Night 3 Has Begun!
Votecount:IronyOwl | - 0 - | |
Hapah | - 0 - | |
Leafsnail | - 1 - | Lenglon |
Lenglon | - 0 - | |
notquitethere | - 0 - | |
Solifuge | - 0 - | |
birdy51 | - 0 - | |
Toaster | - 6 - | ToonyMan, Leafsnail, notquitethere, Shakerag, birdy51, Solifuge |
Toonyman | - 1 - | IronyOwl |
Shakerag | - 0 - | |
- |
Not Voting | - 2 - | Toaster, Hapah |
No Lynch | - 0 - | |
- |
Extend | - 0 - | |
Shorten | - 0 - | |
The guard grimaced at the sky. He’d noticed something, not sure what - but for now, he was too busy.
“Who’s next?”
The remaining ten had numbed. They’d become calmer in the face of the executions, which now happened every sundown. It was, on second thought, no uncommon occurrence - after several days of executions, many in the villages and towns where the trials were held developed an almost eerie stoicism. Often, after some time, the proceedings were quiet.
Just like this. He’d observed them quite closely the past few days, and today had been different. It was calm, straightforward - as if they knew who was responsible before the day began. They spoke little - there were a few hours in the evening when it seemed that would change, when they spoke in hushed tones, but in the end, it seemed not to have made a difference.
“Jean Petit.”
The farmer. He had a wife, the guard remembered. Apparently quite loving, too, and left to care for the farm; less than a week in, she might not know about what was happening here - “I hope she doesn’t,” the farmer had told him, “but if worse comes to worst, she likely will.” The guard shook his head - but pity wouldn’t help the farmer’s family. It didn’t help his family, either, when his father died - a whole lot of pity, but what good did it do as they bled money?
He grabbed the farmer’s shoulder and led him on quietly. Coming slowly through the expectant crowds, it was three wooden steps to the stage - one, two, three. Putting a heavy boot on the planking, it creaked weakly underneath - followed by the farmer’s moccasins, a soft swish of padded hide.
One of the priests, short-cropped hair, sombre wrinkles and matte black, came forward. “Have you a confession? Last words? A prayer?”
“I’ve said them already, Father.”
“So be it.” The inquisitor smiled, and steps back.
The guard smirked bitterly. Behind those soft-spoken words, that feigned compassion and religiousness lurked something darker and ruthless. As they moved on, the townsfolk may believe in it, but those who came along - the guardsmen, papal soldiers - knew that it wasn’t so. They could stoop to any level.
But now, that wasn’t necessary.
The guard captain moved on his own, on cue. The guard bent the farmer down, and restrained him from behind just as the captain unsheathed his sword - it came down easily, and buried itself a half-inch into the planking. As the body was pushed onto its back, the captain pulled the sword away - only to thrust it into the corpse’s belly, pinning it.
The priest had then made the pronouncement. There was just a hint of a smile on his face, again.
And the guard had told the nine several minutes ago. But, looking down, his thoughts still come to the farmer’s family - but thoughts and pity do no good.
Jean "Toaster" Petit has been lynched! He was the
Witch Crone.
The Night will end Tuesday, 17th of September, 7PM UTC.Sorry for the long Twilight, folks.