[the guy who be short]

The village had decided. To save the known innocents and to (almost) secure a victory for the villagers, three brave souls would surrender their lives.

"Evisse... She was the first to garner votes, so she shall be the first to die. Farewell, baker" one of the villagers said.

"And fortune cookie maker," Evisse interjected, "I make fortune cookies too. My cookie for today was 'you're screwed,' incidentally. I found that amusing."

The villagers looked at her. She shrugged and stepped forward, ready to die for the sake of her village. The Odd-noose was tied around her neck, the newly fitted Odd-trapdoor swung open, and her neck snapped.

She hung there, swaying in the wind, limp. And her body remained that of a sweet and humble baker-maiden. They had erred.

As the Odd-trapdoor was moved back into place, the Odd-noose was removed from Evisse's neck. Her body was thrown off the platform (nightfall was closing in, they didn't have time for ceremony).

"Lalaith... Lalaith shall be the next to die. Let us hope she is the werewolf."

"I will die gladly, if the village may be saved," she replied, "but innocent am I, and innocent have I ever been. You slay now one of your own."

Proudly, she stepped up to the Odd-noose. She lowered her head, and it slipped around her neck.

The Odd-trapdoor disappeared from under her feet. She felt herself falling - falling? That shouldn't happen! The rope had come off the frame of the gallows!

What was it with this village? Why couldn't they make gallows properly? Oddwen would be spinning in her grave, if she had one (they had decided to leave her in the street. Nobody wants to touch a carcass, after all).

Lalaith fell through the trapdoor. Unable to prepare, she landed with a thud as her neck broke. The gallows had served its duty, if not in the appropriate manner.

The villagers looked down. Would she transform? Was this the final wolf?

Nope. Another innocent was dead. They turned to littlemanpoet.

"How does this work without a functioning gallows?" he inquired.

"Looks like we'll have to revert to a good old lynching, old boy. Wait here while we get our pitchforks, would you?" they replied.

Five minutes later, LMP was surrounded by the four remaining villagers. Just for of them. He could do it...

The butcher roared, lifting his head and howling at the newly risen moon. His body expanded, bursting out of his bloodstained apron, as hair and muscle sprouted all over his body.

The villagers shivered and shuffled backwards in fear. They had found their werewolf... or he had found them. What now?

LMP looked menacingly at them. He bared his teeth, saliva dripping from his jaws as he advanced upon them. They had to fight, or he would kill them all! But who would dare to attack such a powerful, furious beast?

Feanor of the Peredhil, Werewolf Hunter, stepped forward, crossbow in hand. The wolf eyed her. She eyed the wolf. Time froze.

"Aure entuluva!" she cried suddenly, her voice piercing the silence as she loosed her bolt. It flew true, striking the wolf in the heart. LMP made a strange gurgling noise, presumably indicating pain in the Black Speech.

He keeled backward. She ran forward. Sword in hand, she sliced, and the werewolf's head vacated his shoulders. He was dead.

They had won! The villagers had defeated Sauron, servant of Morgoth, on a small personal level. And if they could do it, so could others all around Beleriand. There was still hope, hope for the long war of the Noldor...

VILLAGERS WIN!