Mafia: The Last Resort [EPILOGUE: THE END]

There has been a hammer, yes.

Unfortunately...

I'm going to stare at a blank wall until I get the nerve to sort this out. Don't post anything.

Okay, here's how it's going to work.

This game has spiraled out of control, not least because of some terrible decisions on my part. It doesn't look to improve, and by the time this thing ends it seems incredibly likely that no one will have enjoyed this game in the least.

I'd appreciate if the remaining people in this tell me if they want to see this game to its conclusion or not. If anyone is dead, informed and reading this then their input would be appreciated also.

Thank you. I am extremely sorry about this.

I, personally, have really enjoyed the game and would like to see it to its conclusion.

If I knew how the game would have proceeded when you asked me to substitute in, I still would have. I've had a lot of fun with the brief time I've been in.

I had lots of fun, especially when we cornered all the scum, but the sudden rudeness of some players was a bit off-putting. :<

The people who want to continue currently outnumber those who don't wish to continue, considering both the living players and the totals of both living and dead players.

I'm personally of two minds. Part of me just wants to rattle on towards the end for the sense of completion and on the philosophy that things can hardly get much worse than they already have. But those are pretty selfish reasons, and as I think some people are expecting me to be on hand for mediation purposes it's not a good mindset to have.

It's also unfair to force people who don't want to play to do so. Replacements at this stage would be ridiculous. There's also at least one player I've treated so badly that they probably won't respond to this. I very much doubt that they even want to talk to me after the amount of bullshit they've had to put up with, and fair enough. There's also the point that for the town at this point it's like shooting fish in a barrel. To continue would undoubtedly be nothing short of tedious.

I'm going to wait one more day to see if any of the living or dead players want to have their say, and then I'll figure out what to do next.

Let us whirl back through time to a point when Mirdini was at soft lynch.

The moment even this small milestone had been reached, a ripple of anger passed through the crowd. Ideas of democracy and fairness burnt away in an instant within this fiery rage. Values, hopes, individual thoughts: all of them were flung aside as feelings peaked, and everyone swarmed forward onto the unfortunate.

The mob does not even think of the noose. Instead they only sought to kill, with whatever was closest. After a few minutes of screams, confusion and one sided brawling someone retrieves an ancient sword from a display case and rams it into Mirdini's chest. It is done.

Mirdini was Jack Brume, the Idiot Savant. For him the world was a sea brimming with connections and links, sometimes obvious and sometimes spanning several seemingly unrelated ideas. It all made sense to him. Every night he could choose two people and gain some insight into the nature of any connection between the two. But while his mind functioned beautifully, his speech did not. Often he would become tongue tied, and this prevented him sharing his results of the previous night. And poor as his skills of communication were, his heart was true. He was sided with the Town. That is, until his mind was sadly twisted against that which he had worked so hard for. He was a Cult member.

Whatever the feelings at this outcome, it is too late to discuss them. Night has fallen, and beyond that a new day awaits.

The night will end 21 November, or when all night actions are received.

The few who rise on the morning of the seventh day do so with heavy hearts and stricken minds. Their sanctuary, The Last Resort, is now a house of death. It reeks of it, in spite of their best efforts. But the numbers of corpses grew while the living dwindled, and now, so fixated on the death of their foes, the fallen lie where they died, unhonoured but hardly forgotten.

It is in this state of mind that these few meet, scanning the all too familiar faces in a single glance. They know who is dead. They don't have to think about it any more. The missing are all too obvious in their minds.

They shuffle to the first room of the deceased. Once they might have run and leapt, but there was no thrill of danger. No incentive. They knew what awaited them behind the gleaming door.

And indeed, they find SleepingOrange. His expression is calm, and you know he passed away peacefully.

SleepingOrange was Nazario Silver. When he came to the Last Resort he was likeable enough, if a little anxious. However, word soon got around as to what he was capable of. Death, they all whispered, and turned their backs against him. The residents of the hotel feared and shunned him, and he responded accordingly. At first he tried to win their favour, helping everyone he could and talking to all who would listen. It didn't work. Slowly his attempts became fewer and fewer, until they stopped completely. The guests were happy for him to be out of their sight, and so out of mind. In his position of pariah, however, his resentment grew. It infected his good nature and corrupted it, until all that was left was an unholy rage. Not that you would know it to look at him, of course, but when some shady individuals finally offered him a place as an equal, he found just the outlet for that anger.

And so Nazario Silver joined the murderers of the Last Resort. His ability was to nurture death wherever it could be found, and the wild accusations of a lynch mob formed the perfect environment. Every time somebody was at soft lynch, SleepingOrange could rush the lynch and have them die immediately. He was capable of doing this three times. As such, he was part of the Mafia in the role of Executioner.

A weak smile flickers over the faces of those who still care, but that number is few indeed. After all, there is still another missing from their number...

They find the room of this person empty. The place is thoroughly searched, but there is no trace of them: only their various and interesting belongings. The current survivors fan out through the hotel. It doesn't take them long to find what they're looking for.

In the kitchen, a pile of sliced and torn rags is the first sign that something is wrong. A few splashs of blood, and then a lengthy trail, confirm this suspicion. Not sure what you will find, the few walk on until a much mistreated blender and a grinning skull reveal it all. Spread out across once shining steel surfaces a message is written in the processed flesh of ProfessorLizzard. It reads as follows:

To those left alive,

This is TimeothyHour. I have opted to forsake any pretence of anonymity in my last days, especially a pretence that everyone knew was erroneous and false.

If my calculations are correct, by morning, my last compatriot will have died, and I shall be the only member of the Mafia left standing. The irony is that, all along, I was their leader, and now I am without anything to lead. And soon, I too, either through lynching or the acceptance of my plea, will be dead.

See, Drakenforge poisoned me a few nights ago and became my, as he put it, “Mentor.” It was in order to regain his ability to kill as a vigilante. Each night after, I would be given the antidote, and poisoned again, to put me at his mercy. If he died, I would die. And thus, the Mentor became untouchable. In this way, he has slowly killed of the remainder of my comrades. I suspect that, as my Mentor, he cannot kill me, or he simply doesn’t want to go to the trouble of killing and finding a new mentee.

I have resigned for my fate. In my current state, there is no way for Mafia to truly win. I don’t really want to win, anymore. I’ve had a lot of fun killing everyone here. It’s proven to me that, slowly, my condition really has improved. I am finally, finally satisfied with myself.

However, I’m not going out without a single proposition, a plea:

Lynch Drakenforge.

He is last of the town among us, and if I can’t win, nor do I want the town to succeed. With his death, I will die, and both Mafia and Town will be condemned to Hell. The two third parties remaining will the winners and winners alone. This I swear to you, on my name and on my death: What I am saying is the Truth. If my torturer dies with me, then I will be satisfied, and relent to the grave.

But until then.

Vote: Drakenfoge.

The sight is enough to induce vomiting in a few. The only solid remains, the bones, sit in pans where the meat must have been boiled off. There isn't anything that could be much clearer about the murder.

ProfessorLizzard was Anzo Dionysus. His insatiable curiosity dragged him to the Last Resort, and compelled him to investigate all that was mysterious or unknown. It didn't even have to be interesting: anything that held a shred of the unknown became an obsession for the man until a light was cast into these dark corners of his knowledge. When the murders began, a quest of a far more noble calibre was taken up by him, and he devoted himself to finding the scum. Every night he would be capable of thoroughly investigating a person in the hotel to the extent that he could be certain of their guilt or their innocence. As such, he was a Sane Cop, and accordingly Town aligned.

The remaining four return to their hall of discussion and sit. Stares are exchanged, and then the talking begins.

With four alive, it takes three to lynch.

You have already heard my words.

vote: Drakenforge.

Heee I don't even get messages or quicktopic messages telling me this started anymore~
Which is bad. Seriously : /


BusCop for LynchRusher is an unfair trade for game setups. But at least this gets to end with respect.

Vote: Times

There really is no good way to end this now. Someone is gonna look bad for this.

I'm sorry Times, but I've got one last wager leaning on your death.
Vote: TimeothyHour

I'm just going to go ahead and Vote: TimeothyHour. Nothing personal, man.

*Nod*

I was expecting it to go about that well.

It is too late. Too late for pretty words, or not so appealing ones as the case may be. It takes only minutes. Two seize the last villain in their midst, and the third is more than happy to oblige with a lethal injection. He struggles for a moment. They cover him with a blanket and walk away, to at least grant him privacy in his last moments.

Backs turned to the dying man, they wait until silence falls again in this makeshift mausoleum.

And then, quite simply, it is over.

_ _ _

Epilogue, win tallies, role PMs and QT topics forthcoming, although not necessarily in that order. Good game, everyone!

PMs of various purposes and shapes

Original Role PMs

Show Content

SpoilerProfessorLizzard:

Your name is Anzo Dionysus. Curiosity is your particular problem.

Which doesn't sound too bad, put like that. But it also fails to banish the assumption that you have any self-control when the urge grabs you.

You don't.

When a stray 'What is that?' crosses your mind everything else suddenly stops being important. You must answer the 'What is that?', or at least do all within your power to satisfy the insatiable questions. This curiosity has dragged you across the globe, through the dregs of civilisation as well as the peak of it. You may be a slave to your wonderment, but you are a resourceful one.

And rather helpfully, the question of the day is: 'Who is behind this grisly murder?'

There's not much you can do, really, other than find out.

You are the Cop. Your never-ending quest for answers grants you the ability to investigate one person per night, which will return a guilty or innocent response. You are therefore Town aligned.
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Solaris:

You are called Faramund Mlakar. You know too much by default. If you open your eyes for a second all the knowledge of everything inescapably unfurls before your eyes. It's frightening and disorientating, the things you see, so you find it far better to remain seeing nothing at all. Better for the others to believe you simply blind.

Unfortunately, the recent turn of events has complicated this. The dissident guests are set to ruin everything. You can't let that happen. Even if it means opening your eyes and puzzling out what you see, you will stop them.

Even so, you're still going to do this on your terms. First: you'll only do it at night, when your vision is hampered by the lack of the light. Second: you'll only do it in the proximity of one person at a time, the one you want to know more about. Third: you'll open your eyes no more than once per night. To allow any more would be to invite your ruin. With the slight exposure you also stand a better chance of working out the intricacies of your visions.

Even so, you are certain. With these abilities at your disposal, how can you possibly fail?

You are the Cop. Every night you may choose a target to investigate with your powerful visions, and this will return a guilty or innocent result in regards to the person's alignment. You are Town aligned.

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AKillerCuppaTea:

Ink. Ink everywhere. What's your name? It probably doesn't matter. You had one, once, but you mislaid it somewhere. It's hard to keep track of all the words. There are so many of them, and they are so very loud. You have to keep releasing them into the ink, setting the patterns of letters on whatever surfaces will accept it. You used to just write on paper, but you ran out so quickly. All the walls are so blank. The furniture too, but not as often. What's wrong with letting the words out onto them?

People didn't understand the words. You don't either. You don't have the time to read them. Maybe once you stop writing you can look, but not yet. You don't have enough time yet. In any case, people are disgusted by the words. You think the red ink makes them look pretty, but perhaps that's not enough if they don't like the meaning. You wish you knew what it was.

You're aware that something bad has happened. It agitated the words and the ink. You need to resolve whatever it is, if only to slow the words back down to a manageable pace. You can't keep it up as it is.

Whatever the problem is, you can probably solve it by keeping people away from other people. It's always problems, with people. At least the ink is constant. If you write outside the room of someone no one will dare approach, although you still don't know why. Oh well. It'll work, at the very least.

You are the Doctor. You can pick a person each night to protect, and should anyone attempt to get into their room they will be repelled by your presence outside of it. As a doctor you are aligned with the Town.

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Ixcaliber:

You are the Black And White Man. Like newspapers black and white. You lost all your colours some time ago, and then everything around you lost them too. Then other people started noticing and getting scared, but at least then it wasn't a delusion you were burdened with. You'd rather be sane even if you don't sit right within the spectrum of colour.

That's why you're here, anyway. Staying in the Last Resort. Barricaded in by a handful of greedy, murderous idiots.

You intend to do something about that.

See, you found that while you lost your colours, you could take them from other people. You could take their face and their memories, their name and their talents. It doesn't last long before the colours all drain out again, but it'll be long enough. You can smell the blood in the air just as well as anybody else, and you reckon it's not going to be long at all before people start dropping. And once they're dead, nobody's going to mind if you make use of whatever talents they took with them. As long as they don't find out, that is. What they don't know can't hurt them, or so the saying goes.

Apparently some people find it a bit creepy, who you are and what you do. It doesn't matter. You'll take their thanks once you've saved them all.

You are the Absorber. Every night you may choose one of the deceased and gain whatever powers they had for use that night (and following day, if applicable). You will also appear to have the same alignment as your target for this time, and will 'remember' who was targeted on nights previous to the person's death. You may not absorb a person's power twice.

You are Town aligned.

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Schazer:

You are called Sarah Black. You never learned any of the names of the others around here though. Not much of a point, when you can't speak a word. You get a feeling that a few of the others aren't impressed by this. They don't think you should be here, your particular affliction being nothing but muteness.

It just so happens that you don't give a damn, and you're willing to prove yourself worthy of being here. Not that you need to, but the satisfaction of shutting up the talkers is just too tempting.

The long and short of it is that losing your voice made you a much keener listener. And when you have a posse of murderers hanging about, being able to listen well might just prove invaluable.

You are the Interceptor. Your ability is passive, but at daystart you will receive a collection of snippets from any conversations that took place in the night. You are Town aligned.

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Whimbrel/soundlyParanoid:

You're Eveline Faraday. Most people don't know that, though. They don't even see that you're there. Most of the time you have to scream and shout for anyone to so much as notice you. It's tough. 'Specially since you used to be the one everyone loved to talk to. Hell, everyone wanted to be you. So it's tough, no doubt about that. You only ended up in this place after you lost your voice from screeching so much.

But the Last Resort's been good. The people have been friendly, for the most part, and pleasant enough once you get around their quirks. You've been getting better as well.

So when some hyped up crazies start trying to ruin everything the Last Resort stands for, you're sure as hell not going to sit around and let it happen. You're going to help these people, and what's more you're going to do it with the very thing that made you end up in this house of defectives.

After all, who's going to notice somebody like you creeping around?

You are the Tracker. You can pick a person, and should they leave their room in the night you'll be able to follow them without being noticed. If they visit anyone you will be informed of it. You win upon the death of all anti-town players, and as such you are Town aligned.

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_ _ _

Mirdini:

Your name is Jack Brume and for you, the world is brimming with connections. Links. Ties. Neckwear.

In your mind's eye the entire world glows with affiliations and possibilities, but you seem to be the only one who sees all these wonders. And as the vile conspirators that lurk amongst your allies close in with lethal intention, you can't help but find purpose in using your impressive skills to oust these rogues.

The only apparent issue with this arrangement is that, with alarmingly frequency, you become so embroiled in this enlightened manner of thinking that you trip over your words and become heartily confused. Should you manage to shed light on previously unseen connections, there still lies the peril that you should fail to communicate this wisdom. You would be a veritable Cassandra!

You are the Idiot Savant. Every night you may pick two people, living or dead, and if there was any significant interaction between the two then you will be informed of this. There is also a chance that you will see clearly enough to be informed of the nature of this connection. However, the day after you may not mention the names of the two people or allude to them in any way. This is lifted when the night begins, and the use of your power at night does not require you to leave your room. You are Town aligned.

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_ _ _

MalkyTop:

Your name is Elena Clay. You're the handyman around here, so you're not stark raving crazy or weirdly afflicted in any way. Don't get the wrong idea; you've got nothing against the poor blighters in this place, but you couldn't stand being one of them. It seems a bunch of them had a similar idea and have gone slightly crazy, having decided that they'd rather kill than have to leave the Last Resort.

It's unfortunate. You've grown fond of the people who end up in here, and it's going to hurt to have to deal with them. But that's your job: you deal with stuff. This little situation is no exception. You reckon being locked in their rooms will cool them down a bit.

You are the Roleblocker. Each night you may choose a person, and you will lock them in their room so they may not perform any action that requires them to leave. No target may be picked on consecutive nights. You are Town aligned.

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_ _ _

Wheat:

You're Victor Fischer! You're also disappointed! Always disappointed with everyone. Can't they be snappier? Even the ones with the balls to murder in cold blood are being lousily slow, going for one at a time. One! A night! What kind of threat is that? Your grandmother could clean this place out faster, and she's been dead for years!

Still, knowing the others, people aren't going to be quick to react. Or do anything, really. It's a crying shame.

So you'll help them out with this pathetic threat, and you can get back to doing important stuff. That coffee isn't going to drink itself.

You think you'll snoop around the rooms of these people at night. That seems like the most direct approach for figuring out what's going on. Just look, damnit. Who wants to mess around with mind games? Too slow!

That said, there's always the opportunity to throw caution to the wind. Do something even you don't expect. Who knows? It might actually do some good to these sticks in the mud.

You are the Flavour Cop, and once a night you can choose a target to investigate. This will reveal a number of items in the room relevant to the person's role. However, you may also sacrifice this ability at night to fulfil an impulsive (read: randomly chosen by me) action upon a person of your choosing in the day. You are Town aligned.

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_ _ _

MrGuy:

People refer to you as Eddy Marsch, but a more accurate name might be something like Cupid. Not that you would ever call yourself that, for so many good reasons. And what you do is never quite on purpose. You'll just be thinking, ruminating on the people you know, and then suddenly – BAM! You just know you've gone and done it again. Sure enough, you'll find the two of them breathless and stuttering at the sight of each other, completely and utterly infatuated. It's a nightmare. Soppy lovebirds are the worst people to be around. You know all too well from your unfortunately gained wealth of experience.

Luckily it never lasts for long, and afterwards the two victims go about their daily business, dazed and slightly confused.

Normally it's not a skill you'd ever consider to be in any way useful, but with the death and danger you figure a little love could go a long way, even if it just lets people talk to each other at the very least. That's worth it, right?

You are the Cupid. Each night you may pick two targets. They will become masons for that night and will be able to talk freely with each other. However, no one else will be aware of what they talk about, not even you. You are Town aligned.

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Pick Yer Poison:

You are Daniel DiCarlo, hotel bartender and head chef. It's an impressive job description, but the available technology within the Last Resort makes your presence almost redundant. All the same, it still feels satisfying to mix a cocktail or cook a good meal sometimes. Most people would be surprised what a decent drink can do for them, actually. Of course, the effect generally gets negated by the following decent drinks, but it's still something you've noticed over your years of experience.

To be honest, it's given you a bit of an idea. You don't like how these mysterious guests have put the place into lockdown any more than the next person, and you surmise that the good guys are going to need all the help they can get. If you slip them one of your best cocktails, the results of their work can only be improved.

You are the Monolith. At night you may pick a target to receive one of your prize cocktails, which will increase the effects or efficiency of any abilities they use that night. No target may be chosen on consecutive nights. You are Town aligned.

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_ _ _

Drakenforge:

Your name is Bryce Murdoch. Truth be told, this situation with the dissident guests is a bit of a relief. You could never admit to anyone the real reason why you're here, and that's because your bloodlust runs a bit closer to the surface than for most people. It's a temperament that has resulted in a few deaths, all by your hands. It's... addictive. To have the last remnants of life flicker away from the husk at your feet... it's the worst part of you.

But perhaps the best too.

And now you have a chance to do something that the rest of these pleasant people would be too human to do. You're going to kill the rogue guests.

There. You've admitted it. But only one a night, so as not to raise untoward suspicion. After all, you don't know who exactly these people are yet.

And you're not going to be stupid about it. You're going to find yourself an accomplice. Then you're going to poison them. Not to kill them, mind. It's just a bit of life insurance. Every night you'll administer the antidote, and then poison them again. They'll never die, but they'll become completely dependent on you for survival. If you do happen to get killed, then your chosen accomplice will also die from not receiving the antidote. Simple. Sensible. But not too humane.

You are the Mentor. If you do not have a Mentee, then at the first available night you must choose one from the living players. From then on you will be able to communicate with them at all times, and for every night that you have a Mentee you will be able to kill someone of your choosing. If your Mentee dies, you must choose another during the next available night phase. If you die, your Mentee will die also. You are Town aligned.

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_ _ _

Pharmacy:

Your name is Olivia Kay, and you've been trying to find someone for a long time. Fortunately, you think you have them cornered in this hotel. The entire business with the place being in lockdown suits you just fine, as it means your prey can't escape yet again. Yes yes, the murdering does make the situation a little awkward but you quite frankly don't have time for it. You'll play along while everyone else chases around after the suspicious and the stupid by day, but at night you'll go out in search of your fellow duellist. It beats you why they don't want to finish this business once and for all.

At least you still talk on phone. Perhaps you can convince them that it's for the best that one of you dies in this duel?

You are the Hunter Duellist. Every night you must choose a person. You will visit their room and attempt to find the Hunted Duellist. If ever the two of you are in the same room at one time, you will both be forced to duel, resulting in one of you dying. The rules of the duel will be explained upon its occurrence. You receive a half win if you initiate the duel and a full one if you win. Should you win, you will receive a second win condition to fulfil in the remaining game time. As such, you are Third Party.

You will also be able to anonymously communicate with the Hunted Duellist at all times by PMing me or writing a response in your Quick Topic. Any responses will be relayed back to you.

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_ _ _

Woffles:

Your name is Eliza Veronesi. You are running for your life.

Many years ago you agreed to a duel to the death. This bought you enough time to escape your fellow duellist, and you did so. While you suspected they would chase you, you did not bank on the sheer obsession of your enemy that has led to them following you even here, to the Last Resort. With the entire place in lockdown, there is nowhere else for you to go. You will evade your counterpart for as long as you are able, but should you stand face to face you know you will have little choice other than to try and kill them. This has gone on for long enough.

At least, that is what you tell yourself when you work up the bravado.

You are so very scared.

It doesn't help that they still ring you on your phone.

You are the Hunted Duellist. Every night you must pick a person. You will visit their room and attempt to hide from the Hunter Duellist, but if you should ever happen to be in the same room as the Hunter you will be forced to duel. The exact rules of the encounter will be revealed upon its occurrence. You win if you escape the Hunter Duellist until the end of game, when you will be able to escape again. You will gain a half win if you enter the duel but survive. Should such a thing occur you will be given another win condition to fulfil in the remaining game time. As such, you are Third Party.

You will also be able to anonymously communicate with the Hunter Duellist at all times by PMing me or writing a response in your Quick Topic. Any responses will be relayed back to you.

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g0m/Sanzh:

Your name is Aaron Lance, and you're quite partial to a wager. Well, if you're honest you'll take any bet offered to you. And if no one's offering one, then you'll go out of your way to set one up. And normally it's all rather fun.

Unfortunately, people at the Last Resort have become a little distracted since the murdering began, and just about no one is interested in wagering with you any more. It's becoming boring on an insufferable level.

But then you had an idea. Why not wager against the lynchers? Everyone's so eager to get someone in the noose, but there's no good way of knowing who it's going to be. So you'll try and guess the unlucky person.

You reckon you can guess correctly twice before you get properly bored and just walk out of this place.

You are the Predictor. Each night you must choose a person. If the person is lynched the next day, then your prediction was correct. To win you must correctly predict twice, at which point you will be removed from the game.

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_ _ _

Pinary:

Your name is Bernard Grey. And you'll be honest; your stay at the Last Resort hasn't been as helpful as you were led to believe it would be. They won't take the cards off you. You don't know why. The cards caused all your problems, so why won't they just take them from you?

It's not hard. They're just ten tarot cards sealed in long, slim envelopes. One each, with a name of one of the Major Arcana written in neat black ink on the front. They probably wouldn't last long in a fire. In fact, you could theoretically get rid of them right this instant in just such a way. You're even fortunate enough to have a match box on you right now. You could do it, you really could.

But maybe not just yet. No. It's not the right time. You would confess to not knowing when the right time to get rid of them is exactly, but it can't be now. But equally, you can't open the envelopes. Terrible, terrible things would happen. Or perhaps wonderful, sublime things. You're not sure about that either, but it's the stark difference between the two outcomes that terrifies you. The temptation to take out the cards has followed you ever since you found them, neatly stacked in an abandoned briefcase in a train station. The train station was abandoned too, but that's not important.

Only the cards are.

And with the terrible situation that's arisen, you're quickly finding that the temptation to open those stark envelopes a little too much to bear...

You are the Survivor. As the bearer of the Cards you are determined to not die, but you don't care enough about anything else to pick a side in the predicament you find yourself in. As such, you are Third Party. However, you also may choose to open one of the envelopes each night and unleash the consequences. The names written on the ten envelopes are as follows:

The Fool
The High Priestess
The Emperor
Fortitude
The Hanged Man
Death
The Tower
The Star
The Sun
Judgement

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_ _ _

Dragon Fogel:

Your name is James Ericson. You have been blessed with a most wonderful ability, but you would judge by your detainment in this hotel that others would prefer to call it a curse. You can raise and lower the minds of men, granting them divine insight or crippling them completely. It is a most powerful gift.

So why must you remain in this place?

Truth be told, you don't know for certain. But that's not going to matter. Not once you've killed all the people holding you here.

You found some friends in this cesspit, see. They're motivation is slightly different from yours as they seem oddly determined to stay here, but as you see it if the means are the same then you might as well stick with them. You'll both get what you want – it just so happens that these are different things.

So you're going to use your abilities to make sure this thing is a clean sweep.

You are the Encryptor Roleblocker, and a member of the Mafia. Your ability allows your fellow scum to communicate during the day as well as during the night, but should you die this effect will be removed. Every day you use this ability you must retain balance by roleblocking a person of your choice during the night. Your friends go by the names of TimeothyHour, Sruixan and Insufficient Fresh .

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_ _ _

Insufficient Fresh/SleepingOrange:

Your name is Nazario Silver. You are an outcast in this place. You don't understand why. Your affliction is as serious as all of the others here, if not more so. You have every right to be here. Why do they look at you with those fearful, hateful eyes? You never even did anything wrong. Considering what your problem is, you think that makes your achievement all the more impressive. No. Your only crime was to be honest about the ailment gnawing at you, and they responded by making you a pariah.

What does it matter if you can rip away the lives of those close to death? It doesn't mean you've ever done it. It's just a feeling, a knowing so tangible you can almost grasp it in your hands. Before their stares suggested it, the very act was a thing you would never even dream of doing.

But your hand has been forced. Aside from the people, the paradise of the Last Resort was the best thing you've ever encountered. You don't want to have to leave just because it's the Rules. Out in the real world, you're nothing. Here, at least, you are feared.

So you teamed up with some like-minded individuals, and you killed the stupid man who was so thrilled to be leaving the best place on Earth. Not you personally, but it happened. You're going to kill everyone else too.

You are a member of the Mafia, and the Executioner. When a person is on a soft lynch, you may cause them to be lynched there and then. However, you may only do this three times in the entire game. As a member of the Mafia, you will win when you and your fellow dissident guests control the lynch vote. These people are Sruixan, Dragon Fogel and TimeothyHour. You may communicate with them at night. At the start of the game you may also communicate during the day, but this depends on certain factors.

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_ _ _

TimeothyHour:

Your name is Edward Hopkins, and you’ve been around the Last Resort for as long as anyone can remember. You’re practically part of the furniture. Unlike most of those who wander into this place, your particular problem was severe enough that you’ve been required to stay for several years in the Last Resort. Improvement has been slow – very slow – and you fear more than anything that you would simply regress if you left.

You won’t let that happen. You can’t go back to the humiliation of your previous state. In fact, you’re so certain of this that you would be willing to kill.

And you have.

With agreement from your like-minded friends you murdered that insufferable idiot, the one who was so goddamn pleased about leaving.

You think it underlined your aim quite neatly.

You are the Godfather and the Killer of the Mafia. You’ve been around the Last Resort for so long that no one would even think to suspect you, so you will turn up as innocent to all accurate investigations. You also get to decide the method and target of the nightly kill. The method can also involve the inclusion of short notes if you wish, and these will be found with the body in the morning flavour.

As a member of the mafia you also have the ability to talk to your fellow scum by night. They are Dragon Fogel, Sruixan and Insufficient Fresh.

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_ _ _

Sruixan:

Your name is David Roosevelt, and chaos is your so-called affliction. You don't believe that to be the case, obviously, since your 'problem' has been nothing but useful. You might even go so far to say that you don't belong in this place, but aside from the nut jobs hanging around it's quite wonderful. Yes. If you could get rid of those, this place would be just perfect. You would have everything you could ever need.

Fortunately, you have both the desire and the means to enact such an event.

First, you have your talent for twisting the orderly, subtly but powerfully. It’s not escaped your attention that more than a few of the nut jobs in question aren’t going to go down without a fight, but you reason that swapping around the location of certain people’s rooms will be more than enough to sufficiently confuse them.

Second, you have a circle of accomplices. Three others with the same idea, and more than enough drive. You already killed that woman. You know, the one who was actually pleased about leaving. Or one of you killed her, anyway.

All in all, you reckon it’s going to go fairly well.

You are the Bus Driver. Your chaotic influence allows you to pick two people each night; any effects targeting one will instead target the other, and vice versa. You may talk with your ring of accomplices at night, but also in the day (although the latter is subject to certain factors). They go by the names of Insufficient Fresh, TimeothyHour and Dragon Fogel. You are aligned with the Mafia.

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ProfessorLizzard:

Show Content

SpoilerN1
You lay in bed a little while after the lynching, but you found it difficult to wait to carry out your investigation. So, a few minutes later, you leapt out of your bedsheets (fully clothed – why get changed when there are investigations to be had?) and slipped out of your room.

It was eerily silent in the corridors. You couldn't remember it being any noisier in normal times, but at least then it didn't sound like suppressed quiet – like the noise of nineteen people trying to not make a noise.

You find the door of your target's room unlocked. (Not that it would have been a problem if it had been – you were curious about lock picking once, and true to form you went to immense lengths trying to sate that curiosity.)

A quick sweep of the room offers nothing of interest. Dissatisfaction gnawing at you, you are compelled to look again, this time tapping everything in search of hollowness or secret compartments where evidence of evil deeds might lie. However, the room still remains extremely innocent.

Irritated, you leave quickly. There is no doubt about it.

Mirdini is Innocent.

N2

As the night fully settles in you pace around your room, burning with curiosity but still too cautious to leave before you're certain everyone will be asleep. You glance out the window at the darkened sky and the rising moon, but it does nothing to ease your restlessness.

Suddenly, a clack of metal causes you to spin around and stare.

It came from the door.

Fearing the worst, you stride over and try the handle. Just as you thought, someone has taken it upon themselves to lock you inside your own room. It seems you won't be able to satisfy your curiosity tonight.

N3

Your curiosity burning away at you, you hardly bother to wait the proper amount of time before sneaking away into the night.

However, just as you stand to leave an incredible pain grips your skull. You fall to the floor, utterly helpless. You can't move, you can't stand and you can't yell for help. There is only pain.

For hours this lasts, each second an eternity, until the first rays of dawn shine through your window and it is far too late to investigate.

N4

Your impatience is the greatest it has ever been. You don't even bother to return to your room. Desperate that nothing will stop you tonight, you step out into the labyrinth of corridors that make twist through the building like veins, lurking in shadows and behind corners until a sufficient degree of sleep-fuelled silence has fallen over the hotel.

Excitement growing, you half stride, half run towards your target's room.

It is only when you swing around a corner and set eyes upon it that the first spasm ripples through you. You slam into the ground, silently begging for it to be merely a symptom of your sleep deprivation. But as you attempt to rise, a second spasm sets in and the incredible pain that tormented you the previous night begins to rise...

Locked in agony til the first touches of dawn, you do not succeed in investigating tonight.

N5

You are nervous, this night, but as the hours of night pass you find no crippling pain comes to haunt you. Barely daring to believe, you slip outside your room and almost run to the chambers of your target.

Slipping through their door into the gloomy interior, you begin your search in earnest. Sure enough, you are quickly rewarded with the exact things you hoped to find. Barely able to contain your glee, you comb through drawers and wardrobes and other hiding spots, grinning each time your suspicions are confirmed.

When you slip away again, your spirits are high and your curiosity is at least partway satisifed.

Dragon Fogel is Guilty.

N6

Investigated, but death on the same night prevented a result being given.
[spoiler]

Solaris:
[spoiler]N1

Silently you pad down the familiar hallways of the Last Resort, your ears perfectly attuned to the goings on of the hotel. Your blindfold remains in place over your cursed eyes, keeping out the world that you alone may see. Even so, you are more than used to walking around as if blind. It strikes you as slightly ironic that this would be the case, seeing that you have at your disposal the ability to see far more than any other mortal.

In due time you arrive without a sound at your destination. You hesitate before the door, suddenly uncertain. Opening your eyes is no easy thing to deal with. Normally, you would never even consider it.

But these are not normal circumstances, are they?

Your mind made up, you open the door. It springs open at your touch, the trusting nature of those within the hotel persisting even now. You walk the last few steps, until you stand before the bed where your target lies.

You allow yourself a particularly loud inhalation, and slip off the blindfold.

At first it is fine. Your quarry is sound asleep on the bed. Some moonlight shines through the window into the room. The usual mess of a lived in room sits around the place.

But then tendrils of vision creep in the edges of your vision. Every object begins to gain the weight of a thousand memories that became interwoven with them over their use. It is still bearable, and you switch your focus solely to the sleeping person.

You flinch at the first memory of a splattering of blood, then a gleam of metal. Darkness appears, a sole person with a sole candle persisting against it. A dog is scratched behind the ears, a scream pierces through a gloomy alleyway, a couple exchanges rings in a white church, a fish twitches and gasps for breath in the mud-

Now the banality of memories runs away, and so does your calmness. Bare thoughts and feelings spring at you, all at once, each one a mere splinter of almost nothing on its own, a barrage of being forming a person when seen together.

You fight against the confusion and bewilderment, piecing together the essence of your target in a frenzy of fear. It is difficult to persist now, but to remain for much longer in this state of knowing would damage you. As the visions begin to appear more quickly and violently you find what you're looking for, and pull the blindfold back on before the more powerful knowledge can bite and tear at your sanity.

Noticing that your breathing has become laboured, you exit the room as quickly and quietly as your shaken demeanour will allow. You stop in the hallway, a chill going up your spine as you dwell on what you have seen.

There is no doubt about it.

Mirdini is Guilty.

N2

For the second time you pad out into the dark, fingertips brushing the walls as you pad over thick carpet. It doesn't take long to find the room you seek, nor does it to slip inside. You inch closer and you can hear your target's soft breathing as they sleep, oblivious to your presence. Untangling your blindfold, you set eyes on them for the first time.

The normal version of your sight vanishes more quickly this time. You hiss with shock as the images rush in, but it is not enough to alert your target and wake them from their slumber. A headache as sharp as the note of a silver bell causes you to clutch your skull. Distracted and disarmed, the memories of the sleeper overwhelm you within moments.

White clouds rushing over mountains, the shattering of a glass and the splash of red wine, a tear running down the cheek of a beautiful woman and your own trembling hand. Emotions overwhelm you as the flashes of life flick by: heartache, joy, bittersweet loss, soft, flickering love. From second to second you're ripped through euphoria and depression, ecstasy and agony. You can barely focus on the all important visions as these borrowed emotions tear your mind apart and, moments before you are certain you would die, the answer comes to you. Instantly your hands fly to your eyes, and everything vanishes.

Fighting back the urge to tear off your skin, to mutilate your eyes, to purge yourself of this hell, you stagger away.

Sruixan is innocent.

You collapse outside your door, weeping softly. You try to not think of the next night. Or the one after. Or even the life that stretches before you, full of opportunities where your visions might torment you.

Fortunately, you spared this by the sudden realisation that someone is standing very, very close to you. This realisation also ends quickly, but is this time cut short by a sharp prick of pain in your neck and complete darkness.

_ _ _

You awake tied to a chair. Your blindfold is still in place, thankfully, but you can hear someone not far from where you are sitting. You sit up properly, having slumped over while unconscious.

“My apologies for inconveniencing you like this.” The speaker is male, deep voiced. Not too young, but probably not old either. It's difficult to properly judge.

“Who are you? What do you want?” They're hardly original questions, but they encapsulate all that you want to know right now.

“You may know me as Drakenforge. And again, I must apologise. You have been poisoned with a lethal dose.”

Panic flares up for a moment, but you're too exhausted to sustain it. Instead, a coldness descends upon you. Maybe it's the poison or maybe it's you giving up, but a numbness settles through your limbs.
“Why?” You're surprised at how bitter you sound – partially because it's more than you expected, but also because it's not as angry as you might have hoped.

“You're taking this well. I must admit that I'm surprised.”

“Why?!” Rage underlines the question this time, and you strain at your ties as you spit it out. A little satisfaction bubbles up in that detached part of you.

“You're not going to die. You're more use to me alive. Don't think of this as murder: think of it as life insurance. I have the antidote right here.” You hear a faint sloshing of liquid. “The poison I gave you will take a day to take full effect. For the majority of that time you will feel fine. It's only in the last few hours that your body will fail, and your mind will be destroyed by the pain of your body decaying. And then you will die.”

“How does that help anyone, freak?”

“Because every night we will meet, and I will give you the antidote. The poison will be halted. But I will also poison you again, and it will restart the journey that ends in your destruction. As long as I live, you will also. But if I should die, then you will meet your end a day later. My advice to you is to stop that from happening in any way you can.”

“You're disgusting.”

Your captor sighs, and you delight in noticing a little frustration in the noise.

“I assume that you want the same thing as I do. You want to kill those who spilled innocent blood, those who torment us with their presence. The idea of the noose is all very well, but it's subject to interference by those who want us all dead. It's a weak system. I will seek them out and kill those I suspect myself, and they will be powerless to stop me.”

“So why do you need me?”

“Because I need someone I can trust. I can't do that by talking – in this place, it is nothing short of insanity to trust someone on their word alone.”

“So you're using threats?”

“Precisely. I'm glad you understand.”

Without warning you feel a sharp pain on the back of your head, and you lose consciousness once more.

When you awake you are in your room, untied. The poisoner is gone, and all is quiet again.

You have been recruited by the Mentor as his Mentee. If the Mentor dies, you will die during the night after his death. Essentially you are a one-way Lover, as the Mentor will be unaffected by your death. The Mentor is Drakenforge. You may also communicate with Drakenforge at any time using this QT: <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/x4s6mjkL9J5v">https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/x4s6mjkL9J5v</a><!-- m -->

N3

Action submitted but death the same night prevented a result being given.

Ixcaliber:

Show Content

SpoilerN1

At some point in the night you slip out of your room, through the halls and down the stairs. You walk silently and soullessly through the abandoned chairs and glasses of the bar, the gleaming plates and cutlery of the dining room, onwards into the sterile darkness of the kitchen until you stand in front of the door you seek.

It's old, its shabbiness somewhat incongruous with the modern and sleek surroundings. A lock bars your passage, but it too is ancient and it breaks easily. You continue your descent down wooden stairs that creak and moan as you pass, like long forgotten ghosts of the hotel. The air is cooler down here, and soon the walls give way to stone.

As you step out into the expanse of the old coldroom, you are greeted with the muffled noise of rushing water. A river runs below this room, you were told, and it would keep the contents of the room above cool. Back in the centuries gone by when royalty and nobility almost exclusively would visit this place, before it became a bastion of the sick, this was the closest thing they had to a refrigerator. Today only certain wines and alcohol is kept cool down here... as well as the bodies of the deceased.

There are only two, covered in cloth to preserve what little dignity they might had left. The man who was lynched tonight didn't pose much of a problem – he was largely intact. The woman who had died this morning, however... they had for some reason felt the need to rearrange her before laying the sheet over her. It was odd, but it made your job easier. The bloodstained suitcase lay open in the corner.

You flipped up the covering on one of the bodies, finding your target immediately. You only unveiled her head, but that was all you needed. It had been laid on its side out of ease. You picked it up, looking at her clouded eyes. You absent-mindedly brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and laid a greyscale hand over her visage.

The memories come first. The pain of everyone, held by her always. A desperate, selfish need to help others just so she wouldn't suffer. A name: Angelina. One remaining family member: a crippled sister. The general gave way to the specific, but it was mainly banal things. Nothing you cared about.

Then came the colour. Your hand changed to the colour of a living person, someone with a soul. Something the two of you lacked. She in turn became completely grey, the fiery hair and blue eyes fading into drabness.

As you walked away with your stolen face, you tried to convince yourself that you regretted taking the only thing Angelina had left. In truth, your only hope came from that you'd gone to the effort to try it.

You have gained to abilities of a vanilla town. Which is to say, nothing that you didn't have before.

N2

Submitted an action but death on the same night prevented a result being given.

Whimbrel/soundlyParanoid:

Show Content

SpoilerN1 – Tracked Pinary

When night has fully fallen and everyone has had the good sense to at least pretend to be asleep, you glide through the hallways of the hotel and come to a halt outside of your target's door. Although it hardly matters, you still make your best attempts to remain silent and still. It feels more courteous that way; if you're going to spy on someone, you may as well make an effort.

However, it becomes apparent over the course of the night that your attempt has been in vain. Nobody leaves the room that night, so you have no one to follow. As the first rays of dawn creep through the window you sigh and coast back to your room.

After all, you have the appearance of a good night's sleep to keep up.

N2 – Tracked Pinary

After the failure of your previous night's attempt to draw up anything interesting, you settle outside of Pinary's room with slightly dampened enthusiasm. And yet again, unfortunately, you are made to wait outside for the entirety of the night.

Pinary visited no one tonight.

N3 – Tracked MrGuy

This night you go out in search of someone different. Full of hope, you stand and wait outside for hours on end.

Unfortunately, at no point in the night does MrGuy leave his room. Another dead end.

N4 – soundlyParanoid replaces – Tracks SleepingOrange

You spring out into the night with a newfound determination. It seems nothing short of devastatingly cruel luck would cause you to come up short of results for the fourth night in a row, and so you have fallen back to optimism. Through the echoing corridors of the hotel you sometimes pause, thinking you've heard someone or something, but you always shake your head and keep moving. Whatever business others have walking the hallways at night is of no importance to you: right now, your focus is on one SleepingOrange.

This night, as with so many other nights, you stand and wait outside of his door. The first few minutes pass slowly, so excited as you are for a result, but eventually the chunks of time slip away more quickly. Before very long at all the hours of night have peeled away and dawn has arrived.

Thoroughly dejected, you slink back to your room and consider the atrocious condition of your luck.

SleepingOrange visited no one tonight.

Mirdini:

Show Content

SpoilerN1

g0m and TimeothyHour:
As midnight approaches, you decree that it is time. You're not sure why then, exactly, but something about the melodramatic reputation of the hour appeals to you. You unfurl a large, thick sheet of paper from the stack you keep just for this sort of thing and uncap your favourite pen. Laying these on the desk, you sit and think.

Eventually you pick up the pen and begin to inscribe a circle of names onto the paper. Twenty of them. The residents of the Last Resort as of today, before the hanging of the man who wrote all the time.

Then, with wonderfully decisive stroke of the pen, you link the names of g0m and TimeothyHour.

Thoughts and notions immediately begin to coalesce in your mind: not all of them, perhaps, belonging to you. Closing your eyes you focus on those two people, reaching for a solid link in the midst of the mental swathes that revolved inside your mind.

Suddenly, your eyes snap open. Along the line you slashed across the paper you find three words written in your neat hand.

In a way.

You frown at those words. This was not what you were expecting at all, but searching your thoughts you do find a faint ringing of connection between these two people. It's not quite right, and it's certainly not a direct link, but it is there all the same.

Sighing, you return the pen to its resting place, cleaned and capped, and fold up the paper. Perhaps tomorrow night will prove more fruitful.

(This puzzled a lot of people, no doubt, but the connection was actually very tenuous indeed. Their only connection is that the scum team happened to roleblock g0m on the same night. However, g0m had no night action so he was never informed of this.)

N2

Woffles and Pharmacy:
You have already prepared your table before midnight strikes. A fresh page, corners slightly curling, lies before you, your pen and ink sat to your right. Just as before, your write the twenty names of those in the hotel, although your hand slows as it shapes the names of the dead. Three of them, all good people. Doubtlessly the dawn will bring light to more shed blood. You shudder, and finish the circle of names.

It is a little easier to focus on your desired connection to night, already voiced and thought about as it had been. A Hunter and a Hunted is a romantic idea, but you doubt the truth of it. Shaking your head, you lay aside the scepticism for a moment and allow your mind to wander.

Some time later (it feels like only a few minutes, but your clock declares it to have been far longer) your pen begins to move. It traces a line between Woffles and Pharmacy, and moves to write a word beside it, but your mind is consumed by thoughts of fiery passion and blood, the sound of crossed rapiers and the smell of smoke from a fired pistol. And there – two individuals, trapped within this hell, doomed to live and doomed to die.

Your eyes snap open. Beside the line connecting Woffles and Pharmacy there lies three letters: YES.

There is no doubt. The two are inextricably linked.

During D3 you may not mention or allude to the names of Woffles and Pharmacy.

N3

You are sat at your desk, paper and ink ready, when you hear something behind you. The lights are dimmed, so at first when you turn you don't see them.

Then, from the darkest shadows, a woman steps forward. Your first instinct is to yell, but her gaze holds you and all noise dies upon your lips.

It is then that you realise it is Woffles who stands before you.

“Why-”

She puts a finger to her lips, and words fail you once more.

“This is important,” she says. “Very important. The truth of the Last Resort has been revealed to me, and it is of vital importance that everyone knows. But there is not much time, and every day someone dies. I will tell you this truth, but you must be prepared to stand by me. I need allies if this is to prevail.”

“What truth?” Your words are hardly your own: you are captivated by her speech, and your entire attention is focused on her.

“This whole thing is a sham. Completely and utterly. The people here... they are not sick. They are gifted. The hotel will not remove that, and has never been capable of such a feat. Think about when you first came here. How did you know that this lifeless building would solve all your ills? Why, the people who were here before you said so. And you were so desperate for reprieve that you believed them, and clung on to every lie you were told, just as those before you had done. But there is no shame in that. Not when we have all suffered.

“But somebody needs to take control. People are dying, and yet it does not even cross the mind of others to leave. All of us could just walk out, right this instant, and yet we stay and die.”

“So – we must leave this place?”

“No. Not yet. There is no healing to be found here, but the Last Resort still has merit. It's a hotel, and a fine one at that. It's history is heaving with the rich and famous who stayed here, yet now it rots. If this building deserves anything, Mirdini, it is to be raised to its former glory. We must convert others, and kill those who will not be convinced. Specifically, those who started the bloodshed. Alas, their minds have gone. It is too late for them.”

A sad note had crept into her voice, but suddenly she smiles at you.

“May a new dawn break over this accursed building.”

You find you couldn't agree more.

You have been recruited as a Follower of the Cult Leader, Woffles. Your alignment is no longer Town, but Third Party. You retain your abilities, but you will win when the anti-town is dead and your cult make up the majority of players. While Woffles lives she may recruit a member into the cult each night. Should she die, the cult will lose this ability but keep their new alignment. They must then achieve victory alone.

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Dragon Fogel and Whimbrel:

A little unsettled after your change of alignment, it takes you longer than usual to focus and clear your mind. Eventually, however, the ink flows and the twenty names write themselves. You sink into faded consciousness and sift through all the memories, words and gestures of your two targets. Like pieces in a puzzle moments slot together and scatter irretrievably, until you have your answer.

Carefully written in the centre of the circle are two letters: No.

A little bemused by your result, you tidy away the papers and go in search of sleep.

N4

Not a little perturbed by the drawing of a card so ominously named as Death, when you take the time to dart back to your room it takes longer than usual to compose yourself. You spill your ink, the tip of your pen snaps and the paper becomes torn and crumpled before long.

Being in a cult doesn't suit you very well, apparently.

Nevertheless, you soon clean up the mess and retrieve fresh stationery, and the thinking begins. Twenty names arrange themselves in a circle. Two are chosen. And, after a great deal of pondering your hand writes a neat 'No' next to the line that joins ProfessorLizzard and Drakenforge. Sighing, you tidy up again and return to witness the drawing of the tarot card.

Wheat:

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SpoilerN1

You gaze around the darkened room of this Ixcaliber person. You've rooted through the place more than once, and you haven't found a single incriminating object. Or anything that implies any interests or even an inkling of personality. It's not what is in the room that's unnerving you, but what appears to be lacking.

The search didn't take long. You're about to leave. After all, you didn't find anything. You should leave. Before the sleeping person wakes up and finds you.

You instead turn on the light.

And you find what you were looking for. Immediately the light is switched off, and you exit the room. That's done. No need to think about it any more.

Although, of course, it is mildly intriguing. You know, that the entire room is completely grey. No colour at all. Even the complementary fruit, somehow. But it's hardly important.

Suddenly, you yawn.

Huh. Guess I should drink some more coffee.

And you do. All is well.

N2

By the time you arrive at MalkyTop's room, you are quite irked at how long it took you. For some unfathomable reason the room isn't among the guest rooms, but is burrowed virtually in the basement.
There's a lot of stuff lying around down here: half assembled mechanisms, toolboxes, scrap metal, oil containers, and other similar things which are no doubt useful if boring. The place is a mess, put simply.

Kicking away a rusty strip of something, you walk towards another door and open it quietly.

There's a bedroom inside: it's smaller and more simple than the guest rooms, but it's still pleasant and comfortable. Somebody is asleep in a bed in the corner: MalkyTop, presumably. Poking around the room, you find a hefty ring of keys, a few more overflowing toolboxes and some delicate models of ships and planes on a work bench of some sort. A half assembled miniature Spitfire gleams in the gloom. The wardrobe houses a few overalls as well as the casual clothes you would expect a normal person to wear.

Aside from all that, there's not much else to see. You quickly grow bored and wander away, searching for other things to hold your interest until morning arrives.

N3 – Investigated Sruixan

You open the door of your target's room but go no further.

Behind this seemingly innocent doors a non-euclidean hell twists and turns. Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how you would even begin to set foot within this room. If you focus you think you can make out the major landmarks of a bedroom, such as a bed and various other parts of furniture, but the entire exercise quickly devolves into a headache only a litre of strong coffee could help.

Clutching your head, you shut the door and stagger off in search of just that.

N4

You are enjoying the first espresso of the night when you hear something behind you. The lights are dimmed, so at first when you turn you don't see the source.

Then, from the darkest shadows, a woman steps forward. Your first instinct is to yell, but her gaze holds you and all noise dies upon your lips.

It is then that you realise it is Woffles who stands before you.

“Why-”

She puts a finger to her lips, and words fail you once more.

“This is important,” she says. “Very important. The truth of the Last Resort has been revealed to me, and it is of vital importance that everyone knows. But there is not much time, and every day someone dies. I will tell you this truth, but you must be prepared to stand by me. I need allies if this is to prevail.”

“What truth?” Your words are hardly your own: you are captivated by her speech, and your entire attention is focused on her.

“This whole thing is a sham. Completely and utterly. The people here... they are not sick. They are gifted. The hotel will not remove that, and has never been capable of such a feat. Think about when you first came here. How did you know that this lifeless building would solve all your ills? Why, the people who were here before you said so. And you were so desperate for reprieve that you believed them, and clung on to every lie you were told, just as those before you had done. But there is no shame in that. Not when we have all suffered.

“But somebody needs to take control. People are dying, and yet it does not even cross the mind of others to leave. All of us could just walk out, right this instant, and yet we stay and die.”

“So – we must leave this place?”

“No. Not yet. There is no healing to be found here, but the Last Resort still has merit. It's a hotel, and a fine one at that. It's history is heaving with the rich and famous who stayed here, yet now it rots. If this building deserves anything, Wheat, it is to be raised to its former glory. We must convert others, and kill those who will not be convinced. Specifically, those who started the bloodshed. Alas, their minds have gone. It is too late for them.”

A sad note had crept into her voice, but suddenly she smiles at you.

“May a new dawn break over this accursed building.”

You find you couldn't agree more.

You have been recruited as a Follower of the Cult Leader, Woffles. Your alignment is no longer Town, but Third Party. You retain your abilities, but you will win when the anti-town is dead and your cult make up the majority of players. While Woffles lives she may recruit a member into the cult each night. Should she die, the cult will lose this ability but keep their new alignment. They must then achieve victory alone.

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Drakenforge:

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SpoilerN1

You stand at the window, observing the moonlight city outside while taking a drink to steady your nerves. Your free hand twitches at the thought of the work ahead of you tonight.

Suddenly, you hear a noise at the door. You quickly turn, but the door is still closed. You draw closer, listening intently, but there is only complete silence. Agitated, you lunge forward and attempt to open the door.

It is locked. You rattle at it for a moment, even try to kick it down, but this is a very well made door with a lock of excellent quality. Thwarted, you try using your own key, only to find that the person who locked you in also had the foresight to leave in their key. Your mind briefly strays to thoughts of pushing a newspaper under the door and poking the key out of the lock, but it seems that the doors are completely sealed around the edges to provide improved soundproofing. No newspaper is getting under that.

Resigned to your fate, you pour yourself another drink and wait for the morning.

N2

You prepare your poisons and stalk out into the night in search of Solaris. You can't prevent a smile twisting on lips as you stride through the ubiquitous gloom, these dark hallways your domain while all others sleep. You won't be taking a life just yet, but the anticipation still sends thrills through you. Some long faded morals only serve to add a forbidden taste to the whole affair.

As you turn a corner in the hotel, you see someone crouched outside your destination. His quiet sobs float through the unearthly silence and lend an even deeper level of eeriness to the whole situation. You walk closer, almost expecting him to fade and disappear like a ghost as you approach. In spite of this, he remains corporeal but still fails to notice you.

You walk closer still, until you could reach out and touch his shaking form.

“Solaris.”

He doesn't react to his name. So you inject him with tranquilliser.

_ _ _

You dragged him into his own room, sat him in a chair and tied him up. You're not sure he would have stayed upright if you hadn't done that, but you suppose it made it easier to break the news to him.

It only takes a minute to inject the poison into his arm.

Then you draw up another chair and wait for your victim to wake up.

_ _ _

He twitches suddenly, gasping for breath as he rights himself in the chair.

“My apologies for inconveniencing you like this,” you say before he can fully react.

“Who are you? What do you want?” The bewilderment is clear, but he also sounds a little... tired. Downtrodden. Not as enthusiastic about his entrapment as he could have been.

“You may know me as Drakenforge. And again, I must apologise. You have been poisoned with a lethal dose.”

He twitches again at that, straining at his ties instinctively.

“Why?” The word is bitter, but again not as shocked or angry as you were expecting. It's almost comforting.

“You're taking this well. I must admit that I'm surprised.”

“Why?!” You can't help but smirk at the sudden rage of your prisoner, but you banish it quickly. It seems like bad taste to torment people you don't intend to kill.

“You're not going to die. You're more use to me alive. Don't think of this as murder: think of it as life insurance. I have the antidote right here.” You shake the relevant bottle so that he can hear the liquid inside. “The poison I gave you will take a day to take full effect. For the majority of that time you will feel fine. It's only in the last few hours that your body will fail, and your mind will be destroyed by the pain of your body decaying. And then you will die.”

“How does that help anyone, freak?” You're unsettled slightly by the insult, unsurprising as it should be, but you don't let him see that.

“Because every night we will meet, and I will give you the antidote. The poison will be halted. But I will also poison you again, and it will restart the journey that ends in your destruction. As long as I live, you will also. But if I should die, then you will meet your end a day later. My advice to you is to stop that from happening in any way you can.”

“You're disgusting.” You're stung once more. Perhaps you just aren't as thick skinned as you hoped.

Your sigh, irritated at his unwillingness to accept the situation.

“I assume that you want the same thing as I do. You want to kill those who spilled innocent blood, those who torment us with their presence. The idea of the noose is all very well, but it's subject to interference by those who want us all dead. It's a weak system. I will seek them out and kill those I suspect myself, and they will be powerless to stop me,” you reply.

“So why do you need me?”

“Because I need someone I can trust. I can't do that by talking – in this place, it is nothing short of insanity to trust someone on their word alone.”

“So you're using threats?” You smile at that.

“Precisely. I'm glad you understand.”

With a swift hit Solaris is knocked unconscious once more. You untie him and leave, smiling to yourself.

You have gained a Mentee in the form of Solaris. If you die he will die the night after, but if Solaris dies then the only ill effects you will suffer are having to find another Mentee. While you have a Mentee, you can kill a target of your choice once a night. You may also talk to your Mentee at any point in this QT: <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/x4s6mjkL9J5v">https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/x4s6mjkL9J5v</a><!-- m -->

N4

Tranquillising TimeothyHour is no problem at all. It's a tad more difficult to transport him back to your room, and tying a limp body to a chair is never easy, but soon enough the task is done. You inject the lethal dose of poison, turn the chair to face the wall and wait for your victim to wake up.

It doesn't take long.

“Hello? Hello! Kidnapper? Crazy psycho? Wanna talk? Or just tell me why the hell I'm here?”

“Certainly.”

You quickly rise from your chair and smoothly spin the chair around. The furniture and its inhabitant now face your desk. You flash him a slight disapproving look before retaking your seat behind the table. For a moment you look at each other: you with bored disinterest and him with casual terror.

“So,” he says.

“So,” you reply. “Any idea why you're here?”

“Not especially. Unless you're especially sadistic, I think you're not going to kill me. It would have been easier to do it while I was out. So that really makes me wonder why the hell I'm strapped to this actually rather uncomfortable chair. Interrogation? I hope it's interrogation. That seems to be the nicest outcome I can think of.”

You look at him, a little uncomfortable at his willingness to monologue.

“You're... chatty,” you say at last. “The last guy I had in here wasn't so pleased to see me.”

“Interrogation?”

You sigh and shoot him another dirty look.

“No, unfortunately,” you say a little more tersely than is probably necessary. “You've been poisoned. Slow-acting, but a lethal dose.”

“Oh.” He tilts his head to the side and makes a show of thinking about that. “Are you going to save me then?”

“Wrong again. I was the one who poisoned you.”

“Ah. My first idea concerning a sadistic murderer is looking unfortunately likely. Can I be incorrect a third time?”

“Sure. I've got an antidote.”

“But...?” He begins to look quite obviously uneasy.

“I wanted a little life insurance. So I'm going to give it to you, in 24 hours, but I'll also poison you again at the same time. You'll recover enough that you won't die before the next time I administer the antidote, but if I die you won't be getting your hands on the antidote any time soon. Not soon enough, anyway. It's in your best interests to keep me alive, truthfully.”

You pause, but your victim says nothing to plug the gap. You continue.

“We'll be able to communicate at all times, so I can help you help me stay alive. And while I have my life insurance in place, I can get down to business on the real work here.”

“What would that be?”

“Killing those who are killing us.”

He goes quiet again.

“The last guy got pretty verbal at this point,” you say. You're not sure what you're expecting or hoping for, but saying something seems like a good idea.

“The last guy. What happened to him?”

“He got killed.”

“Ah.”

Awkwardness and silence. Again.

“I guess you'll be wanting to get back to your room now?”

“Uh, yeah.”

You are more than happy to oblige with an injection.

You have gained a Mentee in the form of TimeothyHour. If you die he will die the night after, but if TimeothyHour dies then the only ill effects you will suffer are having to find another Mentee. While you have a Mentee, you can kill a target of your choice once a night. You may also talk to your Mentee at any point in this QT: <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/k57XLq7i5RDER">https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/k57XLq7i5RDER</a><!-- m -->

Pharmacy:

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SpoilerN1

You return to your room without incident, your mind already whirring with the possibilities of how to track down your lost dueling partner. You are halfway through ensuring your pistols are in good shape when the telephone begins to ring.

You don't hesitate in picking it up, and the duellist on the other end equally doesn't hesitate in cutting straight to the point.

"I get a half-win and a new full-win condition if I face the duel and survive. Is this the same for you? I'm willing to give us both a half-win and a chance at full-win if you're okay with rigging the duel if it rolls about."

_ _ _

You stride out into the night as soon as possible, pausing only to leave a response to your partner's message. Although the duel has yet to be rigged, your excitement is palpable. You smile, half jogging through the empty corridors of the hotel as you make your way to your chosen place of waiting. The chances of your duelling partner being there are low, certainly, but you're fully equipped and ready to leap out at them with the first chance you get.

Upon arriving at the room of your target your mood becomes more serious. You don't want to mess this up. You enter, completely silent. For lack of a better hiding place you slide beneath the bed, and wait.

In the darkness, the only thing visible is your grin.

Woffles:

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SpoilerN1

You leave your room a little earlier than might be sensible, your mind thriving with paranoid fears. Everywhere you look you expect your duelling partner to leap out at you, fully intent on your demise. Every time you hear a noise you jump, and more often than not you end up wedging yourself into whatever hiding place you can find. For a few long minutes you wait, until you become completely certain that they aren't there.

When you finally arrive at your chosen room, you sigh with relief and slink inside. Slipping into a wardrobe, you spend the night in unobserved terror.

As soon as dawn arrives you stagger back to your own room, sleep deprived but a little less afraid.

That courage soon drains away, however, when you see that the duellist has left you a telephone message. With trembling hands, you pick up the receiver and listen.

“I accept.”

And that is all.

N2

After the duel, you wander back to your room to clean yourself up. You go unnoticed as everyone attempts to deal with the body. Whilst you completely evaded damage yourself, there is still the blood of others to wash away.

And then there is a sink of hot water and soap and time to think. You're free. Completely and utterly. Never again will you fear the sounds of night, thinking that it might be Her. Never again will you have to wield the weapons of duels.

But now you have no purpose. For so long it was to run away and hide. Now... what do you do?

“I may have an idea or two.”

You simultaneously scrabble for your pistol and spin around to face the intruder, but it doesn't seem to be where you left it. You face them empty handed.

A man in a maroon suit stands before you, a fedora placed on his tilted head so that his eyes are in shadow. You know immediately that this is not a guest of the Last Resort. Indeed, as if out of your control your gaze lowers to where his feet should be, and instead two cloven hooves gleam back at you.

You swear, and he laughs. Instead of explaining his appearance, he takes the time to light a cigarette. You watch him in silence.

When he eventually speaks, his tone is suddenly far more silky and appealing than in his opening sentence.

“I know, Ms. Veronesi, that you are wondering why I am here. Considering that you seem to have realised who I am, any scenarios you may be imagining are no doubt somewhat unpleasant.” He looks you straight in the eye, and smiles warmly behind the cigarette smoke. “I ask you not to worry. My proposal is a simple one. While I cannot claim that it involves no bloodshed, I would not say that it requires any more than would have already taken place here.”

“Spit it out.” His manner is charming, but the presence of this man (if you may refer to him as that) aggravates you like nothing else. You'd rather he left as soon as possible.

Instead, he chuckles a little.

“Think of it this way, Ms. Veronesi. Your problem has been solved. You no longer need the Last Resort as a place of healing – indeed, the world is your oyster. This places you in a unique position. Unlike the guests who have incited the killings, you do not fear having to leave. And unlike those who defend against the so-called scum, you do not even need them gone. You walk out of the door right this instant.”

“I – I thought the doors were locked. That's why everyone hasn't just left, right?”

He smiles again, every line on his face traced with glee.

“Of course not. Anyone could have left, at any time they chose. But they didn't, because they depend on this place. They all believe in its magical potential, but I wouldn't be surprised if the entire thing was just a sham, perpetuated by the beliefs forced onto the newcomers by those who are still here.” He shrugs. “But that's besides the point. What I say to you, Ms. Veronesi, is that you seize control. Create a third party with yourself at the head, and clean out the deluded fools who live here. With them gone, the hotel is yours. This place used to be the choice of lodgings for royalty and celebrity, and there is no reason why it couldn't be so again. You could run this place, Ms. Veronesi. You're more than capable, and all the resources are there, just begging to be used. Wealth and prestige would be yours, and every night you would rub shoulders with the richest and most influential as they flocked to your hotel. And then, Ms. Veronesi, there would be nothing at all to hold you back from doing anything you wanted to do.”

He pauses to exhale smoke. “Quite literally anything at all.” He looks you in the eyes once more, and you know he sees just how badly you want everything he described. You look away, but it's too late: he knows he has you hooked.

“Would I have to kill... everyone?”

“Everyone? No, not at all. You'll need help, my dear. These poor people can't imagine life outside or beyond the Last Resort, but you can help them. I can give you a silver tongue, and make them powerless to your words. However, I must warn you – the 'scum' cannot be persuaded. Your words, wonderful as I may make them, will do nothing but enrage them. If you try and convince one, they will kill you. There is nothing I can do about that.” He shakes his head sorrowfully. You think you might even see a tear glistening in his shadowed eyes.

“If you do all that for me – what do I have to give you?” You know you want the vision he described to you, but you don't yet know what price you'd pay for it.

“Give me? Nothing. I would not ask anything of you, not when you already have such a difficult task ahead of you. Or, at least, not yet. When I come to receive my payment, you will have reached such dizzying heights that it will be very little to ask of you. You will find it no problem, my dear.”

He smiles at you, yet again, with that gloriously charming smile. In spite of your fear, your lingering distrust, you can't help but believe him on this count. You smile back.

“Then yes,” you reply. “I accept.”

Another smile, a flash of red, a puff of cigarette smoke, and the man is gone. The deal is done.

You have become a Third Party Leader, otherwise known as a Cult Leader. Every night you may visit a person and recruit them to your cause. If they are anti-town, then you will die, but any remaining members of your Party will keep their new alignment and will attempt to achieve victory without you.

As a Party, your goal is to destroy the anti-town and control the vote (that is, make up the majority of the players). You may still win if your Party gains victory but you die in the process. If you die, then no more players may be recruited into the Party. All recruited members will retain the powers they had before their alignment switch. It should be noted that all recruits including yourself will appear as scum to sane investigations. Upon gaining your first recruit, a QT will be set up for discussion. In the meantime, if you have any questions you may use your person QT.

N3

You find Mirdini in his room with the lights dimmed. He sits at a desk, deep in thought, and doesn't notice you as you walk through the gloom towards him. Suddenly, he turns and sees you. Fear flashes over his face.

“Why-”

You put a finger to your lips, and through your new powers he is silenced.

“This is important,” you say. “Very important. The truth of the Last Resort has been revealed to me, and it is of vital importance that everyone knows. But there is not much time, and every day someone dies. I will tell you this truth, but you must be prepared to stand by me. I need allies if this is to prevail.”

“What truth?” His fear is gone now, and he listens intently to your every word. He is powerless against you.

“This whole thing is a sham. Completely and utterly. The people here... they are not sick. They are gifted. The hotel will not remove that, and has never been capable of such a feat. Think about when you first came here. How did you know that this lifeless building would solve all your ills? Why, the people who were here before you said so. And you were so desperate for reprieve that you believed them, and clung on to every lie you were told, just as those before you had done. But there is no shame in that. Not when we have all suffered.

“But somebody needs to take control. People are dying, and yet it does not even cross the mind of others to leave. All of us could just walk out, right this instant, and yet we stay and die.”

“So – we must leave this place?”

“No. Not yet. There is no healing to be found here, but the Last Resort still has merit. It's a hotel, and a fine one at that. It's history is heaving with the rich and famous who stayed here, yet now it rots. If this building deserves anything, Mirdini, it is to be raised to its former glory. We must convert others, and kill those who will not be convinced. Specifically, those who started the bloodshed. Alas, their minds have gone. It is too late for them.”

A sad note had crept into your voice, but suddenly you smile at him.

“May a new dawn break over this accursed building.”

You have recruited Mirdini, and he is now a Follower of the Cult. He retains his abilities, but he is now Third Party and aligned with you.

Discussions may take place in this QT: <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/3yE6F7vuqbd">https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/3yE6F7vuqbd</a><!-- m -->

g0m/Sanzh:

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SpoilerD5

While everyone including yourself is distracted by the miracle of a resurrection, a sliver of red fog curls around your shoulders. Only once it's darted inside your skull do you notice anything. In particular: a burning hatred for Dragon Fogel and soundlyParanoid. It seems quite clear and unavoidable that of the three of you, it is imperative that you be the last one alive.

It's obvious, really.

Pinary:

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SpoilerN1

You're sat on your bed in complete darkness, save for the piercing light of the moon that slashes through the gloom. It's not much, but it's enough to see what needs to be seen.

The cards.

You pass them through your trembling hands, savouring the texture of the paper envelopes. Truth be told, you're wasting time. You already know how this will play out. The second you saw the dead woman, dismembered and shoved in a suitcase, you knew. If anything was going to push you to open the envelopes, it would be that. The lynching of that man, too, only nudged you closer to the inevitable.

You're glad it finally arrived.

You immediately pluck out 'The Sun'. This card struck you as the least threatening of all of them. Indeed, the tarot meaning of the card speaks of optimism, youth and health. It can only bring good things.

You free the card from its paper prison and hold it up in the stream of moonlight so as to see it better. The sun dominates the upper half of the card, its ornate rays reaching out to a green land. A laughing cherub rides a horse the colour of sea foam. You allow yourself a smile. Perhaps. Perhaps everything will be alright.

But as you gaze on you notice the ornate sun has grown in brightness. Confused as to how this would be possible, you trace a finger lightly over the delicate lines only to yank it back as searing heat bites at it. The rest of the papery surface is perfectly cool, yet the sun still grows in its luminance. Suddenly childish laughter ricochets around the room (or perhaps your skull?) but you can't look away. The card has you trapped now, and the verdant land in the card blackens and dies under the soaring heat of the sun. You can feel it on your face. You blink, and in a confused moment you suddenly stand on that blackened ground, the acrid scent of fire and death stinging your nostrils.

The horse is gone, its bones already bare and cracked on the ground before you. The cherub, now a seraphim, stands in its ribcage. Your eyes meet. Already the heat is taking its toll on you, and you pant for breath. The angel, however, is perfectly calm and collected. It smiles at you.

It mouths a word.

You struggle to understand for a moment, until you realise that this is not just any word.

It is The Word.

“And Then There Was Light,” the angel says, but you can barely hear it over the sound of your own screaming. All that was ever created and all that never was is open to you, the entire work of a creation shoved through a third eye in your mind, an endless barrage of omniscience that no mere human should ever have been subject to. You can't cope. You could never possibly hope to. This is the kind of knowledge that would destroy the greatest of thinkers, the most enlightened of all broken in the blink of an eye.

Outside of your fading mind you are vaguely aware of there only being a searing light.

And then you wake up, the Sun card in your hand and darkness all around. Nothing has changed, but something is different. Perhaps dawn will show what it is.

(The Sun Card supposedly shortened the night, but in practice I rarely managed to stick to the new time frame.)

N2

You open the envelope with a little more caution today, considering the vision you received last time. But open it does, and The Star is liberated.

A silvery star gleams in a blue sky. On the lower half of the card a woman pours two pitchers of water: one into a river, another onto the land. She smiles at you briefly before she is eclipsed by the soft glow of the Star. Soon the card vanishes also, and you look up to see yourself standing among a sea of stars. Staring in wonder, you walk on inky darkness whilst lights like silver fireflies surround you. You feel entirely at peace as you walk.

Soon you encounter a banquet: at the head of a broad table sits a king and a queen, smiling at the guests in spite of the swords hanging by threads above their skulls. Servants greet you and take from you a heavy coat you hadn't realised you had been wearing. You touch your face and find a porcelain mask.

You recognise the other guests, in spite of the masks that they too wear. Each of them is dressed in the finest silks, furs and cloth, but you know them to be the guests of the Last Resort. They smile at you also as you take your place on the table, and for the rest of the night you dine and laugh amongst a sea of stars.

<!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/cSjrpp6AUdU">https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/cSjrpp6AUdU</a><!-- m -->

Everyone may talk in this thread during the remainder of the night.

N3

You slit the chosen envelope open without hesitation, but you gaze upon the card for only a moment before a bolt of lightning destroys your sight.

For a moment there is only the sound and pain and the light tearing your senses apart, but it stops as soon as it began.

Only now, you find yourself in somewhere different entirely.

You're high up, far higher than you have ever stood before, above a dusty plain that stretches into a stormy horizon. The land is barren, yet you are on a platform of some gargantuan tower. Craning your neck you attempt to see the top from your position, but it seems to stretch on up forever into those dark clouds. Even so, you can hear the faint sounds of further construction still higher up.

The cold wind biting at your skin, you turn to see another on the platform.

You've never seen a person so entrenched in neglect. Their hair is twisting, long and unkempt, and their sunken eyes gaze only downwards. Sores, filth and scars cover all of their visible bare skin, the rest hidden by rags. Chained manacles sit around their wrists, but the sheer thinness of the man renders them useless; he could slip out of them in an instant. But even if they did, a wall and a reinforced door would prevent escape. The only other place to go is over the edge of the platform, and there is no chance that it could end well. Instead, he accepts the futility of his situation.

As you examine him, neither of you speak or move. This continues until the door slams open, and someone shouts:

“Nameless Heretic! Your time has come!”

Two towering men enter and grab the Heretic, but the manpower is far from necessary for someone so emaciated. They also don't react to your presence, and have soon vanished back through the door. With no other purpose, you follow.

You are led through twisting corridors and labyrinthine passageways, all claustrophobic and dimly lit, but the general direction seems to generally upwards. One sharp corner leads the four of you to a pair of gleaming double doors. Six more men, presumably guards, stand on either side.

“Nameless Heretic.”

They nod at these two illuminating words, and the doors are swung open.

You immediately flinch at the sudden light, adjusted as you were to the gloom, and you almost get stranded outside as the doors begin to close again.

Staggering into a corner, you begin to drink in your new surroundings.

In stark contrast with the previous settings, this room is awe-inspiring in its spaciousness. Hundreds of candles sit in stands and on the floor, the collective light creating a bright glow with which to view the other decadences of the room. Precious metals and gems cover the walls and floor, and multiple engravings and sculpture lend the room a properly reverential air.

And in the midst of it all sits the High Priestess, on a throne large enough to seat five. There is no doubting the beauty of the woman, and every adoring face of the hooded servants around her confirms it. Finery drips from her every limb, but it is her incredible presence that draws your eyes. She could be in another room entirely, in any clothing at all, and she would still easily dominate the attention of all.

She stands, and everyone's gaze is on her.

“Nameless Heretic.”

Silence falls.

“You have been accused of heresy to the highest degree, and contempt of the court. You have failed to defend yourself, and so you have been found guilty. Your words will be branded on to your back. You will be cast from the tower, and will find your death in the fall.”

She pauses, and glides towards the accused. With one hand she holds his chin and tilts his head towards her.

“But if you renounce your words, your life will be spared. You may go free. What say you?”

Without hesitation, the Heretic replies in voice as smooth and strong as silk.

“Babel Will Fall.”
[right]( - (7) - Drakenforge, Pinary,
Pinary - (3) - Mirdini, Woffles, Dragon Fogel
Dragon Fogel - (1) – SleepingOrange)[/right]

A gasp ripples through those present.

In an instant, the High Priestess raises her hand and strikes the Nameless. A little blood sprays across the priceless floor, and she sweeps back to her throne. A hooded servant darts forward to wipe away the stain. Her back still turned, she raises a hand.

“Brand him. He has made his choice.”

The two guards holding the Heretic tear the rags off his back and drag him towards a brazier full of burning coals. Another hooded servant holds the brands, already heated upon the fire. Your mind screams for you to do something, but you seem curiously incapable of movement. You must merely watch each word as it settles onto the scabbed skin of the Heretic.

BABEL
[right]( - (7) - Drakenforge, Pinary,)[/right]

WILL
[right](Pinary - (3) - Mirdini, Woffles, Dragon Fogel)[/right]

FALL
[right](Dragon Fogel - (1) – SleepingOrange)[/right]

Once the screams have ended, the High Priestess walks around the back of her throne and casts open the double doors there. Another platform lies beyond them, and lightning can be seen flickering on the horizon. Thunder rumbles ominously, but the High Priestess is unperturbed.

“Bring him.”

Out to the edge they go, Priestess and Heretic. The guards dare not follow, releasing the prisoner at the doors. He walks to the edge without prompting.

She glares at him.

“One last chance, Heretic. You may still have your life, if you beg.”

He turns to her, and smiles. In that moment you glimpse the man from before the beginning of the torture, but it quickly vanishes again.

“Babel Will Fall.”
[right]( - (7) - Drakenforge, Pinary,
Pinary - (3) - Mirdini, Woffles, Dragon Fogel
Dragon Fogel - (1) – SleepingOrange)[/right]

With a frustrated shriek the High Priestess strikes him again, and he falls to the floor of the platform. Without waiting for him to recover, she grabs him by the neck and thrusts him over the edge.

“Still! Still you defy me! And still those three words! I heard you speak, Heretic, and I saw how the people rallied behind you. I saw how they loved you, just as they once loved me! But now you are here, death and dumb and unloved! I give you one more chance, Heretic!”

“I am sorry,” the Heretic says. Even now, in this chokehold, his voice is still unmarred.

“Sorry? I-”

“It is too late to be playing games, Priestess.”

His gaze flicks away from the High Priestess and he stares straight at you.

“Babel will fall,” he says, but in your mind something quite different is imprinted.

- (7) - Drakenforge, Pinary,
Pinary - (3) - Mirdini, Woffles, Dragon Fogel
Dragon Fogel - (1) – SleepingOrange

“I think we are done now.”

There is a blur, and the Heretic falls. The High Priestess screams at him, cursing his existence, but, as he said, it is too late. Rain begins to fall, hard and fast. Lightning strikes and thunder rumbles, but they are no longer at the horizon.

The strikes are hitting the tower.

A huge corner of stone crumbles and falls past you, followed by walls and pillars and whole levels of the tower as they crash and pit the plain below. As you watch the ground begins to heave like water. The crest of the wave rushes towards you and the tower is shaken. Everything falls faster and the floor beneath you begins to tip as the tower leans.

Babel is falling.
You scream out for help but you are invisible to these people, and they can't even help themselves.

The servants and guards are gone, but the Priestess still stands where she did. She is silent, merely looking. Her corona is askew, but she neither knows nor cares. Everything is being destroyed.

Suddenly, someone touches your arm.

“Leave her. We can't help her now.”

You turn and see the Heretic, as the man before the torture. His hair is cut and clean, his skin healed, his clothes not ragged or torn. He smiles, and in that instant the platform falls.

You scream, but suddenly everything freezes. The Heretic, clearly unbound by death or time, walks around to look you in the eye.

“You have a choice, now. Fulfil the prophecy, or die in Babel. What say you?”

You stare, but he just smiles again as the lightning strikes you once more.

_ _ _

You awake in your room, the card gone.

You stare at your hands, and find the prophecy branded there:

- (7) - Drakenforge, Pinary,
Pinary - (3) - Mirdini, Woffles, Dragon Fogel
Dragon Fogel - (1) – SleepingOrange

It remains for a second, then disappears like the dream.

N4

(Pinary did not pull this card, as he was otherwise occupied in the depths of Hell, but the cult were more than happy to do this for him.)

All three of you crowd around as Victor rips free the Death card. For a moment there is only silence as you stare at the card, but then it slips into smoke and slithers away through the air.

In your eyes a new scene is blooming, but it doesn't quite block out reality. It acts more like an overlay, a slightly transparent scene just failing to block out the room around you.

You stand under a small copse of trees, a dirt road twisting past you. It is twilight, but whether it precedes dusk or dawn you cannot tell. Fog lurks and swirls in the halflight.

Then, some distance away, you hear the panicked gallop of a horse. Within in moments it appears and raggedly slows to a canter, then a walk, and finally it collapses in front of you. Dead. A red knight is slumped over it, clearly not far from joining his steed. He gazes up at you through his visor. A trembling arm reaches up towards you.

“Jeste li andeli?”

You say nothing, perhaps out of inability or lack of desire to. But it hardly matters. His hand and head drop again, and he begins to weep.

You can hear another horse approaching, and it too appears at the same end of the road that the red knight emerged from. This rider wears white, but his blade is drawn and covered in a far different colour. Without pausing the horse gallops closer with earth-shattering strides, it's teeth bared. The knight raises his sword.

A single slash is all that is required. The red knight is torn from his saddle, broken limbs falling into unnatural positions as he slams into the dirt.

“Pobjeda!” The living horse rears and slams its hooves into the dirt, bringing them to a full stop. A twist and a walk brings the steed back to stand before the twisted corpse. The white knight laughs and flips up his visor, but falls suddenly and sharply silent as he notices the three of you. He pales, and the horse, sensing something is wrong, skitters away slightly.

“Jeste... jeste li demoni?”

You stare back at him in silence.

Visibly unnerved, he tugs at the reigns and gallops away, continually looking back at you until he vanishes from view. The vision begins to fade and vanish, but not before a black knight gallops down the path after the white knight. A few rays of sunshine fall across the path, but then it is gone.

You have pulled the Death Card. The effects of this are not immediately obvious, but doubtlessly they will become apparent sooner or later...

N5

You are interring the briefcase into a soon to be locked drawer, your heart swelling with pride at shaking the hold of the cards, when you hear something behind you. The lights are dimmed, so at first when you turn you don't see them.

Then, from the darkest shadows, a woman steps forward. Your first instinct is to yell, but her gaze holds you and all noise dies upon your lips.

It is then that you realise it is Woffles who stands before you.

“Why-”

She puts a finger to her lips, and words fail you once more.

“This is important,” she says. “Very important. The truth of the Last Resort has been revealed to me, and it is of vital importance that everyone knows. But there is not much time, and every day someone dies. I will tell you this truth, but you must be prepared to stand by me. I need allies if this is to prevail.”

“What truth?” Your words are hardly your own: you are captivated by her speech, and your entire attention is focused on her.

“This whole thing is a sham. Completely and utterly. The people here... they are not sick. They are gifted. The hotel will not remove that, and has never been capable of such a feat. Think about when you first came here. How did you know that this lifeless building would solve all your ills? Why, the people who were here before you said so. And you were so desperate for reprieve that you believed them, and clung on to every lie you were told, just as those before you had done. But there is no shame in that. Not when we have all suffered.

“But somebody needs to take control. People are dying, and yet it does not even cross the mind of others to leave. All of us could just walk out, right this instant, and yet we stay and die.”

“So – we must leave this place?”

“No. Not yet. There is no healing to be found here, but the Last Resort still has merit. It's a hotel, and a fine one at that. It's history is heaving with the rich and famous who stayed here, yet now it rots. If this building deserves anything, Pinary, it is to be raised to its former glory. We must convert others, and kill those who will not be convinced. Specifically, those who started the bloodshed. Alas, their minds have gone. It is too late for them.”

A sad note had crept into her voice, but suddenly she smiles at you.

“May a new dawn break over this accursed building.”

You find you couldn't agree more.

You have been recruited as a Follower of the Cult Leader, Woffles. Your alignment is still Third Party. You retain your abilities, but you will win when the anti-town is dead and your cult make up the majority of players. While Woffles lives she may recruit a member into the cult each night. Should she die, the cult will lose this ability but keep their new alignment. They must then achieve victory alone.

However: just as strong as the new hopes that blossom in your heart are the cards. The ensnarement that grips you fades as you think of them, but not entirely. It then occurs to you that you have been given a choice. You can help the cult on to victory, or, should you be the last cult member alive, you can convert to your previous role and win condition.

Discussions may take place in this QT: <!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/3yE6F7vuqbd">https://www.quicktopic.com/46/H/3yE6F7vuqbd</a><!-- m -->

N6

No card drawn, as on N5.

Dragon Fogel:

Show Content

SpoilerN1

You walk back to your room, pleasantly aware of the swaying sea of minds surrounding you. You brush each one briefly, noting the agitation and fear with satisfaction. A panicking, trigger-happy crowd has already played once in your favour. You can believe it will do so again.

However, as you approach the part of the hotel containing your chambers you sense a blur of something... someone. Your pace slows but doesn't halt. Cautiously, you round the corner and enter the hallway of your destination.

You stop.

Outside your door (Room 333) a cocktail glass has been left. There's something glinting inside it – a cocktail, presumably. Hesitantly you make your approach and kneel to closer view it.

You first thoughts are to discard it. Poison is all too likely. It's a drastic measure for someone to take, but an innocent man has already had his neck broken.

Although...

With a level of foolhardiness that surprises even you, you pluck the glass from where it stands and take a sip.

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Death In The Afternoon. It's your favourite drink. Hemingway's too, as far as you recall.

You allow yourself a chuckle. If someone was kind enough to go to all that effort, then you better not disappoint.

Taking the glass inside your room, you settle down to drink it slowly. When you've finished you stare into space, a wide smile plastered on your face. The world is your oyster. You intended to cripple only one person tonight, but you just about think you could manage two.

You have drunk a legendary cocktail. Your powers have been enhanced, and you may roleblock two people tonight as opposed to just one.

(I am deeply ashamed of this particular PM. Nobody drinks Death In The Afternoon from a cocktail glass. Only a champagne flute will do.)

D5

While everyone including yourself is distracted by the miracle of a resurrection, a sliver of red fog curls around your shoulders. Only once it's darted inside your skull do you notice anything. In particular: a burning hatred for Sanzh and soundlyParanoid. It seems quite clear and unavoidable that of the three of you, it is imperative that you be the last one alive.

It's obvious, really.

I don't really want to post the temporary lover PMs (and they can be found in the QTs anyway), so I'll just state who was paired and when.

Show Content

SpoilerN1 – Wheat and Ixcaliber (There was a fish story.)
N2 – Dragon Fogel and Solaris
N3 – Dragon Fogel and Drakenforge

For further reading, peruse the QTs.

Cult
Mafia
Drakenforge
Drakenforge/TimeothyHour Poisoner Chat
Mirdini
ProfessorLizzard
Sanzh
Pinary
Insufficient Fresh/SleepingOrange
Dragon Fogel
Whimbrel/soundlyParanoid
Wheat
TimeothyHour
MrGuy
Solaris
Third Lovers' Chat
Woffles
Drakenforge/Solaris Poisoner Chat
The Star
Second Lovers' Chat
Pick Yer Poison
Ixcaliber
Pharmacy
Sruixan
MalkyTop
g0m
First Lovers' Chat
Schazer
AKillerCuppaTea

Next: the Epilogue.

In reality: I lied.

Would have been nice to put the winners after the epilogue but it's taking too long. Instead, let's have some winners.

THE OUTRIGHT WINNERS

Pinary - Survived
Drakenforge - Surviving Town
Sanzh - One Correct Prediction + Last Surviving Candle Lighter

THE MODESTLY VICTORIOUS

Solaris - Town Player
MrGuy - Town Player
Schazer - Town Player
Wheat - Town Player
AKillerCuppaTea - Town Player
Mirdini - Town Player
MalkyTop - Town Player
ProfessorLizzard - Town Player
Ixcaliber - Town Player
Pick Yer Poison - Town Player
soundlyParanoid - Town Player
Woffles - Victorious Duelist
Pharmacy - Died Doing What She Loved


Thank you to all who played! Hopefully you enjoyed it to some degree.

Awesome game, definitely worth every moment of it.

Awesome game, definitely worth every moment of it.

pretty much this ^

can't wait for the epilogue

THIS SPOILER CONTAIN IMPORTANT INFORMATION. PLEASE READ IF YOU WISH TO ENJOY THE EPILOGUE.

Show Content

SpoilerI'm quite touched that people are actually looking forward to this, although it doesn't really improve my own feelings on it. (They're quite predictable, so I'll leave you to wonder what they could be.)

However: the following Epilogue contains a great deal of a certain gentlemen in maroon. He hasn't turned up much, unfortunately, and the Epilogue suffers for it. It also focuses a lot on the survivors, and never before have they had such scrutiny. The result is something quite unfamiliar, but in an effort to alleviate this as much as possible I will detail both instances of the gentleman in maroon.

First: when he appeared to Woffles after she won the duel.

_ _ _

After the duel, you wander back to your room to clean yourself up. You go unnoticed as everyone attempts to deal with the body. Whilst you completely evaded damage yourself, there is still the blood of others to wash away.

And then there is a sink of hot water and soap and time to think. You're free. Completely and utterly. Never again will you fear the sounds of night, thinking that it might be Her. Never again will you have to wield the weapons of duels.

But now you have no purpose. For so long it was to run away and hide. Now... what do you do?

â??I may have an idea or two.â?

You simultaneously scrabble for your pistol and spin around to face the intruder, but it doesn't seem to be where you left it. You face them empty handed.

A man in a maroon suit stands before you, a fedora placed on his tilted head so that his eyes are in shadow. You know immediately that this is not a guest of the Last Resort. Indeed, as if out of your control your gaze lowers to where his feet should be, and instead two cloven hooves gleam back at you.

You swear, and he laughs. Instead of explaining his appearance, he takes the time to light a cigarette. You watch him in silence.

When he eventually speaks, his tone is suddenly far more silky and appealing than in his opening sentence.

â??I know, Ms. Veronesi, that you are wondering why I am here. Considering that you seem to have realised who I am, any scenarios you may be imagining are no doubt somewhat unpleasant.â? He looks you straight in the eye, and smiles warmly behind the cigarette smoke. â??I ask you not to worry. My proposal is a simple one. While I cannot claim that it involves no bloodshed, I would not say that it requires any more than would have already taken place here.â?

â??Spit it out.â? His manner is charming, but the presence of this man (if you may refer to him as that) aggravates you like nothing else. You'd rather he left as soon as possible.

Instead, he chuckles a little.

â??Think of it this way, Ms. Veronesi. Your problem has been solved. You no longer need the Last Resort as a place of healing â?? indeed, the world is your oyster. This places you in a unique position. Unlike the guests who have incited the killings, you do not fear having to leave. And unlike those who defend against the so-called scum, you do not even need them gone. You walk out of the door right this instant.â?

â??I â?? I thought the doors were locked. That's why everyone hasn't just left, right?â?

He smiles again, every line on his face traced with glee.

â??Of course not. Anyone could have left, at any time they chose. But they didn't, because they depend on this place. They all believe in its magical potential, but I wouldn't be surprised if the entire thing was just a sham, perpetuated by the beliefs forced onto the newcomers by those who are still here.â? He shrugs. â??But that's besides the point. What I say to you, Ms. Veronesi, is that you seize control. Create a third party with yourself at the head, and clean out the deluded fools who live here. With them gone, the hotel is yours. This place used to be the choice of lodgings for royalty and celebrity, and there is no reason why it couldn't be so again. You could run this place, Ms. Veronesi. You're more than capable, and all the resources are there, just begging to be used. Wealth and prestige would be yours, and every night you would rub shoulders with the richest and most influential as they flocked to your hotel. And then, Ms. Veronesi, there would be nothing at all to hold you back from doing anything you wanted to do.â?

He pauses to exhale smoke. â??Quite literally anything at all.â? He looks you in the eyes once more, and you know he sees just how badly you want everything he described. You look away, but it's too late: he knows he has you hooked.

â??Would I have to kill... everyone?â?

â??Everyone? No, not at all. You'll need help, my dear. These poor people can't imagine life outside or beyond the Last Resort, but you can help them. I can give you a silver tongue, and make them powerless to your words. However, I must warn you â?? the 'scum' cannot be persuaded. Your words, wonderful as I may make them, will do nothing but enrage them. If you try and convince one, they will kill you. There is nothing I can do about that.â? He shakes his head sorrowfully. You think you might even see a tear glistening in his shadowed eyes.

â??If you do all that for me â?? what do I have to give you?â? You know you want the vision he described to you, but you don't yet know what price you'd pay for it.

â??Give me? Nothing. I would not ask anything of you, not when you already have such a difficult task ahead of you. Or, at least, not yet. When I come to receive my payment, you will have reached such dizzying heights that it will be very little to ask of you. You will find it no problem, my dear.â?

He smiles at you, yet again, with that gloriously charming smile. In spite of your fear, your lingering distrust, you can't help but believe him on this count. You smile back.

â??Then yes,â? you reply. â??I accept.â?

Another smile, a flash of red, a puff of cigarette smoke, and the man is gone. The deal is done.

You have become a Third Party Leader, otherwise known as a Cult Leader. Every night you may visit a person and recruit them to your cause. If they are anti-town, then you will die, but any remaining members of your Party will keep their new alignment and will attempt to achieve victory without you.

As a Party, your goal is to destroy the anti-town and control the vote (that is, make up the majority of the players). You may still win if your Party gains victory but you die in the process. If you die, then no more players may be recruited into the Party. All recruited members will retain the powers they had before their alignment switch. It should be noted that all recruits including yourself will appear as scum to sane investigations. Upon gaining your first recruit, a QT will be set up for discussion. In the meantime, if you have any questions you may use your person QT.

_ _ _

Second, more publicly, when he appears to Pinary and makes a show of killing him. He is only identifiable by his distinct voice.

_ _ _

Sruixan will be lynched.

Sruixan - (5) - Drakenforge, Pinary, ProfessorLizzard, Wheat, Sanzh
Pinary â?? (4) - Mirdini, Woffles, Dragon Fogel, Sruixan
Dragon Fogel â?? (1) - SleepingOrange

7/9 conditions have been met.

"Not bad, I must say."

A bolt of lightning crashes into being, rending the carpet by the doorway. Everyone staggers, falls, or clutches their heads, their minds lost in the visual and auditory overload for a moment.

When everyone recovers, they see him. A blurry, dark silhouette, impossible to fully see and yet all too real, judging by his confident strides towards Pinary. Everyone else but Sruixan shies away, retreating to the edges of the room. Pinary is the picture of terror, but Sruixan stares coolly at the stranger, a cocksure smile touching his lips. Either he knows what's going on, or, more likely, he longer cares.

"But not good enough," adds the silhouette as he approaches still closer.

Suddenly he darts forward, and with a gleam of metal Sruixan's blood splashes across the carpet. His body crashes to the floor, a ridiculous grin plastered to his face as he dies. The silhouette observes the trickle of blood down his throat for a moment, wiping the blood off a curiously well-define knife as if lost in thought.

And then he turns to Pinary.

"Seven out of nine. Two transgressions from what we agreed. How shall I reward you?"

"Agreed? I never-"

"I shall reward you with a chance."

The shadow leans forward, and whispers something to Pinary. A look of deep concern and a whisper is returned.

And then, quick as a blink, Pinary crumples to the floor as the shadow disperses into nothing. A quick check shows him to have no pulse...

Sruixan was David Roosevelt, an Agent of Chaos. His influence allowed him to twist locations and space as he pleased. At night he would use this ability to swap the locations of two people, so as to confuse those who wished to help or harm them. Perhaps quite naturally, he didn't believe himself to be cursed but was more than happy with the luxury offered by the Last Resort. Indeed, he found no problem at all with killing those who might argue against his permanent stay, and as such was a member of the Mafia. He was the Busdriver.

Pinary was Bernard Grey. You think. None of the guests are able to find any solid information on the dead man, and even a thorough search of his room reveals nothing of his motives within the hotel. A wardrobe of clothes is the only indication of a personality, and all of the items within are quite bland. With nothing to go on, you are able to ascertain neither his alignment nor his role.

The Night has started, and will end on 2 November 8PM GMT.

_ _ _

Aside from this, reading all PMs sent to Drakenforge, Pinary and g0m/Sanzh may help to make the Epilogue a little clearer in meaning. Thank you for reading!

THE EPILOGUE

For a while the survivors drifted away. Each had their own business to attend to, but each held no illusions as to what they would do afterwards. None had the slightest reason to stay in this place, and a slowly mounting stockpile of extremely flammable liquids confirmed that they wouldn't be changing their minds.

Reconvening in the lobby where these goods await, a question of cults is raised. The gambler and the poisoner look at the third person among them, and the person in question responds by simply baring his shoulder. The previous cult members had all borne a four pointed star tattoo here, but his skin was utterly blank.

â??I was one of the cult, for a brief time, but I was blessed with a choice. When only I remained of the Aurora, I chose to return to what I was previously. I can't claim to know why I alone was given these options.â?

â??I can.â?

The words fluttered forward from the shadows. It came from all around the three, and it would be absurd to accuse any of them of not hearing it.

â??Who...?â? The question died on the lips of the gambler, but it was enough.

The survivors suddenly became acutely aware of how dark it had become in the hotel. Night had fallen at some point or another, and so occupied had they been that none had turned on the lights. Shadows clung to all the corners and walls, obscuring and hiding all that might lurk just in sight.

â??I have several names.â?

The words came clearly from a single source this time: the top of the stairs.

They all turned at once to stare, and there they saw him.

A man in a maroon suit. His head was tilted to face downwards, but a fedora hides any details that might have been seen. A curl of cigarette smoke twisted towards the ceiling.

â??In this case, however, I think The Narrator works well enough.â?

He raised his face, but the shadows still hide most of it.

â??This is my hotel, but I am not confined to it. Not at all. Why, I've been gifting mortals far and wide for centuries. This building is just another token of my philanthropic nature. And it was beautiful, once.â? He withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and sighed. Gloved fingers lightly brushed the wood of the banister, and for a moment he is completely silent, lost in remembrance.

â??What happened? I suppose my influence faded. People forgot my name, my face, the things I gave them. I suppose the unspecified side effects of such gifts may have biased them against me, but they never asked about them in advance.â? He shrugged. â??What am I to do if no one asks for details?â?

His invisible gaze drifted back to the survivors, and he cleared his throat.

â??The point I'm failing to make, dear gentlemen, is that the Cult Leader received a boon from me: the power of sublime oration. She used it well, and all she turned her gaze to fell under her enchantment. But there was another person here in possession of something of mine. It didn't belong to him, but he had taken it when all others had abandoned it. These were the cards, and they shaped the motives of our culted friend. Two of my gifts, with equal power, pulled him in opposite directions. The only thing that could settle the war was his own free will.â?

He took four steps down the stairs, and paused again.

â??The result of that free will stands before you now: a free man.â?

He smiled at the silent men.

â??I hope that answers your question. I also hope you'll be kind enough to answer mine: what do you think you're doing?â?

Before they can answer the shadows shift and the man is standing mere inches away.

â??Nobody leaves. It's in the rules,â? he hissed, bleakest eyes of deepest night staring out with undisguised hatred. All three of them were frozen in place. The Narrator had them pinned, either through fear or whatever unholy powers he boasted of.

â??Not a soul leaves this place, not until I get bored of them. You think you've just miraculously been healed, and that's because you're all so stupid. You can't just think. It's easier to make everything a problem, I suppose. Only a few actually realised: you're not cursed. I gave you all a blessing, a gift.â? His voice had sunk from silky and smooth to the animal snarl of something far less, or perhaps far greater, than any human. â??I brought you to heaven on earth, and still you mutter and moan and spit on my kindness. So I play games. Set you against one another, influence you. I'd say I'm owed that much.

â??And when I've drained all the fun out of you, I take back my gifts and let you go. Then, and only then. It's not over yet for you three.â?

â??The afflictions...â? The man of cards manages to speak. â??You â?? you instigated them? The mute, the unheeded, the insane-â?

The Narrator snarled and snapped his fingers. The legs gave out from under the man, and he crumpled to the floor with the beginnings of a shout. Another snap muted him.

â??It's funny,â? he remarked, in a tone utterly devoid of humour. â??I've said my piece, and you still don't seem to realise how much power I have over you all. Had. Most are dead now, I suppose. Even that was a clue. All these people dying, every single day, and it never occurs to you once to leave. Why? Because I still had a hold on you. You couldn't shake off your little problems.â?

The animal and the anger are gone now. The Narrator is simply disgusted.

Nonchalantly, he rounds on the poisoner. A hand snakes out and grabs the side of the killer's face, gripping so hard and so quickly that blood wells up where his fingernails dig in. The poisoner struggles, but he seems curiously unenergetic in his attempt. The Narrator tilts his own head and stares at the poisoner. For an uncomfortably long, painful time, he says nothing. When he does, his voice is little more than a whisper.

â??You. Killer of killers. Half of the murderers died by your hand, you know that? Not even counting the one who just died, seeing as fair Democracy chose to preside over that particular execution. But you enjoyed it. The flicker of life escaping into the void, the moment when all life fails â?? it's like crack to you. And still â?? still! - you were so pleased with yourself. For the first time in your twisted little life, you were fighting for some greater good. A white knight. A good man. But a killer is a killer is a killer, and I'm afraid that however you look at it you're no better than the bastards you murdered.â?

Suddenly, the acidic flow of words halted, and the Narrator released his prisoner. His stained fingers withdrew from the bloody pits in the poisoner's face, each over half an inch deep, blood oozing forth as he did so. The man swayed and collapsed.

The Narrator only observes the writhing mess for a moment before boredom overtakes him again. His attention is turned to the gambler. Upon seeing him, his face breaks into a grin, and he laughs.

â??The gambler! The most tragic case here, in a way, because you were the one who was likely to actually leave. I've had so many poor fools try their luck against me, and so many lose. I'm less than fascinated in your kind by this point, but I figured â?? once more! For old time's sake! And here you are, going for your last big bet. Who would live? Who would die? You saw it all, friend, and your first instinct was to make it into a game. I salute you. That's real dedication to an addiction.

â??So I'll admit: had you won your little game, I would have let you go. You could have just walked away from this decaying mess, no problem. It's a crying shame, it honestly, truly is, that you only had one correct prediction on the lynch. Seems you're still stuck here with the rest of us. Bad luck, friend.â?

He sighed and shrugged, the incarnation of sympathy, before the entire act vanished in the blink of an eye. The wolfish grin re-appeared and he opened his mouth to continue.

And continue he would have, had he not been interrupted by the curiously audible rasp of a match being lit.

Narrator, poisoner and gambler all turned their gaze to the source of the noise, which appeared to be the man of cards. While the Narrator had indulged in his monologue he had taken the time to crawl to the flammable stockpile and acquire a box of matches. It was by the light of one of these with which he surveyed his remaining envelopes. Slowly, he turned his head to meet the gaze of the others. His expression was guarded.

The first to break the silence, unsurprisingly, was the Narrator. He chuckled, and removed his hat.

â??What do you intend to do?â? Despite the joviality of his manner, his voice was low and steely. â??Use my own cards against me?â?

The man of cards looked down. â??No. I don't think so.â?

And then, he dropped the match onto the briefcase of envelopes. He watched it catch alight, then knelt and stood with the flaming box in his grip. Turning, his gaze squarely met that of the Narrator. The astute might have noticed the touch of amusement to his expression.

â??You don't have a hold on me. You haven't for a long time.â?

In one single movement, he cast the blazing contents of the briefcase onto the collection of gasoline and other such materials.

They promptly exploded.

But rather than four sudden, fiery deaths occurring, all but the arsonist were instantly slammed backwards. Stunned and bruised, they blinked and raised their heads to see the man of cards standing by the door. He cast back a single, almost accusatory, glance before pushing them open. For a few precious seconds the lobby was drenched in golden sunlight, but then he was gone.

Only three remained in the swiftly burning building.

The Narrator sprang to his feet.

â??Remarkable. Unfortunately, I don't think your egress will come so easily. You can't leave, not yet. But I'll give you a chance.â?

Spinning on his heel, he turned and donned his hat. With a languid pace, he started back towards the heart of the hotel.

â??Kill the other, and I will permit you to leave. Before you suffocate or burn to a crisp, ideally.â?

He paused, and turned to face them one last time.

â??I'd say the killer has the advantage here â?? he will probably even enjoy it â?? but who knows? Perhaps today will be your lucky day.â?

In spite of the quickly spreading, swiftly dancing and crackling flames, neither moved until the last of his footsteps had faded from their hearing.

The poisoner's gaze twitched towards the gambler. His hands flexed, his eyes gleamed, and he had already started his run towards the victim before his movements jarred. He hesitated, halted. The killer's gaze dropped to the floor, and he was suddenly very still.

The gambler, utterly tensed, merely stared.

The poisoner drew in one long, shuddering breath, then coughed rather suddenly. He looked up.

â??You know...â? He paused, and he averted his gaze from the gambler again. â??I reckon we need to get out of here. There's not enough time.â?

Slowly, and with shaky steps, he approached the doors. His hand rested on one. He hesitated.

But then, shaking his head, he too passed through the doors.

The gambler stood in silence. He hadn't spoken for a long time now, and a backward glance confirmed that there was no one around to converse with anyway. There was only darkness and fire here. And smoke. The poisoner had been right. His time was running out. Coughing, he dropped to the floor in a crouch and fished a coin out of his pocket.

â??Tails,â? he whispered, and flipped it over his shoulder. With a small, satisfying clatter, it fell to the wooden floor behind him.

The gambler smiled. He stumbled upwards, sleeve pressed to his nose and mouth, and pushed open the door with absolutely zero regard for the result of the coin.

Had he checked, however, he might have been surprised to see that the coin had lodged itself on its side. The identical sides gleamed in the firelight.

Three gone. Now only the Narrator remained.

The first and the last.

The man in question coasted through the building, oblivious to the spreading flame. His skin could feel the heat, but his mind was preoccupied with days long gone. Slow and regretful, his wandering brought him to the expansive bar room, where the previous guests had spent their first twilight after the murders began. Stars stared down from their celestial perches, but in the Narrator's dream they looked down through the glass ceiling onto a floor full of dancers. The haunting melodies of a long forgotten woodwind band filled the air, but laughter and chatter reigned above it all. As the Narrator glided to the bar, every single person he walked past stopped to smile and greet him. Smiling, he slid onto a tall barstool

Elsewhere in the building, a ceiling crumbled and fell with a monstrous crash. The entire building boomed with its echoes.

The reverie was broken. Once more, the Narrator was unnoticed and alone. None spoke his name here.

With a sigh, he stood. It took only a moment to vault over the bar, although he did so with surprising ease. Dropping to the floor, his hands quested over the cracks and bumps of the floorboards. It took a while â?? it had been a long time, after all, and even he forgot â?? but just as the heat caused a bottle of alcohol to explode he finally pried up the trapdoor.

A metal ladder, leading down into the gloom, gleamed back at him. At the bottom, at the very end, a faint glow of light beckoned.

A second bottle had to explode before the Narrator dropped down. The trapdoor was slammed shut, and he had just begun a hurried descent when a sudden impulse made him stop and look up. On the underside of the trapdoor, impossibly illuminated, three words were carved.

'Lost heart, rest.'

He laughed, briefly and bitterly, then bit back the tears as he lowered himself to the end. There were no more reasons to hesitate. For a few minutes there was only the noise of his downward clambering and the murky gloom, but then the Narrator found what he was looking for.

And at that moment, quite simply, the Last Resort ceased to exist for anyone.