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Ten - Game Thread
- Thread starter Animal Midwife
- Start date
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- Attending Physician
What’s your class
beans2020
Mizzou c/o 2028
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- Veterinary Student
I mean i think the answer is if SAR flips village we need to talk about yeeting genny tomorrow. Wolfy moves to save her?
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Hi mom
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- Resident [Any Field]
I gave you my heart strings
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Yeet closed; results pending!
fruitsalad
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i miss @Animal Midwife 
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Final Day 2 Yeet Tally
Dubz () -
SAR (7) - kcalb 67, beans 39, Clem 68, fruit 54, Mrs Queequeg 58, samac 173, Spurs 152
genny (4) - Santy 96, Zenge 108, Toby 55, Wasp 29
Zenge () -
Clem (3) - SAR 15, Dubz 132, genny 65
Wasp () -
Santy () -
rae () -
14/15
Missing: rae 25
Dubz () -
SAR (7) - kcalb 67, beans 39, Clem 68, fruit 54, Mrs Queequeg 58, samac 173, Spurs 152
genny (4) - Santy 96, Zenge 108, Toby 55, Wasp 29
Zenge () -
Clem (3) - SAR 15, Dubz 132, genny 65
Wasp () -
Santy () -
rae () -
14/15
Missing: rae 25
Last edited:
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Roster
1. @GoSpursGo
2. @samac
3. @beans2020
4. @Clem J
6. @Zenge142
7. @WildZoo
8. @Santygrass
11. @_rae_
12. @Mrs Queequeg
13. @toberto
14. @genny
15. @The Wasp
16. @Kcalb
17. @fruitsalad
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Day 2
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Bags rustling. Paper and reusable alike. Plastic for those who wanted to pay a few cents extra.
Beep.
The items scanned without issue. Some all-dressed chips, cheezies, and smarties were gently placed in the bag. The good smarties, not the faintly colored tabs of chalk that were more familiar to the American contingent. A bag full of comfort foods, sorely needed after a rough week.
"Unexpected item in the bagging area!"
She looked around, frustrated. Nothing unexpected was in the bagging area. Why did this have to happen now? She just wanted to go home.
"Unexpected item in the bagging area!"
With a heavy sigh, she lifted and replaced each item. The blinking light over the checkout stopped. Scanning could continue and soon, she'd be on her way to decompressing.
Beep.
"Please place item in the bagging area."
"I did," she muttered. The express checkout was a blessing and a curse. A machine couldn't realize its mistakes, but not having to make small talk was a relief at the end of a draining day.
"Please place item in the bagging area."
She knew it couldn't be true, but it seemed like the tinny, automated voice was growing louder.
"Please place item in the bagging area."
Other shoppers were beginning to take note. Their eyes rested on her, some watching with pity, others with a degree of suspicion and a growing anger based in a sense of righteousness.
"Please place item in the bagging area."
"Please place item in the bagging area."
"Please place item in the bagging area."
They were coming toward her now. Their intentions were clear - no one was coming to help her. No, they were coming to cast her out, for they had only heard the machine telling her to place items in the bagging area. After that final prompt, it was as though a spell had come over them. The 11th item, strictly forbidden in the express checkout. 10 items or less. That was the law, and the law was taken seriously in these parts.
It didn't matter that she had only truly scanned 5 items. They wouldn't let her get a word in as they grabbed her and marched her toward the door, chanting "ten items or less, ten items or less."
Her bag of comfort foods waited at the edge of the bagging area. They would bring no one solace today.
Dead is...
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Bags rustling. Paper and reusable alike. Plastic for those who wanted to pay a few cents extra.
Beep.
The items scanned without issue. Some all-dressed chips, cheezies, and smarties were gently placed in the bag. The good smarties, not the faintly colored tabs of chalk that were more familiar to the American contingent. A bag full of comfort foods, sorely needed after a rough week.
"Unexpected item in the bagging area!"
She looked around, frustrated. Nothing unexpected was in the bagging area. Why did this have to happen now? She just wanted to go home.
"Unexpected item in the bagging area!"
With a heavy sigh, she lifted and replaced each item. The blinking light over the checkout stopped. Scanning could continue and soon, she'd be on her way to decompressing.
Beep.
"Please place item in the bagging area."
"I did," she muttered. The express checkout was a blessing and a curse. A machine couldn't realize its mistakes, but not having to make small talk was a relief at the end of a draining day.
"Please place item in the bagging area."
She knew it couldn't be true, but it seemed like the tinny, automated voice was growing louder.
"Please place item in the bagging area."
Other shoppers were beginning to take note. Their eyes rested on her, some watching with pity, others with a degree of suspicion and a growing anger based in a sense of righteousness.
"Please place item in the bagging area."
"Please place item in the bagging area."
"Please place item in the bagging area."
They were coming toward her now. Their intentions were clear - no one was coming to help her. No, they were coming to cast her out, for they had only heard the machine telling her to place items in the bagging area. After that final prompt, it was as though a spell had come over them. The 11th item, strictly forbidden in the express checkout. 10 items or less. That was the law, and the law was taken seriously in these parts.
It didn't matter that she had only truly scanned 5 items. They wouldn't let her get a word in as they grabbed her and marched her toward the door, chanting "ten items or less, ten items or less."
Her bag of comfort foods waited at the edge of the bagging area. They would bring no one solace today.
Dead is...
Last edited by a moderator:
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It is now Night 2.
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D2 flavor updated
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Night 2
Wheels whispered against the pavement of Evergreen Terrace. A board slapped down cleanly, caught steady under practiced sneakers. Laughter followed, bright and uncomplicated, the kind that made porch lights flick on just to listen. Windows were open tonight.
“He’s a good kid,” someone said from behind a screen door, fond and certain. “Keeps things lively.”
A porch swing creaked in agreement.
The streetlight hummed its familiar tune, a low electric lullaby that had watched over scraped knees and summer races for years. It had seen chalk drawings bloom and wash away. It had seen him grow.
He whizzed down the slope, not reckless, just fast enough to feel the wind press against his shirt. A slingshot rested forgotten in his pocket, harmless as a souvenir. His name had been called for dinner an hour ago; he’d promised “five more minutes!” in that way that always meant ten.
Across the street, a shadow lingered longer than it should have.
Not a neighbor.
Not family.
Just a shape where no shape belonged.
The wheels found their rhythm.
The night seemed to lean closer, listening.
The board hit the pavement after a small hop. He grinned at no one and everyone, basking in the comfortable certainty that the world, for all its oddities, would still be there at the bottom of the hill.
The streetlight flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The shadow detached itself from the hedge, soundless.
Its rider nowhere to be seen, the board shot forward, clattering against a mailbox before tipping onto its side. One wheel spun, ticking faintly in protest.
The streetlight steadied, casting its pale glow over empty pavement.
From the porch, someone called his name again, lightly at first, then louder, as though volume alone could rewind the last few seconds.
The hedge stood still.
The shadow was gone.
By morning, Evergreen Terrace would speak in hushed voices. They would say he was careful. They would say he was loved. Privately, some would wonder why now was his time.
For now, the only answer was the quiet.
The wheel slowed.
Stopped.
And the hum of the streetlight carried on as though nothing had changed at all.
Dead is...
---------------------------------------
Ink pressed into paper, careful and deliberate.
She liked to think she was sturdy. Balanced. Logical. Each line placed with intention, each curve cupped just so. Consonants standing tall and dignified, vowels nestled close like children clinging to a mother’s sleeve. She had been designed that way, assembled piece by piece, symmetrical and scientific.
But some said she was too deliberate.
The brush hesitated.
“Why does she look like that?” someone murmured.
“She’s hiding something,” another replied. “Look at the angles. Too precise. No one writes that cleanly unless they’re compensating.”
The paper shifted beneath her. A chilly draft slipped under the door and ruffled the stack. She felt the whisper of it along her margins.
She had heard the suspicions before.
Too modern.
Too political.
Too carefully constructed.
“She replaced what was there,” a voice said from somewhere near the inkwell. “Things don’t just replace things without consequence.”
A consonant formed, upright and resolute.
The whisper of a brushstroke.
A vowel joined it, obedient and close.
They stood together on the page, a small syllable. Complete. Unassuming.
And yet the glances continued.
“They say she was invented,” someone said softly, as if the word itself were an accusation.
Invented.
As though that made her less real.
The brush pressed harder this time. The fibers of the paper strained. Ink pooled too dark. A tiny fissure spread outward, thin as a hair.
“She doesn’t belong,” another voice insisted. “There are places that were never meant for her.”
The page trembled.
A draft again. Or perhaps, a hand.
The brush stopped mid-motion.
There was a sharp crack, followed by nothingness.
No more strokes.
No more careful angles.
No more vowels gathering themselves neatly beneath watchful consonants.
The paper lay still.
In the quiet that followed, a few faint marks remained - half-formed, smudged at the edges, as though uncertain whether they had ever truly been there at all.
Someone cleared their throat.
“Well,” they said, brushing stray fibers from the desk. “I suppose that settles it.”
But long after the room had emptied, if one leaned close enough to the abandoned page, they might swear they could still see the ghost of her geometry in the grain - lines too intentional to be accidental, curves too balanced to be coincidence, waiting for another hand brave enough to risk suspicion and begin again.
Dead is...
Wheels whispered against the pavement of Evergreen Terrace. A board slapped down cleanly, caught steady under practiced sneakers. Laughter followed, bright and uncomplicated, the kind that made porch lights flick on just to listen. Windows were open tonight.
“He’s a good kid,” someone said from behind a screen door, fond and certain. “Keeps things lively.”
A porch swing creaked in agreement.
The streetlight hummed its familiar tune, a low electric lullaby that had watched over scraped knees and summer races for years. It had seen chalk drawings bloom and wash away. It had seen him grow.
He whizzed down the slope, not reckless, just fast enough to feel the wind press against his shirt. A slingshot rested forgotten in his pocket, harmless as a souvenir. His name had been called for dinner an hour ago; he’d promised “five more minutes!” in that way that always meant ten.
Across the street, a shadow lingered longer than it should have.
Not a neighbor.
Not family.
Just a shape where no shape belonged.
The wheels found their rhythm.
The night seemed to lean closer, listening.
The board hit the pavement after a small hop. He grinned at no one and everyone, basking in the comfortable certainty that the world, for all its oddities, would still be there at the bottom of the hill.
The streetlight flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The shadow detached itself from the hedge, soundless.
Its rider nowhere to be seen, the board shot forward, clattering against a mailbox before tipping onto its side. One wheel spun, ticking faintly in protest.
The streetlight steadied, casting its pale glow over empty pavement.
From the porch, someone called his name again, lightly at first, then louder, as though volume alone could rewind the last few seconds.
The hedge stood still.
The shadow was gone.
By morning, Evergreen Terrace would speak in hushed voices. They would say he was careful. They would say he was loved. Privately, some would wonder why now was his time.
For now, the only answer was the quiet.
The wheel slowed.
Stopped.
And the hum of the streetlight carried on as though nothing had changed at all.
Dead is...
Ink pressed into paper, careful and deliberate.
She liked to think she was sturdy. Balanced. Logical. Each line placed with intention, each curve cupped just so. Consonants standing tall and dignified, vowels nestled close like children clinging to a mother’s sleeve. She had been designed that way, assembled piece by piece, symmetrical and scientific.
But some said she was too deliberate.
The brush hesitated.
“Why does she look like that?” someone murmured.
“She’s hiding something,” another replied. “Look at the angles. Too precise. No one writes that cleanly unless they’re compensating.”
The paper shifted beneath her. A chilly draft slipped under the door and ruffled the stack. She felt the whisper of it along her margins.
She had heard the suspicions before.
Too modern.
Too political.
Too carefully constructed.
“She replaced what was there,” a voice said from somewhere near the inkwell. “Things don’t just replace things without consequence.”
A consonant formed, upright and resolute.
The whisper of a brushstroke.
A vowel joined it, obedient and close.
They stood together on the page, a small syllable. Complete. Unassuming.
And yet the glances continued.
“They say she was invented,” someone said softly, as if the word itself were an accusation.
Invented.
As though that made her less real.
The brush pressed harder this time. The fibers of the paper strained. Ink pooled too dark. A tiny fissure spread outward, thin as a hair.
“She doesn’t belong,” another voice insisted. “There are places that were never meant for her.”
The page trembled.
A draft again. Or perhaps, a hand.
The brush stopped mid-motion.
There was a sharp crack, followed by nothingness.
No more strokes.
No more careful angles.
No more vowels gathering themselves neatly beneath watchful consonants.
The paper lay still.
In the quiet that followed, a few faint marks remained - half-formed, smudged at the edges, as though uncertain whether they had ever truly been there at all.
Someone cleared their throat.
“Well,” they said, brushing stray fibers from the desk. “I suppose that settles it.”
But long after the room had emptied, if one leaned close enough to the abandoned page, they might swear they could still see the ghost of her geometry in the grain - lines too intentional to be accidental, curves too balanced to be coincidence, waiting for another hand brave enough to risk suspicion and begin again.
Dead is...
Last edited:
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Roster
1. @GoSpursGo
2. @samac
3. @beans2020
4. @Clem J
6. @Zenge142
7. @WildZoo
11. @_rae_
12. @Mrs Queequeg
13. @toberto
14. @genny
16. @Kcalb
17. @fruitsalad
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It is now Day 3.
fruitsalad
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I HATE YOU ALL FOR GETTING ME OFF THAT VOTE
GOOD SHOT VIG
GOOD SHOT VIG
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I don’t hate you actually good shot. 10/10.
Yay dead wolfie.
Rip Santy.
Will try to do you proud
Yay dead wolfie.
Rip Santy.
Will try to do you proud
fruitsalad
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yeah agreed
i unvoted over santy's argument which sounded compelling. that was a mistake
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Whew I can remove my samac paranoia, that's good
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You don’t think I’d repeatedly bus my partner?!?!?!?!?
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I wish the soul read wasn't dead. SAR misyeets make me so sad 🙁
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GET IN MY VILLAGE BLOCC SAMAC, WE'VE GOT TWO MORE WOLVES TO HUNT
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DO I GET TO BE INSUFFERABLE
no I think I lost that privilege when AtE got my drunken heart
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HAHAHA GOOD SHOT VIG
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Cool we’ve lost as many villagers as wolves in a 17 player game we’ve got a really good shot at this
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The beauty of it is there is a jail keeper so if vig has to out themselves they’ll still get one more shot.
This is a good village world
This is a good village world
fruitsalad
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zenges is not a wolf
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Why?
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fruitsalad
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Yes I’ve known that get with the program 😛
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Okay fine I rescind any of my sus of Zenge as well
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Nice shot indeed!
As much as I'd like to be spicy, it seems like the POE is kind of accurate, so,
yeet Clem
@Animal Midwife @supershorty @kaydubs
As much as I'd like to be spicy, it seems like the POE is kind of accurate, so,
yeet Clem
@Animal Midwife @supershorty @kaydubs
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I'm also very glad I'm not in the world where I have to ask why 2 PR claims are alive on D3
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@Kcalb I saw these after I posted my reads list and day closed, you can consider me back in the pocket
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Yeet genny
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Also
No
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I feel like it's genny v Clem today. You spent most of the day on Clem yesterday--why genny now?
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You don’t think genny could be paired with wasp?
fruitsalad
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samacs is not a wolf either
thinking about WZ but not a current priority
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I haven't seen the genny way, but who else would you have at the intersection of kitz x Wasp?
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Hmmmm
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I know I’m village.
This post doesn’t happen in a world where genny (autocorrect wanted genny to be teen pregnancy but I caught it)
This post doesn’t happen in a world where I’m village and genny is a wolf.
genny is town.
fruitsalad
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thinking but i really don't have any reasons to village read raes
unyeet genny
yeet raes
@Animal Midwife
unyeet genny
yeet raes
@Animal Midwife
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I did a LOT of skimming yesterday. I’m going to do some mini isos and pair stuff tomorrow for sure.
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he ded lol
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