Werewolf Game - Main Thread - 18 June 2007

In the outskirts of Hamiltonia, in the lands of the Silver Dale their is a village in trouble. Normally the Silvian Elves that patrol these woods have kept the worst of dangers from the cheerful bustling village of Aurora. This peaceful symbiosis between human and elf has lasted for over half an age, but now there is talk of evil in the woods.

The elves are not seen as often. There is mutterings about a ring and a mad hobbit. While this talk is of distant lands the elves have taken it seriously and are no more to be seen. When they will be back, no one knows. They left a note on a tree as they left, “Last one out, please turn off the fireflies. So long and thanks for all the acorns.” Noone knows what this means.

But the villagers know what the howling in the woods mean. They know what the torn and savaged bodies signify and they are terrified. Now that the elves have left, there are werewolves about. What is even terrifying is that wolves may not only be with out the town, but they may also be within. The seer, before she died of unforseen circumstances, mentioned a blackness in the village of Aurora.

There are werewolves in the village. They must be identified and destroyed before the village dies forever…"

Here is your chance to introduce yourselves, say who you are and what you were doing last night when the seer was slaughtered.

This game is open to all diatribe members. Just enter an intro below.

Game will officially start 8.30 am Monday the 18th of June.

Please vote on the Werewolf Vote thread. Vote who you think is the werewolf and should be killed before sunset.

I’m Mad Molly, the Madwoman of Maisingstoke. I’m not sure where Maisingstoke is - I thought I had it in my pocket but it must have fallen out. Until I find it, I am residing in Aurora.

Taken by the fairies, they were, taken to live in the buttercups and stumps left in their place. Human-shaped stumps, with, er, lots of sap…

I’m Ange, the Seamstress. come see the beautiful dresses and dress jackets I have for sale :smiley:


Oi am Meg. ‘Erb woman fer th village. My cold cure never fails - drink 1 mug of cold cure mornin’ and noight; git plenty o fluids and bed rest an’ y’all be roit as rain in 2 days :wink:.

Oi been spendin’ my evenin’s of late dryin’ willa bark over me foire. Oi don’ much like to be out on such cold noights - it plays merry ‘avoc wi’ me athrytis; and me dicky knees bin sayin’ there’s a moighty storm a brewin. A few more days afore it gits 'ere oi reckon, but ye canna be too safe this toim o year.

I’m Qwen, the bakers wife. Oi Meg, do you have any love potions or such like. The baker’s dough is getting a bit soft if you know what I mean. The man was never much chop to begin with, but lately he is a real disappoointment to a hardworking and loyal wife.

I is Garn, I’m the Night Soil man, you’ll see me early every morning taking your nights leavings in my trusty cart, with my loyal burro Boog. He’s a real ass but has no sense of smell which is real handy in my line of work.
My welcome wench has returned to me from the church and has brought a friend back with her, so I guess I’m going to be busy night & day providing for them both.

Todays handy hint, to prevent sloshing, empty your chamber pot before it gets full.

[size=200]Game on
Turn = Day[/size]

[i]The sun rises over the village of Aurora and the villagers wonder if they are safe. The night was qiet, but that doesn’t mean much. It was qiet when the cattle mutilations started. They though it was illegal aliens in the paddocks, but now they know better. The silence could just means that the werewolves fed early this day.

Soon your worst fears are confirmed. In the town square the remains of the towns idiot are seen crumpled by the well. He was was an idiot, but he was nice. He kept muttering about ‘Relativity’ and ‘Heisenberg Uncertainty’ and a cat that someone called Schroedinger seemed to own. Obviously touched, but harmless. But now he is dead…

Could it have been Mad Molly of Maisingstoke. Maybe she didn’t like competition in the insnity field…

Or Ange the Seamstress. He always had a soft spot for her. It was on the edge of town and he had covered it with rushes in the hope that she might walk past one day…

Or Meg the Herb woman. He told her the her herbs both cured him and didn’t cure him and it only resolved when she looked. Utterly mad the both of them, it could have been her jealousy…

Or it could of been Qwen. The idiot had been seen hanging around the bakery early in the morning. But no one is sure if he was to see Qwen or her husband the baker. Ands she was after a love potion…

And Garn, Garn never liked the idiot. He thought he was to fond of the lasses, and was competition for him?..

Maybe in a fit of lycanthropic rage one of these five ripped the idiots throat out so as to better themselves.

There is talk of a lynching…[/i]

Voting starts now on a seperate thread.
Last player registration is noonish.

Good luck. You are going to need it.

Mad Molly, the Madwoman of Maisingstoke

“The cat ate him.”

Garn, did you see anything on your rounds this morning? You were up earlier than most. Was all collections normal-like? I never heard nothing during the night, mind you, the baker snores so loud I wouldn’t hear cannon-fire over it some nights. They do say though that the piss of them what eats human flesh has a strange and sickly smell to it.

He was such a sweetie. He will be missed, I would give him cookies to run messages for me. Cheap labour is so hard to come by these days…


Qwen - ye not be needin more potins fer yer husband from wot I hears - ye be needin’ ta be draggin ‘im out o’ the tavern a bit sooner of an evinin’. Belike 'e’s sufferin frm the brewers droop, lass. :wink:

Bugger! The poor idjit went to the big kitchen in the sky - an me with the new seas’ns cough med’cin to test. Thars a sorry state ov affairs indeed! No self respectin’ village shoud be wivout its idjit.

[size=150]Posted on the church notice board:[/size]

Wanted: Taste tester for various teas and brews.
Pay: Winters supply of cough syrup and a posset of protective herbs.
See Meg the herb-woman.

Ahh the village idiot. He often accompanied me on my rounds, the poor fool would try to help me out but always manage to slop it all over himself. Sadly he didn’t bathe very often so it didn’t really make a difference.
I threw him some strong lye soap once and he tried to eat it. Spent an hour chasing him and trying to wrestle it off him… ended up covered in shoit!
Sadly I hadn’t seen him the night of the attack.
As for the smell of the piss pots, dispite my job I don’t inspect everyone individually. Not unless someone has lost a ring or something, once went through an entire cart load for the missus to then told me it was put up on the shelf for safe keeping.
As for Meg, I’ll try your brews, especially if they help with the occasional stomach upset I get.
I’m keeping my shovel close, always good in a tight spot a solid shovel is.

Mad Molly, the Madwoman of Maisingstoke:

"I tells you, the cat et him. I saws the dodgy beggar, fighting and rampagin’ with the pink lady, All Hail Her Holy Hooves, way down they were in the sparrow-grass patch, see, wi’ the stars fighting bloody wars above and me creepin’ along afear’d of the black doggy in the bushes. Rampaged and fighted, they did, wi’ the claws and the horn and the rude remarks, and the winner drug off the corpse for a bit of a chew, like.

“I’m cold. Can I have cookie?”

EDIT: Oops about the name. Mad, remember? Mad!

Oi! o’s blackening moi good name then? Oi ain’t mad, just a bit put out.

Gorn, Oi’ve got a luverly blue concotion for you to taste, mabe tomorra, its gittin a bit near to dark at the moment.

[size=200]Turn = Night[/size]

[i]There are mutterings in the village. There is talk that Garn the nightsoil man is responsable. Maybe he had made a mistake confessing that his own deposits were whiteand without odour. There is also talk that Mad Molly of Maisingstoke did it. She said a cat did it, and people have seen her stroking cats around the village.

The crowd murmers and mutters. They decide to do a werewolf test. They grab a dog. “Dogs know their kin and wolves and dogs are kin. Whomever the dog runs to is the werewolf” cries the reserve towns idiot. “Release the hounds”. The dog handler lets loose the Irish Wolf Hound. It rushes forth and rips the throat out of the reserve towns idiot.

The town is confused and cannot decide who the wolf is this day. Maybe they will be able discern who it is on the morrow. The town retreats to the local inn, the “Flying Halibut” for a few last ales, just in case."[/i]

Wolfies turn.

Argh ya really think my eyes are beady? Thats so sad, still if ya kill me off who’s going to shovel your shoit? You’ll be neck deep in it in no time short.
I’m no werewolf, I swears on all that is holy & my missuses skin this is true. An if I was I wouldn’t be picken up your shoit either.
An who said my shoit don’t stink? It stinks just like all of you, except for the baker, who smells yeasty.


Mad Molly, the Madwoman of Maisingstoke:

"A, I C D B D Is, I say I C D B D Is. An’ why can’t ye shoit in the woods, as the Great Bear intended, A? A?

“It’s windy out, in the night and all. Is that a wolf howlin’? It would be mad to sleep tonight…”

[size=200]Turn = Day[/size]

[i]The sun rises in the east and the village realises that it has survived another night. But has any harm befallen the village?

It is soon discerned that not all is well. Crumpled remains are discovered in the square. The savaged corpse that was once Garn the night soil man lies dishevelled near his cart. There is wailling as his two wenches rush forth and fall on his corpse sobbing.

The town is moderately sure that Garn was not the werewolf, but who is?

Voting is open

Poor Garn, who will collect our nightly leavings now? He was a harmless sort of fellow, although a bit loose in the morals dept, what with two young lasses to tend to his wants and needs. Oh dear, I shall have to get the baker to dig a pit in the back garden now.

Where was you last night Mad Molly? You seemed to have no fears about rambling about in the woods, spreading your shite. I’m watching you my lass, mark my words. You may be mad, but mayhaps thats the madness brought on the full moon.