Quisoves Potoo

Believe me, lynching me would be a huge mistake. That is all. I vote Shadow FF.

Hehehe... This scene is a funny coincidence... So, what did the Fiddler do?

Here ye be.

Taka! For what it's worth, my game looks to be fairly close to wrapping up, so you should have another chance to play soon.

Also, Underscore was Innocent Here's the last scene, if you're interested.

Mafia Libs Day Three (Number) Small Town Necktie Party Did I ever tell you about the time I went to a lynching? It was very __________! (adjective) I was in this village, on a(n) __________ island called __________ Nui. (adj.) (noun) There was this guy, named Underscore, who a lot of the other villagers __________ed dead. (proper noun) (verb) You see, there was this criminal running around, called the __________ Master. (noun) He was very __________, ___________ villagers to his __________ every night! (adj.) (verb, ends in -ing) (sinister noun) The __________ part was that his identity was a complete __________! So the villagers __________ed to vote on who he was. (adj.) (noun) (verb) Every day, whoever got the __________ votes was __________ed! The day I was there, it was Underscore's turn! (adj. of quantity) (verb) (guy's name) The crowd was very __________, as he was __________ to the gallows. He __________ed as __________ tied the noose around his neck. (adj.) (verb, past tense) (verb) (proper noun) This was first time they'd __________ed someone. (verb) They thought the __________ Master had __________ __________ powers, so they were very __________. (3rd noun) (adj. of quantity) (adj.) (adj.) The execution was complicated! First, a large __________ was used to __________ his __________. Then, his __________ were __________ed with __________. (noun) (verb) (body part) (bdy prt, plural) (verb) (noun, plural) After that, they covered him in __________ __________. (verb, ends in -ing) (liquid) Next, Underscore __________ed as he was __________ed with a __________! It was quite __________! (guy's name) (verb) (verb) (noun) (adj.) But that wasn't all! They all __________ed him with __________! There was __________ everywhere! (verb) (noun, plural) (substance) Finally, the floor was __________ed out from __________ him. Underscore kicked and __________ed as he swung __________. (verb) (adverb of place) (guy's name) (verb) (adverb) After __________ minutes, he stopped moving. He was __________ dead. (number) (adverb) Somehow, all the villagers knew that they had __________ed. They were very __________. (verb) (adj.) The __________ Master would live another __________! (3rd noun) (noun) Underscore, Villager, __________ed, Day Three. (guy's name) (noun) (verb) (1st number) Night Roles have 24 hours to PM me! (pl. noun) (number) (verb)

Final Tally Pulse-1 Tyler-3 FF-1 Underscore-7 Luroka-1 Voting is now closed!

Portal has returned! Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums! Yay!

I'm gonna make you an offer for spot 2.

Current Tally Pulse-1 Tyler-2 FF-1 Underscore-6 Luroka-1

Oh shoot Uh, yeah, I'll get that ready immediately. So sorry for the hiatus. Don't forget the cotton balls!

Current Tally Pulse-1 Tyler-1 FF-1 Underscore-2

Current Tally Pulse-1 Null-1 Tyler-1 FF-1 Underscore-1

The really complicated one with three levels of reality that I never finished.

Apparently, the dead in Tower of Trepidation could vote, reportedly leading to... "self-interested" lynchings. =P Indeed, and there was also the spirit that possessed people, in Damage Control (Blade's role, I seem to recall.)

Also, can I just say that the RNG hates me. When I was picking players for the innocent list, it picked five dead players in a row (with one of them at both ends.)

Night Three Good Grief Amid a field of hazy, serpentine grass, the dreamer gazed upon an impossible starscape. So many were the lights that the blackness seemed an intrusion, a scattering of smears upon the irradiant ether. Had this been reality, he would have been transfixed. But his subconscious could no more summon up a consistent point of view than it could a consistent landscape. Guided by the flow of his mind’s narrative, he shifted his gaze to the brook beneath him. The stream sped by with unnatural alacrity, a dim, unreflective coil winding its way to the skeletal village. The dreamer wasn’t sure what it did once it got there, nor could he recall how it exited. This surprised him, especially as he’d never considered himself to be inattentive. Distracted yet again, he ran his hand through the grass, taking in its texture. The resulting sensation was subtly yet distinctly unnerving, a potent medley of known and unknown. The stalks were flexible yet hard, chill yet dry, rough yet rubbery. They were as if in a slow metamorphosis, vegetable matter reluctantly ceding its life. Shaken, the dreamer began to wander. All around him were trees, a legion of gnarled, foreboding hulks. Their diverse barks were shoddy and indistinct, as if they existed merely to restrain him, till Master Night came calling for a morsel. After a period that felt like hours, he stopped abruptly. For, in the middle of an ashen trunk, directly in front of him, was a pitch-black door. It was almost entirely flat, composed of no recognizable material. Only a stout, crimson knob disturbed the pattern. Without thinking, he turned the handle, loosing upon himself Intermission He beheld a daylit patch of ground, a hodgepodge sheet of brownish dust. As if woven from the air, blurs of a darker brown appeared, coalescing into buildings. Huts. This was the village, it seemed. Suddenly, a Matoran ambled into view. The dreamer’s mind wasn’t interested in such particulars as armor-color, mask-shape, or stature. It merely cared that the being was perfectly unordinary. The dreamer’s shock was therefore all the greater when the Matoran blurred, his mask crumpling into a corkscrew-beak, his feet growing into ragged talons, his armor shattering into rusty shard-feathers, and his arms flattening into wings. The apparition turned, as if staring at him, its wild eyes boring into his psyche. It opened its beak... And the scene shifted. It was nighttime, in the center of the Village, and the air was full of smoke. There was a fire burning vigorously, twice the height of an average Matoran, and in its center- Oh -was a figure, thrashing on a spit. The meal-to-be was avian, it seemed, its charred underside contrasting with a plumage that even now was incandescent white. The bird’s beak was moving incessantly. Suddenly, the dreamer heard a voice. The bird was singing. The dreamer could not quite make out the lyrics, but it seemed to be lamenting its current state, contrasting it with its prior majesty. The scene shifted yet again. It was day, and in place of the village was a fertile savanna. A biped, not unlike a cross between a Matoran and a Brakas, was taking a bone from the corpse of some unfortunate Rahi. Quivering with anticipation, it raised the bone, paused as if deliberating, then brought it down upon the Rahi’s lifeless skull. The skull shattered. To be a replaced by a live beast’s head. Once again the bone came down, crushing it. Then it was a skull again. Crunch. Live skull, dead skull, smashed over and over in sickening succession, the background details always changing, the story ever-constant: A species learning how to kill. Throughout, the dreamer heard buzzing, a near-cacophony that was almost musical. Steadily, assuredly, it reached a crescendo, then tore away the vignette and ushered in darkness. Nothing happened, complete vacuum hanging over him. He waited, how long he did not know. Then, with dizzying abruptness, the vacuum was filled. First came the color, greyish blotches filling the void, blooming into myriads of hues, which, though dim, seemed radiant. The blotches sharpened, taking form, revealing a starlit hillside. Then came the sound, first a scratching, then louder, higher, till it became painful. Then it gained depth, strands of pitch fraying, streams of decibels refracting. Finally, as the dreamer recognized the screaming for what it was, he saw its source: A Matoran, hugged by an aura of lime-green, her maskless head crumpling beneath the club of another villager. Return a man with bone for skin. He was a mockery of a Matoran: His rectangular eyes were huge and ragged, like those of some doll. His mask was a skull, misshapen from years of decay. His body had gone beyond twisted, had taken on a geometry all its own, jutting out at angles that seemed to slice through space itself. He exuded an odor (if you could call it that) that terrified the nose, unable to be smelled. ”Come,” he said, in a voice like a torrent of dust. The dreamer, filled with terror, could not move. “Come,” the man repeated, more urgently. Still the dreamer did not move. “Come.” Nothing. It was then that the man ceased to move, his eyes wide with horror. “no” He screamed. Breathless, his voice now an abstract presence, the Voodoo Master turned, running through the corridor that had grown from the door. “BLADE!” “NO!” By the time he reached his destination, he knew it was too late. With a swift, sharp movement of his will, he wiped all memory of the dream from his former target. His task failed, his comrade felled, he returned to dread reality. Blade, Witch Doctor, Killed by the Mafia, Night Three. Innocent List for the Killing of Blade Voxumo Valendale Luroka FF Underscore Dalior You have 48 hours to vote (seeing as it’s been so long.)

Go ahead if Korkoa isn't back by the 23rd, though I'd still like to host Legends at some point. You've been waiting two months, that's long enough. re: Unfinished Business... okay, I just looked at its first post, and that definitely is a mess. Why would you let the players pick their side‽ For everyone to see‽ Right at the start of the game‽ In a Mafia game‽ That bit wasn't the problem, actually. It was more of a Mafia-second-cousin, really. The problems were a combination of poorly thought-out rules and inadequate hosting, if memory serves.

Wasn't that the one that I ruined for pretty much everyone? You made a darned good stab at it. Not to mention the RNG, in the start of its grand tradition of hating me, selecting as mole and mole-hunter the two players I decided to fuse. The rules were fuzzy on this point, giving Manducus (the mole-hunter) the opportunity to play double/triple/what-have-you agent.

Legends sounds fine by me. My first game was Unfinished Business. Twas' an unusual introduction, to be sure.

So, Korkoa, what gives with Web of Shadows? Is it going to continue, or should someone start a new side-game? If it's the latter, I'd rather like to see Underscore's nascent game finally realized.

Mmmmmm... I'd be game for a Mafia theme. The only caveat is that they'd have to be comparatively short games... But then, they'd probably be rather experimental, so that might not be a problem. The Godcousin. How's that for a title?

My pun was wrong? :'( I'm frightened, Dave.

Well, I'm back in action, sort of! Sorry about that, folks. All I can say is that more Lyme bacteria exploding in my brain seemed like a good idea at the time... At least I only feel like a scarecrow, now. Burnmad, your avatar's making me nostalgic... Without further ado, here's Day Two A myriad of squirming silhouettes darted helter-skelter about the shoddy panorama. Faint, persistent noises drifted through the air, like the pounding of some distant surf. An island would have surf, wouldn’t it? This was an island. But where was the water? Weren’t islands supposed to be drowning in it? Oh, right. So, this was inland. That was good to know. But why was it so confoundedly dark? With a jolt, Petewa remembered. There had been a drink. It had smelt of leaves and cadavers. Someone had given it to him. Who? Emptiness. No luck there. What was it for? Oh, yes. Hmmmm… He was going to die, wasn’t he? A pity, that. Anyhow, he was in the village. Someone (many people?) was going to kill him. So far, so good. So what had happened in the interim? Darkness. That’s right. He’d blacked out. So had the Great Spirit, by the looks of it. Perhaps the monsters at the end of the universe had grown peckish, had eaten all the color in the world. That would be it. Tingling. In… His shoulders? Yes. The background noises grew, enveloped in a chrysalis of tension. The umbral blots blurred, becoming puddles. The cocoon burst, releasing a mighty buzzing as the puddles coalesced into a writhing river. Emotion was emanating from the blackness. Happiness? Too vicious. Anger? Hmmm… Yes, but something more. Desire… for… what? Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat Oh. Vengeance? Very likely. A blob, still independent, drifted in front of him. The buzzing lulled, as new buzzing, laced with pomp and indignation, rushed forth from the shape, like a hive evicted from its home. The babble was directed at him. Boredom. At last, the small cacophony died, allowing the older clatter back in. The tingling quickened, became a horrid pulse devouring his shoulders, nibbling on his arms. The ground rushed by beneath him, a stream of shadow. Dizziness. The abyss bloomed, swallowing him up. Time, already drunk, reeled. It felt a minute. It felt innumerably long. So many questions, so few answers. A crack. A movement in his body. Something opening. Pain trickling through. Waiting. Agony. Numbness. The void grew cold, carrying him away. The monsters were coming. The Great Spirit was gone. Reality was rotting, fading, vanishing. Sense was consumed, logic a memory, causation meaningless. Irrelevancy reigned. No more. Petewa, Villager, lynched, Day Two. Night Roles have 24 hours to act!

I'm afraid I can't answer that, Dave.