Night falls in silence, all quiet save your whispering feathery breath. It is cold and growing colder, but you are warmed by your certainty. With death comes answers. You will be omnipotent and omniscient at the final end of things.
A vibrant voice splits the heavens.
I see you strike again the lonely hour! Judgement falls upon the just! Judgement falls upon the unjust! But is it the just or the unjust who does the judging tonight?
Lightning splits the clouded sky and flickers blue fingers through the night's turbulent air. A vast wind blows, pulling at your clothes, and parting the heavens to reveal a hive of gears and belching machinery. The hands spin on a clock marked with a multitude of wriggling black words, though they seem to get stuck rather frequency between DEATH and LIFE. The din is like locusts, and as you cover your ears a linen banner unrolls to cover the clock's face.
Upon that standard is written:
Apostolic Nihilist [2]
Glyphgryph [0,2]
Neruz [0,1]
Nirur Torir [0,1]
Redwarrior0 [1]
Shades [0,2]
Toonyman [0,1]
Vector [1]
As soon as you have finished reading, screeching pulleys retract the banner. Lids flip open in the machinery of the world, spewing a smattering of soot and revealing black maws. The exhaust pipes belch steam; once again, the sky is cold and dark and covered.
The voice continues:
You have been silent, and your quiet does not amuse us. We have turned off Rule Two in our displeasure--or was it Six? We cannot remember, and it does not matter. We choose the rules, but you choose the sacrifice.
Shades! Are you prepared?
A sharp light illuminates an unassuming little man in a bowler hat and suit. He is smoking an object which is not a pipe. As you watch, his skin roughens and his arms extend. Long brown limbs erupt from his shoulders and chest, creaking towards the sky. Leaves unfurl, then buds, then blossoms that fall into a white snow on the gray ground. In their place hardens pale green knobs which swell and tumesce into bright apples.
The gleaming fruit falls and rots in the air. Upon impact with the ground, it splatters in a shower of crimson.
Now, with his death, we can reveal that he was René Magritte. Whether you will be pleased or not, we do not know. With the loss of art comes the sharpening of reality; with truth comes the raw beginnings of despair.
But now, night has fallen. Go and sleep and make your plans and make your peace. No one knows who might go about, away, or awry.
Lights in nine of the houses turn on. You depart to your nightly tasks.
=============
Shades was René Magritte, scum and artist.
It is now Night Two. Night roles have 24 hours from this post to send me their actions.