GameTrack:

Game Phase	Outcome
Night 0	Major Helper killed
Day 1	Rotaretilbo lynched
Night 1	CarolKarine killed
Day 2	[current]

Post Count (as of Post #406):

Activity Meter Good
Avg Posts/Player 19.5

01. SirDante (31)
02. Ser Periagil (30)
03. Weemicky (0)
04. THYMOLE (55)
05. WRP (2)
06. Lordofglory (79)
07. CarolKarine (6)
08. Daimond Daimondo/CarolKarine v2 (1)
09. SodaMister (17)
10. Newt_Gunray (2)
12. Mozzarella Man (6)
13. Popeychops (33)
14. WingedFlamez (3)
15. Sarn/Major Helper v2 (7)
16. Julius999 (33)
17. Herr Elessar (16)
19. Sassenach (10)
---
11. Major Helper (0)
18. Rotaretilbo (15)

[This message has been edited by Ashrzr (edited 09-16-2012 @ 01:20 PM).]

The Story:

"Will ya jus' look at that?" a coal black man shouted as he barged through the pack of gentlemen at the window. They peaked out of John's bar, forced to squint through the night's darkness. A crowd had formed at the mayor's office across the street and down a ways, and the boy's had the safe view. The soft-burning bar lights reflected off of the chipped wood panels and billowed out into the streets, and gave the usual gang of boys some comfort as they watched the scene unfold. Howdy, it had been a long day, and now this commotion. Everyone was darn thirsty, and it was hoped that John would have the cahoots to serve a covered round of pints before everyone threw in the towel for the night.

"The people are angry," said an older, stout man to the far right, eyes never leaving the scene unfolding at the mayor's office. His tendency to wipe his wrists down pat every ten seconds edged on the black man's nerves. "I sure know I am."

"What's been happenin' with them deaths?" responded the black man.

"I couldn't tell you. Ask the police." He cleaned his wrists again.

"What makes you birdies think they'll do anything?" a meaty voice whined, coming from an even meatier body. He had an empty pint in hand, ready to coerce John into filling it, 'or else.' It's worked before.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," spoke aloud a voice from behind, a voice that was so sure of itself, and yet so distant. A figure emerged from the bathroom of the place. It revealed itself to be a sharply-dressed fellow, complete with a fedora, tie and deathly smooth overcoat. To top it off, a lonely, underused cigarette dangled from his mouth. It extended from his lips which were curved in some sort of smile, the mouth a victim of years of wear and tear. As the man himself would say should you ask him, men can only smile so much and mean it. He uncovered a lighter, introduced its fire to the end of his cigarette, and spoke softer, "I'm looking for the crime scene."

"Crime scene? Boy dandy, partner! What's been comin' to this town?"

"I would advise," said the sharp-dressed fellow before taking a drag of his cigarette, "that you gentlemen remain inside. There's a reported murder near the anterior yard of the mayor's office. The deceased was a victim of multiple stab wounds, and there's no identifiable weapon. The perpetrator could still be at large."

"Is that what this is all about?" the stout man muttered softly, cleaning his wrists with a wet rag.

"If you gentlemen are worried and would like to take extra precautions, I can alert you of more details of the crime that are open to the public, once I get them."

He's said all this so many times before, thought the stout man to himself. This is as rehearsed as Gatsby's performances.

"Now, wait just a darn minute!" the black man shrieked. "This ain't no big town. Now I dunno about you folks 'n what you gonna say, but ain't no man gonna waltz into town to commit no murder. No -- this was done by one of our own. The murderer is someone we know! It could be one of us here, jus' playin' dumb!"

"Take a rest, Gatsby," growled the brute with the empty pint.

"I take it that's the commotion over there?" said the sharp-dressed fellow, his expression unchanging. He stepped into the streets without another word. He passed a lone streetlamp and hopped down onto the road from the sidewalk. Aside from a pair of headlights swinging and disappearing down a few blocks in the distance, traffic was nonexistent. The gawkers watched the man retreat in silence, their faces stoic, their thoughts curious.

The sun was down. The cool, muddled air had begun to pick up and swirl into a fog. It was so bad that the boys could no longer see the mayor's office, much less the sharp-dressed fellow. He was out there somewhere, lost in the fog.

Finally, the silence was broken. Someone muttered something about beer.

The boys got their round, forgetting about the commotion outside. They shared laughs and bounced about like children. John frowned in the corner, arms crossed, foot tapping the wood that he suspected was starting to be visited by termites. The sharp-dressed fellow never did come back. In the dead of night, the walks home were frightening, but all was well. And perhaps it would be the last time.



"Christ almighty," said the sheriff, wiping his brow. The body had been beaten with a hammer behind John's bar. A handful of fluffy clouds watched over him from up above, but it wasn't enough to block out the sun's heat.

"This one ain't no suicide," the sharp-dressed fellow quipped. He jotted something down in his notepad and added, "The papers will get this one out."

"You're as good as anyone at this kind of thing. Do you have anything special?" responded the sheriff, looking up at the fellow from his squatted position by the body. The mangled, beaten mess of a body.

"Not much to this one. Clearly done with a hammer, but maybe the mortician can do a better job of getting it figured out. Speaking of 'special', I do have some other matters to attend to and some other events to catch up on, if you'll excuse me."

"Of course." The sheriff sounded disappointed.

The sharp-dressed fellow left the sheriff alone with the body. It was the body of William, the meat shop owner -- Sir Cutler, as the sheriff used to call his friend from the days of elementary schooling. Kids used to pick on William for being of Irish decent and having weird, foreign parents, prompting the sheriff to stick up for him and get more than a few bloody noses. Paving the way for him to go into the police force. And now the man was gone. With no one left to run it, the meat shop would have to be closed down, a sad fact almost as grim as the death itself.

Someone did this, and justice would have to be served.

"Sheriff!" an officer shouted, coming from inside of the bar. "John said he ain't seen nothin', but we got another witness! Says he heard some things!"

"Bring him out."

The officer brought out the witness, a middle-aged, balding man no younger than fifty five. The sheriff asked him what he saw, what he heard.

"Well, let's see, I was having some drinks. This fellow Cutler was with another man who I've never seen before, and funny thing is, I know just damn near everyone in this town, see? There was another one in the bar I ain't never seen before, a woman… she looked like, well she had a big chest and that's darn near all I can remember. She seemed harmless enough. But this man was strange… he was so… dark. Like the shadows in John's place kind of gravitated toward him? But he had this real smooth way of talking. I almost wanted to go drink with him myself. But when I left I had to puke over by the mail tin --"

"That was you?!" interrupted the officer. With a shameful face, the witness continued.

"When I got myself cleaned up, Cutler and this weird fella went around to this alley here, and I… well I heard some things."

"What did you hear?" the sheriff asked, his eyes wide.

"Well, funny thing, he… well I heard them discussing… exchanging certain favors. One or both of 'em was asking for fellatio, kindly put, and I couldn't tell you which, I was so soiled. But things escalated, see, and someone said something the other didn't like, and well Cutler ain't with us no more."

"Son of a bitch," muttered the sheriff.

*****

"Mayor, you're drunk!" C.S. Clemmons shrieked, gripping the mayor's arm with two firm hands. It was barely enough to keep the man stable.

"I wannato finish the bourbon!" the mayor screamed in retort. "I wannato finish the bottle, and guess'at? I did! Now, you know what I want? I wamme a woman! Gimme a woman, Clem." His eyes looked right into Clemmons', his face relaxed despite the alcohol pumping through his system.

Despite his drunken stupor, the mayor was now calm, and so Clemmons loosened his grip, but only a bit. "I know a good woman for you," he said. "Goes by the name of Lane. I've seen her a few times. But no… on second thought… with all the killings… it could be the work of anybody. How can we know who to trust? The most simple-seeming man… or woman... could be a killer, right under our noses. I don't think you should be seeing any woman, especially in this state."

Clemmons sat the mayor down in his $1,750 chair with a stern calmness. The mayor hadn't received the news about Cutler's death yet. "I'll fix you another drink."

*****

"Why'd you call me back? I told you I was busy, pal," said the sharp-dressed fellow. He took a drag and let the air hang out slowly, drifting up toward the cloudy sky and disappearing in timid fashion. His eyes didn't follow the smoke, only watched the tip of his cigarette burn away, turn into ash and fall to the ground.

"That's just it," the sheriff remarked. "What are you so busy with?"

"None of your concern."

The two men stared at each other with quiet apprehension. The sharp-dressed fellow looked loopy if anything, his mind musing over something. All of a sudden, the sheriff saw the man's eyes light up. "Parrot!" shouted the sharp-dressed fellow. The sheriff cocked his head. The sharp-dressed fellow threw his cigarette to the ground and chased down what initially looked like nothing, but soon the sheriff himself saw a green parrot floating in the sky before perching down on top of John's place.

"Tell me what you saw, goddamn it! We aren't finished!" the sharp-dressed fellow bellowed with more emotion than the sheriff had ever seen him with before. The sheriff scratched his head, looking at the parrot, the sharp-dressed fellow, and then the parrot again.

The parrot squawked and looked at the two men with a taunting eye. "Bullers," it croaked, followed by another squawk. It repeated the name over and over again. Bullers. Bullers. Bullers.

"Bullers? No, it couldn't be."

"Sheriff, the killer could just as well be you, me, or anyone else in this goddamn Town. Drive me to the Bullers residence, immediately."

They drove. It was out a ways, but the sheriff knew how to get there. They got out and and as they walked up the marble steps, the sharp-dressed fellow remarked, "Big place." The sheriff only answered with a gulp.

After a ring of the doorbell, there was no answer. The sharp-dressed fellow instructed his partner to step back. When he got his room, he ran at the door with a kick, busting it down. "They ever teach you to do that?" he said.

They entered only to find that Bullers was on the floor, already dead by a self-inflicted shotgun wound. The pain was simply too much.

"This guy ain't our killer. What've we done? Bullers always kept to hisself!" the sheriff was sobbing.

The sharp-dressed fellow slapped him. "Get a hold of yourself! We'll sort this mess out. This sunuvabitch was just the beginning."




"Dayum!" said the black dude, staring at the scene. It was the meat shop, broken into. Police officers surrounded the place, looking just as stunned as the passers-by being blocked off.

The black dude blew into his handkerchief. "Just dayum!"

One of the officers responded by telling him to watch his language.

Inside were the seniors inspecting the body. Another one. Several officers coughed and gagged at the scene; one even blew chunks in the corner, adding to the already unbearable stench.

"Christ, limbs are clean off," remarked one, referring to the fact that the body was missing all four limbs - legs and all. The head and torso conglomerate was turned over so that the back was facing upward. Into the back were the letters carved, "BULLERS LIVES." Everyone was so taken aback, they didn't bother to turn the body over and identify the man. But it was only a matter of time before it revealed itself to be the tortured old veteran, Gaffigan.


To Be Continued…

[This message has been edited by Ashrzr (edited 08-28-2012 @ 03:40 PM).]

"Will ya jus' look at that?" a coal black man shouted as he barged through the pack of boys at the window. They peaked out of John's bar, forced to squint through the night's darkness. A crowd had formed at the mayor's office across the street and down a ways, and the boy's had the safe view. The soft-burning bar lights reflected off of the chipped wood panels and billowed out into the streets, and gave the usual gang of boys some comfort as they watched the scene unfold. Howdy, it had been a long day, and now this commotion. Everyone was darn thirsty, and it was hoped that John would have the cahoots to serve a covered round of pints before everyone threw in the towel for the night.

"The people are angry," said an older, stout man to the far right, eyes never leaving the scene unfolding at the mayor's office. His tendency to wipe his wrists down pat every ten seconds edged on the black man's nerves. "I sure know I am."

"What's been happenin' with them deaths?" responded the black man.

"I couldn't tell you. Ask the police." He cleaned his wrists again.

"What makes you birdies think they'll do anything?" a meaty voice whined, coming from an even meatier body. He had an empty pint in hand, ready to coerce John into filling it, 'or else.' It's worked before.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," spoke aloud a voice from behind, a voice that was so sure of itself, and yet so distant. A figure emerged from the bathroom of the place. It revealed itself to be a sharply-dressed fellow, complete with a fedora, tie and deathly smooth overcoat. To top it off, a lonely, underused cigarette dangled from his mouth. It extended from his lips which were curved in some sort of smile, the mouth a victim of years of wear and tear. As the man himself would say should you ask him, some men can only smile so much and mean it. He uncovered a lighter, introduced its fire to the end of his cigarette, and spoke softer, "I'm looking for the crime scene."

"Crime scene? Boy dandy, partner! What's been comin' to this town?"

"I would advise," said the sharp-dressed fellow before taking a drag of his cigarette, "that you gentlemen remain inside. There's a reported murder near the anterior yard of the mayor's office. The deceased was a victim of multiple stab wounds, and there's no identifiable weapon. The perpetrator could still be at large."

"Is that what this is all about?" the stout man muttered softly, cleaning his wrists with a wet rag.

"If you gentlemen are worried and would like to take extra precautions, I can alert you of more details of the crime that are open to the public, once I get them."

He's said all this so many times before, thought the stout man to himself. This is as rehearsed as Gatsby's performances.

"Now, wait just a darn minute!" the black man shrieked. "This ain't no big town. Now I dunno about you folks 'n what you gonna say, but ain't no man gonna waltz into town to commit no murder. No -- this was done by one of our own. The murderer is someone we know! It could be one of us here, jus' playin' dumb!"

"Take a rest, Gatsby," growled the brute with the empty pint.

"I take it that's the commotion over there?" said the sharp-dressed fellow, his expression unchanging. He stepped into the streets without another word. He passed a lone streetlamp and hopped down onto the road from the sidewalk. Aside from a pair of headlights swinging and disappearing down a few blocks in the distance, traffic was nonexistent. The gawkers watched the man retreat in silence, their faces stoic, their thoughts curious.

The sun was down. The cool, muddled air had begun to pick up and swirl into a fog. It was so bad that the boys could no longer see the mayor's office, much less the sharp-dressed fellow. He was out there somewhere, lost in the fog.

Finally, the silence was broken. Someone muttered something about beer.

The boys got their round, forgetting about the commotion outside. They shared laughs and bounced about like children. John frowned in the corner, arms crossed, foot tapping the wood that he suspected was starting to be visited by termites. The sharp-dressed fellow never did come back. In the dead of night, the walks home were frightening, but all was well. And perhaps it would be the last time.

It is now Night 0.
Send in all actions to ashrzr@gmail.com
Day 1 will begin by August 25th.

[This message has been edited by Ashrzr (edited 08-23-2012 @ 02:42 PM).]

There seems to be a bit of confusion with some of you. This game is set in the 1940s, which I thought was clear due to the noir theme but sorry it wasn't. Now you know.

How about 1940s with anachronistic 2012 influences?

I know we love procrastination, but I would love to get the actions in before the 25th, so that I have time to sort out the events of the night and it gives me the 25th to move in and be social.

I'm doing a lot of job hunting atm and haven't been online much. Please forgive me, but my action might be a little late. I'll try to get her in tomorrow. Sorry.

Can't wait to actually play in a Storyteller's. And an Ashe Mafia, no less!

"Christ almighty," said the sheriff, wiping his brow. The body had been beaten with a hammer behind John's bar. A handful of fluffy clouds watched over him from up above, but it wasn't enough to block out the sun's heat.

"This one ain't no suicide," the sharp-dressed fellow quipped. He jotted something down in his notepad and added, "The papers will get this one out."

"You're as good as anyone at this kind of thing. Do you have anything special?" responded the sheriff, looking up at the fellow from his squatted position by the body. The mangled, beaten mess of a body.

"Not much to this one. Clearly done with a hammer, but maybe the mortician can do a better job of getting it figured out. Speaking of 'special', I do have some other matters to attend to and some other events to catch up on, if you'll excuse me."

"Of course." The sheriff sounded disappointed.

The sharp-dressed fellow left the sheriff alone with the body. It was the body of William, the meat shop owner -- Sir Cutler, as the sheriff used to call his friend from the days of elementary schooling. Kids used to pick on William for being of Irish decent and having weird, foreign parents, prompting the sheriff to stick up for him and get more than a few bloody noses. Paving the way for him to go into the police force. And now the man was gone. With no one left to run it, the meat shop would have to be closed down, a sad fact almost as grim as the death itself.

Someone did this, and justice would have to be served.

"Sheriff!" an officer shouted, coming from inside of the bar. "John said he ain't seen nothin', but we got another witness! Says he heard some things!"

"Bring him out."

The officer brought out the witness, a middle-aged, balding man no younger than fifty five. The sheriff asked him what he saw, what he heard.

"Well, let's see, I was having some drinks. This fellow Cutler was with another man who I've never seen before, and funny thing is, I know just damn near everyone in this town, see? There was another one in the bar I ain't never seen before, a woman… she looked like, well she had a big chest and that's darn near all I can remember. She seemed harmless enough. But this man was strange… he was so… dark. Like the shadows in John's place kind of gravitated toward him? But he had this real smooth way of talking. I almost wanted to go drink with him myself. But when I left I had to puke over by the mail tin --"

"That was you?!" interrupted the officer. With a shameful face, the witness continued.

"When I got myself cleaned up, Cutler and this weird fella went around to this alley here, and I… well I heard some things."

"What did you hear?" the sheriff asked, his eyes wide.

"Well, funny thing, he… well I heard them discussing… exchanging certain favors. One or both of 'em was asking for fellatio, kindly put, and I couldn't tell you which, I was so soiled. But things escalated, see, and someone said something the other didn't like, and well Cutler ain't with us no more."

"Son of a bitch," muttered the sheriff.

*****

"Mayor, you're drunk!" C.S. Clemmons shrieked, gripping the mayor's arm with two firm hands. It was barely enough to keep the man stable.

"I wannato finish the bourbon!" the mayor screamed in retort. "I wannato finish the bottle, and guess'at? I did! Now, you know what I want? I wamme a woman! Gimme a woman, Clem." His eyes looked right into Clemmons', his face relaxed despite the alcohol pumping through his system.

Despite his drunken stupor, the mayor was now calm, and so Clemmons loosened his grip, but only a bit. "I know a good woman for you," he said. "Goes by the name of Lane. I've seen her a few times. But no… on second thought… with all the killings… it could be the work of anybody. How can we know who to trust? The most simple-seeming man… or woman... could be a killer, right under our noses. I don't think you should be seeing any woman, especially in this state."

Clemmons sat the mayor down in his $1,750 chair with a stern calmness. The mayor hadn't received the news about Cutler's death yet. "I'll fix you another drink."

Major Helper (William Cutler III - Full Inventor) has been killed.
It is now Day 1.
10 votes to lynch.

Major Helper v2 has replaced Sarn.

[This message has been edited by Ashrzr (edited 08-23-2012 @ 02:42 PM).]

Oh well, kinda liked my role.

*dies*

*rises from the grave, reborn with a new body*

Well, hello there!

Quoted from Ashrzr:

Clemmons sat the mayor down in his $1,750 chair with a stern calmness. The mayor hadn't received the news about Cutler's death yet. "I'll fix you another drink."

That, considering it's the 1940s, is one hell of an expensive chair.

Anyway, a few things:

1. Could someone explain to me in words of one syllable how exactly a storyteller's differs from a normal game? I rather expected to see a variety of different points of view in the writeup.

2. I think it would be good if everyone could post the sentence "I win with the town" in their next post. On its own with no modifying clauses please.

3. Once again, I'm going to draw attention to these rules, which I think benefit the town:

Quoted from Julius in another game:

I am the sort of player who has strong opinions on some aspects of mafia games. I propose the following rules, and strongly request that anyone who disagrees with them say so. I am absolutely positive that by restricting what is acceptable we make it more difficult for the scum. I also think that the particular rules I propose are especially pro-town, but am willing to discuss this.

1. Anyone caught in a lie gets lynched, without question.
2. Millers claim now. No exceptions. If you are aware that it is a characteristic of your role that you may appear guilty to a Sane Cop you must reveal this now. Later Miller claims should be lynched automatically.
3. No one may use an argument along the lines of "if you lynch me you'll see I'm town". That argument is equally available to both town and scum, and so allowing it to be used is of no use to the town. On the other hand, arguments of this type are an unwelcome distraction. They should be banned, as they are anti-town.
4. If there is anything ambiguous about your role, you must clarify it with the mod right now. The town has every reason to be exceptionally intolerant of people who try to backtrack by saying their role email was unclear. If it's unclear, the only pro-town action is to make it clear as soon as you become aware that it is unclear.

I think everyone should, in their next post, either explicitly agree with these four rules or state their disagreement. I will of course argue in favour of these rules, but it is not a scum-tell to not understand at the moment why these rules are desirable.

Yeah, millers survivors out plz.

I win with the town.

Broad chested woman - mafia prostitute?

In a Storyteller, you write/narrate your action in detail. The flavor from there may or may not appear in the game, or be given to the person on whom some action was targeted. The flavor also influences your action, like, a cop/theif describing how he investigates/steal, and the results he gets are influenced by how he completed the action.

I win with town

I win with the town and am not a miller either.

I win with town.

I am not a miller.

Lalala... I'll just save us some time. I have reason to believe at least one of rot and Herr is scum.

Full claims and last night actions, please. I'll share my goodies after.

I request that nobody else says anything on this matter until they do.

I have reason to believe Thymole is telling the truth.

If everyone would kindly dis-regard my earlier post.

I can very easily assume what ThyMole's onto.

I do not believe I have ever played with Julis before, althoguh he seems to prefer the ThyMole play style which I can't say I appreciate too much.

Also,

I win with town

Also after Thymole gets his thing out of the way I have something that needs to be attended to as well.

Interesting.


Why is Soda so inactive?

I should comply with my own instruction. I win with the town.

Quoted from lordy:

I do not believe I have ever played with Julis before, althoguh he seems to prefer the ThyMole play style which I can't say I appreciate too much.

I'm not sure what you mean by the Thymole play style, but I definitely disagree with some of the things Thymole thinks about how mafia should be played.

That unforgiving-not-single-lie playstyle.

I do believe that Dante is being really odd in the way he's acting.

I'm a survivor, I'm also the mayor.

I'm a "reverse lightning-rod", I pass on any action except kills to my target. Last night I targeted WRP, since he was inactive. I figured us having an extra chance of investigation/roleblock on him was worthwhile since if scum, he isn't likely to slip up in the thread and be caught that way.

Note: I confirmed with Ash that I cannot be investigated or roleblocked.

@Ash, if this is not the case and I misunderstood your statement, please email me.

I win with the town and am not a miller.

I'll be happy to claim if the town wants it as my role is fully provable (quite probably will be proven today), so Thymole better have something good.

Even if he does its probably on Rot then.

Claim away and don't delay...

Actually, Rot first.

Popey with the instant full claim...why would you clarify that you can't pass on kills...oh well.

Also, just a heads up I wasn't in the day write up character wise.


P.S ThyMole if I can guess everything about your suspicions of Herr and Rot right, can I quote your "don't delay and claim away"?

Ok, I am Postman Bob, a tracker. I tracked Julius last night, who targeted Sarn (now Major Helper). I was definitely not redirected since my result specifically says that I saw Julius target Sarn.

I also have some more (may or may not be relevant) information on Julius, which I will reveal if I need to to further confirm myself. Needless to say, its nothing incriminating (at least not at first glance).

Well, f*ck you then, Ninja Thymole.

Creepy postman Herr too good.

Also, I am certain that at least one person has a post restriction, so in a move to imitate Julius:

Can everyone say "I don't have a post restriction"?

Dante is being an asshole.

why would you clarify that you can't pass on kills...oh well.

Because I want to avoid the scum shooting me, that's why.

I don't have a post restriction either.

Whatever. Rot?

Why wouldn't the scum kill you, Mayor?

Also can you do the post restriction thing?

i has no post restriction.

I have no post restriction.

The scum won't kill me because I'm a survivor. By saying that I could redirect kills not only am I hilariously OP but I'd risk being tested in some way.

I can be tested, just not with kills.

ThyMole, Herr's claim doesn't make sense for you, does it?(Also you are yet to answer my question)

Also I might have the post restriction thing wrong

Ash, if someone had a post restriction would they be able to say:
A)I have a post restriction
B)I do not have a post restriction

Oh that and I believe that (Sarn)Major is scum

I don't have a post restriction.

Herr's claim looks believable. I presume Julius should confirm his action on Marge, though after Rot claims. Popey seems fine as well. Gogogo.

I don't have a post restriction.

Quoted from Herr:

I tracked Julius last night, who targeted Sarn (now Major Helper). I was definitely not redirected since my result specifically says that I saw Julius target Sarn.

That's correct.

Quoted from Lordofglory:

Ash, if someone had a post restriction would they be able to say:
A)I have a post restriction
B)I do not have a post restriction

[importantboldtext]They would not be able to reveal their restriction should they have one.[/importantboldtext]

Quoted from Periagil:

though after Rot claims

No reason to delay. If anything, me backing up Herr might tempt Rot (if he is scum) to make a bolder claim and so have a greater chance of being caught.

That's a good number of allegations flying around the house.

Thymole says Herr or Rot is scum.
Dante believes that Thymole is right, and he has dirt on someone as well.
Herr has something mildly incriminating on Julius.
Lordy says Major is scum.

Wut?
And hold your guns Lordy, let Rot claim before attending to other things.

By the way, anybody else notices that the game name and flavor implies a Serial Killer. Although I doubt that there would be 17v1v1 split. That'd be sad.

In all fairnesas to Popey the mayor is indeed most likely a survivor.

A MASONIC SURVIVOR THAT IS!


Eh.

I think Popey's being really scummy.

Quoted from Periagil:

Herr has something mildly incriminating on Julius.

Hey, less of this. He said it was information, and "nothing incriminating".

Well, ninja'd.

My bad then guys.

Can everyone say that they have a post restriction then?

I believe Julis to be scum because he targeted Major and Major died.

I believe Julis to be scum because he targeted Major and Major died.

Ok, I am Postman Bob, a tracker. I tracked Julius last night, who targeted Sarn (now Major Helper).

Basically, Major Helper died and immediately replaced Sarn. Julius targeted Sarn, not Major Helper mk.1