The Werewolf ... *scream* ... Game ~ The IC

[Ásvaldr]

The blizzard swirled wildly around the little farm house, snow pelting the windows and coating the roof as the winds tore past the cottage, tossing trees branches and loose rubbish around wildly. The howling wind rattled the shutters and shook the entire cottage.
Inside this little cottage an elderly farmer sat, sipping from a chipped cup as he tried to listen to his radio. The voice of the announcer for the cricket game was broken up by static every few moments, but it was better to listen to than the frightening howl of the winds. "And Johnson hits it for a ..." Suddenly the commentators voice trailed away in a blast of static that made old Mr. Kimson wince. With a sigh the old farmer drank the last of his tea, set his cup down in the kitchen sink and preceded to lock up the house. After he had made his rounds, checking that all the doors and windows were shuttered and locked, he blew out all but one of his lamps and then pulled down the remaining one from its hook and wondered across his longue room to the door to his bedroom. He never made it, for at that moment the rabid form of a hulking wolf burst through the old single window of the longue room. With a frightened scream Mr. Kimson dropped his lamp, where it went out with a puff of foul smelling smoke.

A second wolf-like form battered down the old oaken front door at that moment, ripping it apart with its savage claws and crashing through the longue room towards its target. The glass fronted kitchen cupboard fell to the ground with a crash, its contents shattering in a cloud of broken pottery. The first wolf had already grabbed the old farmer, but now the second one latched on and together they dragged the now unconscious man from the cottage, leaving a trail of blood on the floor and snow behind them.

******

A few days later Vicar Asvaldr stood next to a bloodied pile of human bones, watching as the village detective scoured through the bloodied snow for clues. He struggled now to hurl his stomachs contents as he looked around the snow filled clearing, sighting chunks of flesh and blood spread out as far as a hundred meters from the body... well bones. "It would appear that they have arrived." The Vicar said, sighing. His brother-in-laws village had been hit by Werewolfs only a month earlier and he could remember every word of the description his brother-in-law had given of the remains of those killed by the Lycans. His brother-in-law and his sister had been two of the few survivors of the attack but they had lost both their children in the attack.
"Werewolves, Sir?" The single other police officer of that the village of Deatha boasted asked.
"Yes, Werewolves have entered out midst." The Vicar said with a groan of despair.

******

The Vicar of the village of Deatha stood up in the Judges booth of the Deatha Civil Court with a sigh and look down over the gathered people of the village. The seats and benches for the defines and complainants and the "Today a Werewolf has attacked our village and therefore, the hangings must begin. Everyone in this village must cast a vote to say who they believe to be the Werewolf. The ballot boxes are in the foyer. The one who gets the most votes will be executed by hanging. If they are a Werewolf, it shall be relieved, if not, they shall die none the less." The Vicar said, bashing the judges hammer down as a few people began to shout. "This is the only way to find the killer... Let the voting begin." The Vicar said, bashing his hammer down once again and stepping down from the booth.

[Lady]

A gust of wind blew at the tiny frame of the newspaper reporter. He was named Harold McKinnon, or Lord as he liked to be called. Button-down shirt, suspenders, knee-high gartered socks and leather boots, the fourteen year old boy looked exactly like a respectable young lord. Or a propper young gentleman, depends on which way you want to take a look at him. Either way he looked like he didn't belong to this tame, rather the late 1800's.

A typewriter hung from his neck, the leather strap shortened so it fell directly to his stomach. Today Harold has been sent to inspect the case of the murdered farmer. Ask for clues, how the scene looked. It would earn Harry a little pocket money.

"...Let the voting begin" the Vicar shouted over the panicked mass. The little population hurried to the foyer to get a vote in, to get rid of the atrocious werewolf.

Harold naturally followed.

Who should he vote for? The store owner was particularly nice... gave him a candy here and a hot chocolate mug there. Harry didn't believe the idiot capable of the act either.

It was a hard choice for a child. But he too wanted to escape the looming threat of the vermin once for all.

With his mind made up the reporter entered a strip of paper in the balot box. On it was written (in neat letters made by the typewriter) the occupation condemned: The Nature Photographer. Harold never bothered to learn the name of that person. Why should he?

[Koti~]

A cough rattled his frame as he listened to the accursed words running around, old hands wrapped around an oak cane. His face was set in an odd scowl, angry that some beast had infiltrated their little town of Deatha. He sighed as the gavel was banged to begin the voting.

Mr. Aldrich was the picture example of a kindly old man. He had a slightly hunched back and wispy white hair, kept neat and orderly. A white button down shirt tucked into a pair of black dress slacks. A tan wind parka hung to his frame loosely, giving surprising warmth during the winter. He coughed again, getting up with a slightly groan. Mr. Aldrich was the manager of a small local grocery store. He was nice to the kids, allowing them to take some candy from the small jar on the counter, or a hot cup of coffee or coco on a cold winter’s day.

“So, who would be the most likely suspect” Aldrich thought to himself, standing in the booth with a slip of paper. Taking out a silver pen that he had gotten when he had had finished his time in the navy, he wrote on the slip.

I neat tight cursive, he had written his own name. It wasn’t that he was suicidal, but he couldn’t honestly bring himself to think of any of the others as the werewolf. Besides, at the ripe age of 85, he was not long bound for this world much longer. If they found the real werewolf, that would be good for the village.

He went and sat back down in the sitting area, his old bones creaking as he sat.

[Neodraconis]

The Mayor sat in his office and scratched his head while his eyes showed his many worries. Maybe he was beginning to get a little to old for this job, he thought. The Mayor, who had the name Carl, allways thought to much. He wasn´t the best leader but he wasn´t the worst either. He never wanted to become a Mayor but the village voted on him, just as the village now would vote on who would die.

Everyones mind was focused at the attack on the farmer and the werewolf that was walking around in the city of Deatha. The Mayor sighed heavily when thinking about who to vote for.

When he looked out he noticed that some people was allready voting. The Mayor didn´t want to see any of these people dead, especially not before he even knew who had done this to the farmer. What if the village voted on the wrong people over and over again untill it was no village left? But they had to do something and this was the best idea they got.

He had to vote, but on who? The Mayor sighed once again and his mind worked in overdrive. The only one he didn´t know to well was "The Dressmaker". She didn´t even respond on Carls "Hello!" this morning. And lately she had been awful quiet.

The Mayor took his coat and shoes and went out in the cold. He walked pretty slowly with his big figure and gfreeted on some of the villagers when he passed. He took a paper slip and wrote a name on it and then put it in the voting box. The Mayor hated himself for voting on The Dressmaker, but he had to vote on someone. This was a dark period in Deathas history, The Mayor though while shaking his head in sorrow.

[Princess Luna]

Lady Stephanie walked gracefully to the foyer, wondering who the werewolf could be.

Who can it be? She thought. Maybe it's the store owner. No, he can't be, he's too nice. Hmm....

After a few moments of thinking, she made her decision and wrote it down on a piece of paper. She folded the ballot in half so no one would see that she had written "The Newspaper Reporter" in graceful letters, then placed it in the box. Once she was done, she strode back to he seat and sat down.

[Merry Gentry]

Merry the dress maker was in an absolute tizzy. Werewolves had come to this sleepy little village. Werewolves! She had been here a little more than two years and had grown accustomed to the quiet, tidy little place. It was nice, and pleasant and the people didn’t demand too much of her. Except that old buzzard the shopkeeper, correction, not him actually it was his wife! She was always coming up with something complicated and ridiculous for Merry to do, that she claimed was high fashion. “she wouldn’t know high fashion if it bit her in the arse” she giggled to herself. Some days it was exhausting trying to explain to her that the designs she created, just weren’t feasible. Not for the meager dollars she was actually willing to spend for Merry to create them in actual fabric.

Now this new development, of a werewolf killing people, that was something new to actually worry about. Her previous location, had unfortunately been decimated by the horrid beasts, and she, along with anyone else of good sense had packed up and headed for the hills. It was either move, and move quickly, or be killed. Since she rather enjoyed life, moving was obviously the right choice. Now they expected her to vote on a fellow townsperson? It was unthinkable.

Wringing her hands in dismay, she pulled a slip of voting paper and quickly wrote down a name, feeling shame with each stroke of the pen. She felt as if she had just condemned an innocent person to death. Leaving the voting booth, she quickly raced back to her shop before she could change her mind. She was so lost in thought about what she should do, she quite ignored everyone in her path. Heading into her shop, she flipped the sign to closed and contemplated if she should start packing up her business, before it was too late.

[Cheveyo]

The loud crack of the Vicars hammer caused Joseph Lindor to jump, his large circular glasses jumping about his nose, before settling by the gentle placement of his hand. Vote to hang a towns member? How ridiculous!
In his forty some odd years of simple existence, the pepper haired man had seen more then his fair share of tragedies. Hurricanes, attacks, murders. All of which had been handled in various ways.... but this?

Though, he supposed it was only a rash decision to be made. Upon what circumstances would one react when werewolves threatened to condemn the whole population! Perhaps this was the best thing for now. For why would anyone believe him to be one of those mood driven beasts? He was always out during the day on mindless walks around the streets with his camera, looking for rare birds and species. And by night he was locked up in his shell of a home, lights out and asleep by eight PM on the dot. Surely they thought him a harmless middle aged man! Hardly capable of harming even a fly.... Because, if not, this could send him on a one way trip to the golden gates. Or at least pushing those infamous daises in contrast to taking their picture.

Heavy leather shoes carrying him towards a booth, Joseph's alert eyes drifted around at everyones faces before becoming blocked by the sliding curtain as he shut himself away. Staring down at the slip of paper, the man sighed coarsely with a quick rub of his chin. Who would he choose to sentence to death? It felt like some sort of hellish ritual to send chaos upon their peaceful community. Picking up the pen with zest, he scribbled the first person that came to mind down, and pushed himself past the curtain. The Artist.... they never seemed to see the light of day, or at least venture far enough into it to chat with him. Weren't they one in the same? Expressing themselves through visual means! Letting out a justifiable huff (if only to convince himself of his decision) he tugged at his jean jacket, and headed for the doors.

[Aesa]

The double hammer-bashing was undeniably unnecessary, was the remaining thought on the Artist's mind in response to the Vicar's animated speech. She had been swaying back and forth on her seat to every word, restless to rise, to escape the maniacal-sacrifice-ritual the town was willing to perform in order to "save the village".

Save the village my ass! thought Alice assiduously, More like kill the village off! The people were granting the werewolf's wish by narrowing down their numbers, making it easier for the hunter to track down a lone person and kill. She was certain there were other ways more complaisant and civil... The fact that none came to mind proved nothing - she was an artist after all, not a Mayor or adviser of some sort! She would much rather be back at her workshop, adding the finishing touches to her latest painting, which, in fact, she was interrupted from to be dragged into this chaos, as proven by the paint-splattered smock Alice was clothed in. The painting had probably already dried by that time... A disheartening sigh escaped her lips.

Wait, wait, wait. The Mayor? The Mayor! Why wasn't he thinking of more civil ways to solve this pandemonium!? Only... only if he was the werewolf himself... The puzzle pieces clicked into place and she felt as the gears in her brain had been oiled and back in action. It all made sense.

After rising from her seat, she spotted a piece of paper, which she scribbled the Mayor's name onto surprisingly without any guilt and dropped in the ballot box. At last, she was free to return to her crafts. The artist left with a quick step.

[Shani]

Serina Mcknight was startled by what had happened to the poor farmer, he never had done wrong to anyone, at least to her knowlage. Now everyone's life was at stake, people were paranoid about who was there friend and who was a foe. Forty-eight year old Serina was the school's Head Mistress, she was one of the youngest, who had taken over the school in the town. Serina had access to the town's library, she new about most of the people in the town give or take a few minor details. She had even taught their children, their siblings. Serina was inturrupted from her work which now sat in a pile on her desk. Before she had even heard about incidents in other towns she would have never believed in werewolves or anything else for that matter, besides in fictional stories. 'Who could this monster be?' She thought hearing about the horrid murder of the the farmer. 'Either a person killed the farmer or werewolves really do exsist...Who should I choose? I don't wish death upon anyone, I wish the Mayor had a better way to figure this out.' She thought as she entered the voting both and took out her quill pen, she didn't like to use any other pen. Serina had written on the ballot the person she knew the least about The dressmaker . "God...Please forgive me..." She whispered then exited to booth for the next person to enter. Serina was almost always about th town, when she wasn't working, She was also active in church.

[Nazgul]

Studly J. McBananahammock rode into the town square on his fluorescent green tricycle. Of course, he was pedaling fast, and his tutu was swaying in the breeze; as well as his hair which was tied in pigtails.

Getting off the small trike, he drew his halibut from his sheathe, pointing it at the onlookers.

"So, the llamas are coming. They want to eat your toes." Pausing for a moment, he glanced over at the voting booth.

"So I see none of you know how to run a proper election. An election of the old days. An election that can't be rigged...though it's best that you win Florida." Studly paused to take a dramatic pose, arching his back and raising one hand in the air behind him.

"But you should know, the best way to vote is by clown nosing." Immediately, Studly laughed the insane laugh of a helium inhaling dwarf on mescaline and ran over to Lady Stephanie and pulled a red clown nose form his waistband and placed it on her nose.

"Honk!" Studly shouted, pinching the ball on the end of Lady Stephanie's nose before turning and heading back to the tricycle. Picking it up and placing it under his arm, Studly once again turned to the onlookers.

"I bid thee farewell for now fair lords and ladies. For now, I must go now and tend to my flock of field mice. If I leave them alone for too long, they scatter and are really hard to find." And with that, Studly skipped off down the road singing the Smurfs song