_version
CURRENT STANDINGS:
Game Over. Epilogue.
Part One: The Introduction.
NOTE: You can skip the introduction.The links to roles and signup sheet will be posted soon.
*Rules and Roles
* Signup Sheet
(Personal Note: Events portrayed are meant for the sake of a good story, and do not necessarily reflect actual game outcomes or narrator's opinion.)
One man has always had it slightly tough. From beginning to end, he has always been in situations which he has found to be quite frankly humiliating. In his debut, he was on the right track. His breaking scientific method—a revolutionary theory at the time—was onto the right track. He was locking onto his targets, and almost pinned down, but unfortunately, he was stopped before he could finish.
To make matters worse, as a specter, he managed to finish the job, and watched as those who he left behind managed to do what he had wasted hours of his time attempting…with pure luck. His excruciatingly time-consuming methods, were in the end useless, as he watched only as a spectator, having achieved victory, but not being able to help. And they won, anyway, they got the job done without him.
That man was Ranger, the Scientist, who had toiled for so long without recognition, that it sickened him. What was stopping him? Why couldn’t he achieve true victory?
As if that wasn’t bad enough, his play degraded drastically when he faced reincarnation. Trying to fight off a force he believed to be mythical—magic—Ranger was doing fairly well. He was on the trail of a wolf, when…
…They got onto him. And yet again, he was faced with failure, this time of his defense mechanism, leaving him as nothing but a corpse in the morning. And the wolves this time feared his analysis, enough to remove it from the picture altogether. Ranger had gotten the honor of being their first victim…and the curse it inflicted.
Ranger attempted to win, even after he had died, as he had done so in the previous game. But he could not get it done. One wolf confessed to him, depriving him of the victory. The other eluded him, despite his access to information no living player would have had. When the town lost, Ranger became obsessed with the idea of a curse upon the town, a curse which he needed to break, because it was his job, as a scientist.
In game eight, he got a success, but it was not satisfying. All he achieved was keeping the flow of the games, when the game—without his interference—would have been over within a few days, no matter what. All he did was make things run faster. Ranger by this point was not amused. Surely, he could do better?
And in his next game, he did succeed in doing that. But not by much—he made an alliance for the town, a secret group to counter the wolves, and it worked, slowly eliminating who could possibly be wolves. Yet again, he knew that he could go through with it, that by pure process of elimination this time, the wolves would face justice. But again, the cost would be his life and an overall unsatisfying victory.
Ranger had been prepared for his death since the first night, having set into motion his plan for victory just in case he were to perish. So when his time had come, he smiled as he faced the wolf approaching.
This time, he employed his devices successfully, no malfunctions. But the wolves were tougher, this time! Instead of killing his attacker, all Ranger was doing was making them angry! (And you wouldn’t like a wolf when they’re angry…)
Despite the massive damage he inflicted, the wolf survived. Something had increased their strength. Some unnatural force, had conspired against him, and he was determined to figure it out.
(Fortunately, through all of this, Ranger’s glasses remained unharmed! His coat…sadly, not as much.) Even in death, Ranger was smiling, and ever the optimist, Ranger watched as the wolves dwindled and were wiped out, one by one, piece by piece.
Still, despite having broken the cycle he had feared, despite winning over fate, the town all faced death at the hands of the Wizard. Was he truly that powerful? Could he really cause that much damage? Ranger couldn’t believe it. Surely, he’d never be able to control things at a scale that large. No human could do it!
But things went from bad, to Worse. Ranger was himself out-manipulated in his next game, quite spectacularly, by his eternal foes, the werewolves. Until the last day, they had controlled him.
Ranger managed to figure it out, and he thought that maybe, for just a second, he had divine help, that he had a power on his side helping him combat the avatars of the wizard’s destruction. But he spoke too soon, and had things reversed back to their original foreseen outcome: his loss. The wolves were thinking that, maybe—just maybe—Ranger had them down, and so did he! He thought he had them in his grasps, that he could win for the town despite his earlier failures…
…Yet an unidentified force foiled him yet again. Coincidence? Possible, but Ranger as a scientist couldn’t accept that. The wizard was real, just as real as the werewolves. He had done so much before, so maybe he was conspiring against Ranger? Ranger shook his head. He needed help.
Because he had lost, again.
By another cruel twist of fate, Ranger found himself in the next game as the very thing he despised: a werewolf. He played it to the best of his ability, despite hating what he was, because he knew if he played his perfect game, that he could pull off a personal win. And yet, once again—only at the last minute—did things fall apart.
He had things under control. He had manipulated the entire game the best he could. To the best of his werewolf (instead of human) ability, he played masterfully. He deserved the win.
But yet, it was denied to him. He had been only human in the past, and even as only a werewolf, he had done a lot. And despite all of this, a last-minute change meant that this time, the town would most likely steal victory from his grasps. All he could do is watch as the ghostly specter of a poor wolf.
The wizard had officially been known to manipulate certain circumstances to his favor. But never was he shown to have that level of control. What if he could? What if something was going wrong, and he had the power to set it to the track he wanted? He had never truly lost, with the possible exception of one game, the wizard. And Ranger had always in some way not had a full victory. Ranger did not like the “coincidences” forming.
No, he saw a pattern.
Ranger was further humiliated in his next attempt. Not only was he lynched on the first day, but to add insult to injury, he wasn’t even a full townsperson, being the traitor biologically compelled to join the wolves if he was attacked—meaning his lynched actually benefited the town!
As a consolation prize, he managed to pin down two of the remaining werewolves, but the other half eluded him spectacularly, leaving him crying at his continued lack of success. And then, to top things off…it happened.
Yes, that. The great battle he was forced to witness as a specter, knowing very well he would most likely lose some of his memories as well. But through sheer determination (and good analytical notes—or remains of them, at least), he would remember all of his failures and he would be sick of them.
Enough was enough. Things had to change. After all he had been through, it was not going to end in any way other than what he wanted. But…how could he win? How could he beat the wizard, an absolute master of magic? How could he beat someone playing god? Who had just beaten another Wizard? Even if he had an ally, it’d be impossible, because he’d be a mere human, and taking on a god in that state would be impossible.
And then…the realization dawned on him.
Ranger smiled, as he had that revelation, that sudden click in his mind which made everything work, which would finally make him win. What did he do best? Analysis, from a combination of his extremely insightful mind, and a knowledge of how things work, what he calls his Science. And the evil thought coming to him?
“Any magic explained in enough detail is indistinguishable from science.
So…
……It figures…the inverse would be true…
…Any science sufficiently advanced enough is indistinguishable from magic.”
Ranger’s specialty was Science. The Wizard used Magic.
“Every force in this world has an opposite. And if the Wizard happens to use Magic, then he needs an equal, he needs someone with a force as strong as him, but which has an opposite focus. And that is Science.” He begins to grin.
“Yes…that will work. I can do this.”
He would become more than a human. He would play the wizard’s game, and if the wizard wanted to play god, so too would Ranger. The Wizard had a game board. What would happen if Ranger created his own? Ranger would enter into the world of managing those he had used to be among. He needed to reform the town. But, what would that do? How could he enter into a situation that complex?
The simple solution?
“Start over. Yes…from scratch. Let’s see what I can do.”
Ranger would work from the fundamentals, the basics. He looks at a model he built long ago, a side-project which had previously been abandoned when he was a mere human. It’s name is not Comicfurysville. It is similar, but no…he had something different to call it, to name it more to his style…
“Yes…that’s more like it…”
And now, he would begin the game. Drawing from all his previous experience, he would make the greatest, grandest experiment, one to grow greater than ComicFurysville, one to become at least, if not superior, to that town he had become well-acquainted with. And if it worked, he would win.
Now, he began to grin.
“Let the game begin…”
------------------------------------
A peaceful hamlet in some area [Codename: ComFurville] was a fantastic, friendly, almost perfect place to live. Lots of land, a friendly community, gorgeous views, stunning sunsets, and a large town square with a beautiful oak tree in the middle. It has come to affectionately be known as Ol’ Lynchy. But all is not well in the country, for there are beasts in their midst. Monsters so vicious and terrifying that the whole village has been gripped by the paranoia of them lurking amongst their friends and families...
Despair hangs over the tiny village as disappearances have become too numerous to ignore. Clues from the disappearances have all pointed to the same thing: Werewolves. Frightened, the Villagers must band together to find the werewolves among them before they're slaughtered one by one.
When the wolves attack, it's a bleak day...and now, everyone wants their way. When neighbor turns against neighbor, who is really safe? Nobody. Anything goes, Hilarity Ensues, and you never quite know what's going to happen next...
------------
“Life. Yes…come alive, my little village.” The glow begins to grow… “I don’t need anyone else. It’s working. It’s actually beginning to take on its own little world.”
------------
It was a rather gloomy time in ComFurville. Alright, so the villagers went about their daily business of herding animals, training the newest generation of Baby Frogs (most of them named “Jim” or a variant thereof) eating custard, partying at the jailhouse, and chatting around Ol’ Lynchy. (Why was it named that again? They don’t remember, but they keep the tree in good shape.) Sure, nothing wrong with that. Normal, for a village—well, semi-normal, anyway. But tonight would be different.
Night had come to the village, and the townspeople went to their homes, as was their usual routine. The sound of slamming doors, clunking deadbolts, and rattling chain-locks can be heard, though they do so simply out of habit. The inhabitants of this community are no strangers to night intruders, so they are always on guard. However, the villagers are not afraid of theft or vandalism, no, what they are afraid of is much, much more terrifying. “They are just stories. They’re a myth. They are just stories.” They can tell themselves that all they would like. So why do they take all those precautions? If it was just tales, they’d never have picked up those habits, right?
Things had been fine before, so they would be fine again. Nothing had gone wrong so far, so nothing would go wrong that night, nothing could so fundamentally alter their daily lives, nothing would shake them. Right?
Yet things were not the same. No, not this night, where things would be different. They knew the story of their mortal enemies from generations past, but they had always thought that it was a fable to just scare misbehaving villagers. Surely such a thing would never happen to them! Everything was fine. Nothing would change.
“We’re just a normal large village, peaceful.”
For as long as the ComicFurians can remember (which isn’t that long for some reason), they have been plagued by the ever-present threat, but no attacks had occurred in…how long? Well, long enough that surely, it must not be true. If it were true, it would have happened, already. For many years, it was a fantastic, friendly village. What could change? The past was the past. No matter how bad it was, the future was looking good. After all, it was such a happy town.
A bit paranoid, but otherwise, quite nice. Nothing could change.
For hundreds of years, they had allegedly been in a constant war they could never win nor lose, against a threat they couldn’t see. Their thriving village far from civilization was plagued by a single little problem, by a small problem which had prevented their town from growing beyond a small city at best.
They all knew the stories. But how could they be true? They couldn’t be anything more than stories. They had won some battles, but had lost just as frequently against the menace, and yet somehow still managed to trudge through their miserable lives. That wouldn’t be possible if it was really true, right? Surely, they were just stories, though? Nothing that horrid would ever exist for real? Told to frighten their children (who are totally not from incestuous relations) away from wandering out into the woods. Yeah, it had to be that way. But even if it wasn’t, would it matter? The past was the past.
Nothing could change. They’d just make a better future. Right?
But no…the strange occurrences happening could no longer be ignored. A group of individuals cannot sleep. Somehow, things are different. A curse is upon them, which they do not fully understand. They have awoken to a hunger which they cannot suppress, which they cannot satisfy, and have allowed their instincts to overcome them.
And immediately, they hit hard.
The Mystic Guild burns down in a violent explosion.
The Guardian Guild has been ransacked.
The graveyard has been desecrated, all the souls in there which could not rest in peace forced to move on.
The traitor has been backstabbed.
A photographer has been murdered.
The Hunter’s Lodge is surprisingly empty, with all of the stuffed animals removed. It looks like it’s been cleaned of all evidence, except for some wolf hairs from an old trophy.
The Jailhouse has been broken, and the Nice Hat it has seems to have been torn!
The Mayor and her bodyguards have been assassinated on their re-election campaign. The Chemists were poisoned. The local Ski Mask store (which conveniently stocks Swords, Bats, and other such weapons for offense and defense) has ironically fallen victim to vandals. And the Mercenary’s Guild has gone rogue, mobilizing their headquarters in an attempt to avoid being wiped out.
This was their declaration of War. In a single night, they had managed to completely level all possible opposition…or did they? They left nothing behind of the known locations, but were they thorough enough? New arrivals could end their monopoly. Or perhaps an older rival not seen for some time had been away when they attacked? They have no way of knowing for sure. What they do know, however, is that the villagers are quite angry. Will they survive the onslaught of rage induced by their maddened rampage through the night?
The battle has begun once again. All the strange things that have been happening can no longer be a coincidence. The growl in the night, at that distant location just out of the corner of your eye, the distinct shape of the ancient foe. The bodies in the street. The people vanishing to never be seen again. The devastation to the town. Furthering this battle, some villagers have been reporting visions of a shadowy figure that can only be described as fairly white, but such rumors have been dismissed as insanity. The messages, the clues, everything points to one thing, and one thing only:
Werewolves. They're back. Since their initial entrance, they’ve laid back on their assault somewhat, and now limit themselves to killing one a night—are they that confident in victory?
The time for action is now. The village must band together and search out the menace lurking in the forest and destroy it, once and for all, or die trying. The villagers have been getting more and more desperate, and they have done the only logical thing they can do. Trying to move outside the village has been known to get people shot and declared traitors, so that’s not an option. (It’s quite ridiculous, even. Why would you want to move out of a theoretically-perfect town?)
The future of the ComicFurians relies solely on one thing. Their ability to systematically vote upon and lynch until all of the werewolves are dead. The villagers hope to remove the menace from their cobbled streets, once and for all. This surely would be their final confrontation. After all they had been through, it had to be their last stand.
It would end, one way or another. It had to. It must end.
Game Over. Epilogue.
Part One: The Introduction.
NOTE: You can skip the introduction.
*Rules and Roles
* Signup Sheet
(Personal Note: Events portrayed are meant for the sake of a good story, and do not necessarily reflect actual game outcomes or narrator's opinion.)
One man has always had it slightly tough. From beginning to end, he has always been in situations which he has found to be quite frankly humiliating. In his debut, he was on the right track. His breaking scientific method—a revolutionary theory at the time—was onto the right track. He was locking onto his targets, and almost pinned down, but unfortunately, he was stopped before he could finish.
To make matters worse, as a specter, he managed to finish the job, and watched as those who he left behind managed to do what he had wasted hours of his time attempting…with pure luck. His excruciatingly time-consuming methods, were in the end useless, as he watched only as a spectator, having achieved victory, but not being able to help. And they won, anyway, they got the job done without him.
That man was Ranger, the Scientist, who had toiled for so long without recognition, that it sickened him. What was stopping him? Why couldn’t he achieve true victory?
As if that wasn’t bad enough, his play degraded drastically when he faced reincarnation. Trying to fight off a force he believed to be mythical—magic—Ranger was doing fairly well. He was on the trail of a wolf, when…
…They got onto him. And yet again, he was faced with failure, this time of his defense mechanism, leaving him as nothing but a corpse in the morning. And the wolves this time feared his analysis, enough to remove it from the picture altogether. Ranger had gotten the honor of being their first victim…and the curse it inflicted.
Ranger attempted to win, even after he had died, as he had done so in the previous game. But he could not get it done. One wolf confessed to him, depriving him of the victory. The other eluded him, despite his access to information no living player would have had. When the town lost, Ranger became obsessed with the idea of a curse upon the town, a curse which he needed to break, because it was his job, as a scientist.
In game eight, he got a success, but it was not satisfying. All he achieved was keeping the flow of the games, when the game—without his interference—would have been over within a few days, no matter what. All he did was make things run faster. Ranger by this point was not amused. Surely, he could do better?
And in his next game, he did succeed in doing that. But not by much—he made an alliance for the town, a secret group to counter the wolves, and it worked, slowly eliminating who could possibly be wolves. Yet again, he knew that he could go through with it, that by pure process of elimination this time, the wolves would face justice. But again, the cost would be his life and an overall unsatisfying victory.
Ranger had been prepared for his death since the first night, having set into motion his plan for victory just in case he were to perish. So when his time had come, he smiled as he faced the wolf approaching.
This time, he employed his devices successfully, no malfunctions. But the wolves were tougher, this time! Instead of killing his attacker, all Ranger was doing was making them angry! (And you wouldn’t like a wolf when they’re angry…)
Despite the massive damage he inflicted, the wolf survived. Something had increased their strength. Some unnatural force, had conspired against him, and he was determined to figure it out.
(Fortunately, through all of this, Ranger’s glasses remained unharmed! His coat…sadly, not as much.) Even in death, Ranger was smiling, and ever the optimist, Ranger watched as the wolves dwindled and were wiped out, one by one, piece by piece.
Still, despite having broken the cycle he had feared, despite winning over fate, the town all faced death at the hands of the Wizard. Was he truly that powerful? Could he really cause that much damage? Ranger couldn’t believe it. Surely, he’d never be able to control things at a scale that large. No human could do it!
But things went from bad, to Worse. Ranger was himself out-manipulated in his next game, quite spectacularly, by his eternal foes, the werewolves. Until the last day, they had controlled him.
Ranger managed to figure it out, and he thought that maybe, for just a second, he had divine help, that he had a power on his side helping him combat the avatars of the wizard’s destruction. But he spoke too soon, and had things reversed back to their original foreseen outcome: his loss. The wolves were thinking that, maybe—just maybe—Ranger had them down, and so did he! He thought he had them in his grasps, that he could win for the town despite his earlier failures…
…Yet an unidentified force foiled him yet again. Coincidence? Possible, but Ranger as a scientist couldn’t accept that. The wizard was real, just as real as the werewolves. He had done so much before, so maybe he was conspiring against Ranger? Ranger shook his head. He needed help.
Because he had lost, again.
By another cruel twist of fate, Ranger found himself in the next game as the very thing he despised: a werewolf. He played it to the best of his ability, despite hating what he was, because he knew if he played his perfect game, that he could pull off a personal win. And yet, once again—only at the last minute—did things fall apart.
He had things under control. He had manipulated the entire game the best he could. To the best of his werewolf (instead of human) ability, he played masterfully. He deserved the win.
But yet, it was denied to him. He had been only human in the past, and even as only a werewolf, he had done a lot. And despite all of this, a last-minute change meant that this time, the town would most likely steal victory from his grasps. All he could do is watch as the ghostly specter of a poor wolf.
The wizard had officially been known to manipulate certain circumstances to his favor. But never was he shown to have that level of control. What if he could? What if something was going wrong, and he had the power to set it to the track he wanted? He had never truly lost, with the possible exception of one game, the wizard. And Ranger had always in some way not had a full victory. Ranger did not like the “coincidences” forming.
No, he saw a pattern.
Ranger was further humiliated in his next attempt. Not only was he lynched on the first day, but to add insult to injury, he wasn’t even a full townsperson, being the traitor biologically compelled to join the wolves if he was attacked—meaning his lynched actually benefited the town!
As a consolation prize, he managed to pin down two of the remaining werewolves, but the other half eluded him spectacularly, leaving him crying at his continued lack of success. And then, to top things off…it happened.
Yes, that. The great battle he was forced to witness as a specter, knowing very well he would most likely lose some of his memories as well. But through sheer determination (and good analytical notes—or remains of them, at least), he would remember all of his failures and he would be sick of them.
Enough was enough. Things had to change. After all he had been through, it was not going to end in any way other than what he wanted. But…how could he win? How could he beat the wizard, an absolute master of magic? How could he beat someone playing god? Who had just beaten another Wizard? Even if he had an ally, it’d be impossible, because he’d be a mere human, and taking on a god in that state would be impossible.
And then…the realization dawned on him.
Ranger smiled, as he had that revelation, that sudden click in his mind which made everything work, which would finally make him win. What did he do best? Analysis, from a combination of his extremely insightful mind, and a knowledge of how things work, what he calls his Science. And the evil thought coming to him?
“Any magic explained in enough detail is indistinguishable from science.
So…
……It figures…the inverse would be true…
…Any science sufficiently advanced enough is indistinguishable from magic.”
Ranger’s specialty was Science. The Wizard used Magic.
“Every force in this world has an opposite. And if the Wizard happens to use Magic, then he needs an equal, he needs someone with a force as strong as him, but which has an opposite focus. And that is Science.” He begins to grin.
“Yes…that will work. I can do this.”
He would become more than a human. He would play the wizard’s game, and if the wizard wanted to play god, so too would Ranger. The Wizard had a game board. What would happen if Ranger created his own? Ranger would enter into the world of managing those he had used to be among. He needed to reform the town. But, what would that do? How could he enter into a situation that complex?
The simple solution?
“Start over. Yes…from scratch. Let’s see what I can do.”
Ranger would work from the fundamentals, the basics. He looks at a model he built long ago, a side-project which had previously been abandoned when he was a mere human. It’s name is not Comicfurysville. It is similar, but no…he had something different to call it, to name it more to his style…
“Yes…that’s more like it…”
And now, he would begin the game. Drawing from all his previous experience, he would make the greatest, grandest experiment, one to grow greater than ComicFurysville, one to become at least, if not superior, to that town he had become well-acquainted with. And if it worked, he would win.
Now, he began to grin.
“Let the game begin…”
------------------------------------
A peaceful hamlet in some area [Codename: ComFurville] was a fantastic, friendly, almost perfect place to live. Lots of land, a friendly community, gorgeous views, stunning sunsets, and a large town square with a beautiful oak tree in the middle. It has come to affectionately be known as Ol’ Lynchy. But all is not well in the country, for there are beasts in their midst. Monsters so vicious and terrifying that the whole village has been gripped by the paranoia of them lurking amongst their friends and families...
Despair hangs over the tiny village as disappearances have become too numerous to ignore. Clues from the disappearances have all pointed to the same thing: Werewolves. Frightened, the Villagers must band together to find the werewolves among them before they're slaughtered one by one.
When the wolves attack, it's a bleak day...and now, everyone wants their way. When neighbor turns against neighbor, who is really safe? Nobody. Anything goes, Hilarity Ensues, and you never quite know what's going to happen next...
------------
“Life. Yes…come alive, my little village.” The glow begins to grow… “I don’t need anyone else. It’s working. It’s actually beginning to take on its own little world.”
------------
It was a rather gloomy time in ComFurville. Alright, so the villagers went about their daily business of herding animals, training the newest generation of Baby Frogs (most of them named “Jim” or a variant thereof) eating custard, partying at the jailhouse, and chatting around Ol’ Lynchy. (Why was it named that again? They don’t remember, but they keep the tree in good shape.) Sure, nothing wrong with that. Normal, for a village—well, semi-normal, anyway. But tonight would be different.
Night had come to the village, and the townspeople went to their homes, as was their usual routine. The sound of slamming doors, clunking deadbolts, and rattling chain-locks can be heard, though they do so simply out of habit. The inhabitants of this community are no strangers to night intruders, so they are always on guard. However, the villagers are not afraid of theft or vandalism, no, what they are afraid of is much, much more terrifying. “They are just stories. They’re a myth. They are just stories.” They can tell themselves that all they would like. So why do they take all those precautions? If it was just tales, they’d never have picked up those habits, right?
Things had been fine before, so they would be fine again. Nothing had gone wrong so far, so nothing would go wrong that night, nothing could so fundamentally alter their daily lives, nothing would shake them. Right?
Yet things were not the same. No, not this night, where things would be different. They knew the story of their mortal enemies from generations past, but they had always thought that it was a fable to just scare misbehaving villagers. Surely such a thing would never happen to them! Everything was fine. Nothing would change.
“We’re just a normal large village, peaceful.”
For as long as the ComicFurians can remember (which isn’t that long for some reason), they have been plagued by the ever-present threat, but no attacks had occurred in…how long? Well, long enough that surely, it must not be true. If it were true, it would have happened, already. For many years, it was a fantastic, friendly village. What could change? The past was the past. No matter how bad it was, the future was looking good. After all, it was such a happy town.
A bit paranoid, but otherwise, quite nice. Nothing could change.
For hundreds of years, they had allegedly been in a constant war they could never win nor lose, against a threat they couldn’t see. Their thriving village far from civilization was plagued by a single little problem, by a small problem which had prevented their town from growing beyond a small city at best.
They all knew the stories. But how could they be true? They couldn’t be anything more than stories. They had won some battles, but had lost just as frequently against the menace, and yet somehow still managed to trudge through their miserable lives. That wouldn’t be possible if it was really true, right? Surely, they were just stories, though? Nothing that horrid would ever exist for real? Told to frighten their children (who are totally not from incestuous relations) away from wandering out into the woods. Yeah, it had to be that way. But even if it wasn’t, would it matter? The past was the past.
Nothing could change. They’d just make a better future. Right?
But no…the strange occurrences happening could no longer be ignored. A group of individuals cannot sleep. Somehow, things are different. A curse is upon them, which they do not fully understand. They have awoken to a hunger which they cannot suppress, which they cannot satisfy, and have allowed their instincts to overcome them.
And immediately, they hit hard.
The Mystic Guild burns down in a violent explosion.
The Guardian Guild has been ransacked.
The graveyard has been desecrated, all the souls in there which could not rest in peace forced to move on.
The traitor has been backstabbed.
A photographer has been murdered.
The Hunter’s Lodge is surprisingly empty, with all of the stuffed animals removed. It looks like it’s been cleaned of all evidence, except for some wolf hairs from an old trophy.
The Jailhouse has been broken, and the Nice Hat it has seems to have been torn!
The Mayor and her bodyguards have been assassinated on their re-election campaign. The Chemists were poisoned. The local Ski Mask store (which conveniently stocks Swords, Bats, and other such weapons for offense and defense) has ironically fallen victim to vandals. And the Mercenary’s Guild has gone rogue, mobilizing their headquarters in an attempt to avoid being wiped out.
This was their declaration of War. In a single night, they had managed to completely level all possible opposition…or did they? They left nothing behind of the known locations, but were they thorough enough? New arrivals could end their monopoly. Or perhaps an older rival not seen for some time had been away when they attacked? They have no way of knowing for sure. What they do know, however, is that the villagers are quite angry. Will they survive the onslaught of rage induced by their maddened rampage through the night?
The battle has begun once again. All the strange things that have been happening can no longer be a coincidence. The growl in the night, at that distant location just out of the corner of your eye, the distinct shape of the ancient foe. The bodies in the street. The people vanishing to never be seen again. The devastation to the town. Furthering this battle, some villagers have been reporting visions of a shadowy figure that can only be described as fairly white, but such rumors have been dismissed as insanity. The messages, the clues, everything points to one thing, and one thing only:
Werewolves. They're back. Since their initial entrance, they’ve laid back on their assault somewhat, and now limit themselves to killing one a night—are they that confident in victory?
The time for action is now. The village must band together and search out the menace lurking in the forest and destroy it, once and for all, or die trying. The villagers have been getting more and more desperate, and they have done the only logical thing they can do. Trying to move outside the village has been known to get people shot and declared traitors, so that’s not an option. (It’s quite ridiculous, even. Why would you want to move out of a theoretically-perfect town?)
The future of the ComicFurians relies solely on one thing. Their ability to systematically vote upon and lynch until all of the werewolves are dead. The villagers hope to remove the menace from their cobbled streets, once and for all. This surely would be their final confrontation. After all they had been through, it had to be their last stand.
It would end, one way or another. It had to. It must end.
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