'm also a little curious as well how that was supposed to work. I mean, I'm clearly the only person here who would be willing to work with something like that without crazy extenuating circumstances.

[Leafsnail]

Also Dariush claimed that he was scum to a townie and gave him a bunch of info that could only help the town.

[Tiruin]

Also, did you really think that 'everyone wins' ending was possible? It sounded both stupid and impossible, and I didn't even hear it from a claimed enemy of my team, unlike townies.

I'm also a little curious as well how that was supposed to work. I mean, I'm clearly the only person here who would be willing to work with something like that without crazy extenuating circumstances.

I'm with you on the omni-win..well, I was with you at the time until game end.