Ten - Game Thread

Started by Animal Midwife
Veterinary Science Graduate Programs from U. of I.
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fruitsalad said:
ngl i feel kinda stuck

i always maintained genny was village and was disappointed she got run over last minute

but like

the setback for me is clems and spurs both flipping village

because queeqs sounded very villagey and apops sort of cemented that village reads with her deep dives

kcalbs sounded pure and genuine

WZ's defense and response sounded villagey in response to my attacks on her, so i went with sheeping beans

beans is pure. pure beans

and samacs felt alright

so like

something strange is happening

so i went with strange bussing/deepwolfing theory and think kcalbs is a hit

even though i can see why that would be strange, but what wolves are doing this game already looks strange to me
Click to expand...
I agree the only possibility left is that it was the plan from d1 to implant a deepwolf. Which is a helluva strategy to slash your pack in half by d3. But its gotten them this far ig
 
fruitsalad said:
beans wolfing here would be very wild to me, and she would be hardpocketing me to such a devastating effect it makes the santy trauma look very gentle and soothing
Click to expand...
If you are deepwolfing you might as well start pushing for your weakest links earlier

I still think it might be apop over beans tho
 
Kcalb said:
Ey! :c

SHe is already counting me as dead
Click to expand...
1000012729.jpg
 
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apoptosis09 said:
Any game is a win if you forget that you lost 😃
Click to expand...
I have my own personal wins of getting village read despite barely posting in both games. In the second one, village read hard enough that the wolves killed me before the outted protector. A highlight of my WW career.
 
Hammer is 3 today. So I probably shouldn't vote for anyone yet...
I don't knowwwwwww if it's apop or kc ugh.
Guess it doesn't matter if we're yeeting one today and the other tomorrow? (Unless we get a wolf today?)
 
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Day 6

At first, everyone trusted Decathlon.

How could they not? She was ten events braided into one long ribbon of effort. Ten starts. Ten finishes. Ten chances to prove that endurance was not a single moment, but a relentless accumulation.

Running. Jumping. Throwing. Running again. The rhythm of it felt pure.

When she arrived, people spoke of balance. Of how ten disciplines mirrored ten fingers, ten careful steps across the line between strength and grace. They admired the way she gathered so many different motions and made them belong together.

Decathlon carried them lightly. She was not loud about it. She did not brag about the distances she covered or the bars she cleared or the arcs her throws traced through the air. If anything, she seemed smaller than the reputation that followed her.

“I’m smol,” she said once with a shrug, when someone praised the enormity of what she represented. The group laughed warmly.

Of course she was small. The charm of Decathlon had always been that she stitched greatness out of modest pieces. A sprint here. A leap there. A throw that spun through open sky.

Ten simple efforts.
Together they made something impressive.

At first, every event looked beautiful.
The dash across the track - pure speed.
The long jump - flight.
The shot put - strength in action.
The hurdles - rhythm and coordination.

Each movement looked like the natural expression of an honest body moving through honest space.

But time changes the way people watch. And the deaths had begun to accumulate.

2x5 had vanished. The jersey with the proud 10 had been folded into a box. Capricornus had fallen on a ridge. The Ten Commandments had collapsed beneath a sky that had screamed for her end.

At first, none of it touched Decathlon. She kept moving through her ten events, calm and steady, as if the rhythm itself might hold the world together. But patterns are powerful things.

And ten appeared everywhere she went.

Ten lanes.
Ten marks in the sand.
Ten points awarded here, subtracted there.
The group began to notice.

“Strange,” someone said one evening, watching her move from one event to the next. “Everything around her turns into ten.”

At first it sounded like admiration. Later it sounded like suspicion.

The hundred meters, once admired for its clean burst of motion, began to feel like a sprint away from something.

The long jump, once a symbol of freedom, looked like a leap across a gap no one else could see.

The javelin’s arc, once pure geometry in the sky, suddenly seemed a weapon searching for a target.

Even the hurdles changed in their minds. Once they had admired how gracefully she cleared them.
Now they wondered why there were so many obstacles wherever she went.

Ten events.
Ten opportunities.
Ten shadows trailing behind her.

“You’re always there when things happen,” someone finally said.
Decathlon blinked.
“I’m just competing,” she replied.

But suspicion has a way of rearranging memory. What once looked like discipline now looked like calculation. What once looked like endurance now looked like persistence in the wrong direction.

“You’re the only constant,” another voice added.

Constant.
The word hovered uncomfortably in a world where constancy had begun to look dangerous.

Decathlon spread her hands helplessly.
“I’m smol,” she said again, softer this time, as if reminding them that she was only a collection of small efforts stitched together.

But the group had begun to believe that small things could hide very large consequences.

Ten events.
Ten chances to be present.
Ten reasons to wonder.

Eventually the decision arrived, not as a shout but as a quiet conclusion.
If death followed the path of ten…
Then perhaps ten itself was the problem.

They did not accuse her loudly.
They simply stepped away from the track.

The sand pit went undisturbed.
The hurdles stood alone.
The throwing field fell silent.

Decathlon looked around at the empty stadium, confusion slowly settling into understanding.

Ten events cannot exist without witnesses.
Without the group, the ribbon of effort unraveled.
One by one, the events lost their meaning.

Running without a race.
Jumping without a measure.
Throwing without a mark.

And so Decathlon - tenfold, patient, persistent - was quietly discarded.

The stadium returned to stillness.
But long after she was gone, people sometimes noticed something unsettling.

Whenever they counted the empty lanes,
there were always
ten.

Dead is...
1772897567265.png

@Kcalb, Decathlon, and a
vanilla townie
 
Last edited:
Animal Midwife said:
Night 5

They called her the Ten Commandments. Not because she ruled.

Because she endured.

She carried ten lines the way a hand carries its fingers, spread, balanced, each one distinct but impossible to separate from the whole without the aid of explosives or very sharp objects. People argued about the order sometimes, about which mattered most, but she never changed them. She kept them exactly as they were. Ten. Always ten. It made the world feel structured.

Ten Commandments walked through all of it with a bold certainty. She was not demure; she SHOUTED HER VALUES. SHE WOULD BE HEARD. She held them resolutely, the way a compass holds north.

Others had not lasted. Pairs had broken. So many before her had vanished.

2x5 had disappeared into the quiet absence where products go when suspicion multiplies too quickly. Jerseys had been boxed away. Heroes had been buried on high ridges. Yet she remained.

And that troubled her.

She would stand beneath the open sky and wonder about it. “I stayed the same,” she would say to no one in particular. “So why am I still here?”

The question hung unanswered.

But the sky had opinions.
Sometimes, late at night, the heavens screamed. Not with thunder. Not with lightning. But with a pressure that pressed downward, like invisible voices shouting from somewhere far above the counting line.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

But it did not sound like admiration. It sounded like accusation.

Liar.

Fraud.

Pretender.

The sky roared its suspicions in ways no one could quite translate, but some could feel. The pressure carried the shape of a belief: that the Ten Commandments were not what she claimed to be. That the ten lines she carried so carefully were an act, a performance, a deception that had fooled the ground but not the heavens.

Ten.

As if the number itself were evidence. As if her constancy proved the trick.

She would look upward, confused. She could feel the rumblings of thunder, but didn't know what it meant.
“WHY IS THIS HAPPENING,” she would muse to herself. Quietly, for her. High on the volume meter for most.

And it was true. The world around her had twisted itself into strange new arithmetic. But she had stayed true.

Ten lines. Ten values. Ten steady marks carved into her being.

Still the heavens screamed. Still they demanded her end, convinced that somewhere inside those ten unwavering lines was a deception the earth had failed to see.

Those who passed her on the road felt it too. A tension, a tightening atmosphere, like the air before something irreversible. Most of them tucked the feeling into a back pocket, something they only wanted to revisit if need be, otherwise to be forgotten and inadvertently sent through the wash on laundry day.

“She shouldn’t still be here,” someone murmured once. As if survival itself were suspicious.

The night she died was still. She stood alone beneath that vast, restless ceiling, the ten lines she carried steady as ever. She had spent the evening turning her old question over again.

Why me? Why had the others fallen while she remained upright, unchanged?

She never reached an answer.

The sound came suddenly. A crack. Sharp enough to split the silence in two.

It was not thunder.
It was closer.

More deliberate.

The Ten Commandments staggered once. Her ten lines did not scatter. They remained exactly where they had always been, aligned, faithful, unwavering. She fell with the quiet heaviness of something that had carried its structure for a very long time.

By morning, frost traced the ground around her. Ten thin marks lay beside her in the dust, untouched.

Above, the heavens were silent at last. No more accusations. No more screaming. Only the stillness that follows a completed count, the laughter of one, and the wordlessness of a worldview shattered.

And somewhere, far beyond the place where numbers usually settle, the echo of ten lingered
not triumphant
not mournful
but final.

Dead is...
@samac, Commandments, and a
vanilla townie
Click to expand...
Night 5 flavor updated, ya filthy animals
 
supershorty said:
Day 6

At first, everyone trusted Decathlon.

How could they not? She was ten events braided into one long ribbon of effort. Ten starts. Ten finishes. Ten chances to prove that endurance was not a single moment, but a relentless accumulation.

Running. Jumping. Throwing. Running again. The rhythm of it felt pure.

When she arrived, people spoke of balance. Of how ten disciplines mirrored ten fingers, ten careful steps across the line between strength and grace. They admired the way she gathered so many different motions and made them belong together.

Decathlon carried them lightly. She was not loud about it. She did not brag about the distances she covered or the bars she cleared or the arcs her throws traced through the air. If anything, she seemed smaller than the reputation that followed her.

“I’m smol,” she said once with a shrug, when someone praised the enormity of what she represented. The group laughed warmly.

Of course she was small. The charm of Decathlon had always been that she stitched greatness out of modest pieces. A sprint here. A leap there. A throw that spun through open sky.

Ten simple efforts.
Together they made something impressive.

At first, every event looked beautiful.
The dash across the track - pure speed.
The long jump - flight.
The shot put - strength in action.
The hurdles - rhythm and coordination.

Each movement looked like the natural expression of an honest body moving through honest space.

But time changes the way people watch. And the deaths had begun to accumulate.

2x5 had vanished. The jersey with the proud 10 had been folded into a box. Capricornus had fallen on a ridge. The Ten Commandments had collapsed beneath a sky that had screamed for her end.

At first, none of it touched Decathlon. She kept moving through her ten events, calm and steady, as if the rhythm itself might hold the world together. But patterns are powerful things.

And ten appeared everywhere she went.

Ten lanes.
Ten marks in the sand.
Ten points awarded here, subtracted there.
The group began to notice.

“Strange,” someone said one evening, watching her move from one event to the next. “Everything around her turns into ten.”

At first it sounded like admiration. Later it sounded like suspicion.

The hundred meters, once admired for its clean burst of motion, began to feel like a sprint away from something.

The long jump, once a symbol of freedom, looked like a leap across a gap no one else could see.

The javelin’s arc, once pure geometry in the sky, suddenly seemed a weapon searching for a target.

Even the hurdles changed in their minds. Once they had admired how gracefully she cleared them.
Now they wondered why there were so many obstacles wherever she went.

Ten events.
Ten opportunities.
Ten shadows trailing behind her.

“You’re always there when things happen,” someone finally said.
Decathlon blinked.
“I’m just competing,” she replied.

But suspicion has a way of rearranging memory. What once looked like discipline now looked like calculation. What once looked like endurance now looked like persistence in the wrong direction.

“You’re the only constant,” another voice added.

Constant.
The word hovered uncomfortably in a world where constancy had begun to look dangerous.

Decathlon spread her hands helplessly.
“I’m smol,” she said again, softer this time, as if reminding them that she was only a collection of small efforts stitched together.

But the group had begun to believe that small things could hide very large consequences.

Ten events.
Ten chances to be present.
Ten reasons to wonder.

Eventually the decision arrived, not as a shout but as a quiet conclusion.
If death followed the path of ten…
Then perhaps ten itself was the problem.

They did not accuse her loudly.
They simply stepped away from the track.

The sand pit went undisturbed.
The hurdles stood alone.
The throwing field fell silent.

Decathlon looked around at the empty stadium, confusion slowly settling into understanding.

Ten events cannot exist without witnesses.
Without the group, the ribbon of effort unraveled.
One by one, the events lost their meaning.

Running without a race.
Jumping without a measure.
Throwing without a mark.

And so Decathlon - tenfold, patient, persistent - was quietly discarded.

The stadium returned to stillness.
But long after she was gone, people sometimes noticed something unsettling.

Whenever they counted the empty lanes,
there were always
ten.

Dead is...
View attachment 416068
@Kcalb, Decathlon, and a
vanilla townie
Click to expand...
Day 6 flavor updated
 
Night 6

Strike wasn't always decisive, though her name implied otherwise. A single motion, clean and undeniable, and everything fell.

Ten pins standing at attention, quiet white sentinels waiting at the end of the lane. And then the roll down the long, humming path of possibility, until the critical moment arrived.

Crack.
All ten down.

People loved that moment. The way certainty rushed in like applause. The way the frame closed with a neat little mark that meant perfection had briefly visited the room.

Strike never lingered. She would nod modestly, step back, and let the pins be reset. Ten again. Always ten again. The world liked its chances restored.
She'd never been the biggest fan of bowling, herself. It held dark memories, dusty remnants of a time she'd gone too soon and left a legacy that lurked in the corners of her mind, waiting to disturb her when she was finally falling asleep.

But that was then.
This was now.

She was celebrated. A symbol of precision. Balance. Everything coming together at exactly the right instant.
But ten had begun to gather shadows. The disappearances had unsettled everyone.


Strike stood at the end of the lane, contemplating the pins neatly arranged in front of her. They felt less like the friends that she knocked down in a good natured way. She felt like secrets were hiding between their snug shoulders, but she couldn't quite decipher what they were.

In the hours of the night, the ten pins arranged before her felt like an accusation. A taunting jeer that she would never get closure before it was too late.

The roll down the lane, that long humming journey toward inevitability, felt less like skill and more like fate being pushed along by unseen hands. Like there was an air of finality that she couldn't quite name.

Ten.

The room held its breath. Her throw was as perfect as it had always been. Smooth release. Clean spin. The ball traveling the narrow corridor between hope and certainty.

Impact. Ten pins scattered in a white explosion.

Strike.

The word echoed through the hall, but the applause did not come. Because the sound that followed was different.

Sharper. Closer.

A crack that did not belong to bowling.

Strike staggered once, confusion flickering across her face as if she had just realized that precision does not protect you from viciousness. She fell beside the lane she had mastered.

The pins, reset automatically, stood quietly nearby.

Ten of them.
Unmoved.

The unnamed killer did not run. They did not speak. They simply looked at the fallen figure and seemed, for the first time, satisfied. Because Strike was the last that they would strike down..

The final adjustment.
The final correction in a long sequence of ten-shaped disturbances.

Only one more death stood between them and salvation.

The lanes dimmed.
The pins waited in patient silence.

And somewhere beyond the quiet building, the night turned slowly toward morning.

------------

Tomorrow, there would only be one chance
to get it right.

Dead is...
@WildZoo, Strike, and a
vanilla townie
 
Last edited by a moderator:
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good place - died early

cyo - died early

wolves started feeling bad and so they kept me alive in clems game and high school where i made it to endgame

then i went back to dying early again last game
 
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