[Formendacil]

The second day after Formendacil’s death was taken a good deal more cautiously by the villagers of Dol-in-Gaurhoth. The villagers had seen proof of the Werewolves’ resolution to continue killing them, and although their latest victim had been the one person in the village who could have given them assistance, the fact that not one of the Werewolves was known- or even clearly guessed at- gave them reason to think long and hard on what they knew.

“We should send away for help,” suggest Azaelia. “Surely we can survive long enough to find some professional assistance. And it wouldn’t be like just giving up the enemy.”

“Professional werewolf hunters?” said Garin, “do such things even exist? And if they do, I doubt if there would be any nearer than either Gondor or the Iron Hills. A trip to either and back would take to long.”

“I’m as close as a professional as you can get,” said Nilpaurion. “I am, after all, a carnivore myself.”

The village ignored Nilpaurion. After his performance of the day before, they were content to leave him be for the moment.

“Anyways, who would we send?” said Rune. “In my opinion, we should all abandon the village, and seek out a professional werewolf diviner together.”

“I’ve seriously doubt that such things exist,” re-emphasized Garin.

“And are you seriously saying that we should set off as a group across the wilds?” said Amanaduial. “We’d be in exactly the same boat, except that we’d have no walls for our defense. The werewolves would have us dead before we reached the great road north of the Ered Lithui. And if, by some reason, they let us live until we reached Gondor, we’d just be setting them up for more murders.”

“You’re right,” said Cailín. “So we do the honourable thing, and try to find them for ourselves. I guess it’s the only thing to do.”

“But what if we guess wrong, and the Werewolves escape and go on to kill other villages!” said Alcarillo. “I’m as fond of my life as the next man, but if being honourable is what we’re after, then maybe we should commit mass suicide. True, that’s a pile of innocents going down as well, but at least we’ll know for sure that the Werewolves are dead.”

“That’s over four villagers for every Werewolf,” said Meneltarmacil, doing the math. “Maybe that’ll be acceptable if another few days go by and we’ve had no luck, but for now I don’t think we can justify those odds.”

“Dying isn’t a part of my plan, whatever happens,” said Kuruharan. A few of the villagers shouted their agreement, but Lhunardawen said:

“That sounds suspiciously like what a Werewolf would say to ruin a sound plan.”

“Sound plan!” said Malkatoj.

And so the day continued….

It was one of those days when things seemed unnaturally balanced. When the votes were being tallied at the end of the day, as impartially as the villagers could arrange, it was a close race between Lhunardawen, Garin, Cailín, and Eluchíl- a race where coming in first would mean being the ultimate loser. Gurthang and Meneltarmacil, assured for the moment that they would not die, were already preparing the gallows.

The last few votes were counted, giving Garin a very unwanted landslide victory. The village began to close in around him.

“I’m inclined to agree with Kuruharan,” he said. “Dying isn’t a part of my plan!”

And he grabbed a long knife from his belt, and launched himself at the nearest bystander, grabbing him at the throat.

“Help me!” shrieked Eluchíl.

“No one’s going to save you, runt!” snarled Garin. “They don’t know whether you’re a wolf or no, and from their voting today, I gather that several think you’re a Wolf!

“Now!” he turned to the village. “This little whelp and I will be on our way. If you don’t want to see him hurt, you’ll be wise and make a path for us.”

The villagers looked at each other for guidance, forgetting momentarily the two other Werewolves in their midst. All clutched weapons, from Amanaduial’s longbow, to Gurthang’s riding crop, to Lhunardawen clutching Formendacil’s sword. Slowly, they backed up, letting Garin and Eluchíl through. Slowly, the convicted man and his captive headed towards the edge of the village, the villagers following behind.

Then Eluchíl decided to escape. Why, no one could ever say. Perhaps he panicked. Whatever the reason, he tried to dive under Garin’s arm, and make a dash for the others.

Garin gutted him where he stood.

For a moment there was silence as Eluchíl slipped to the ground, and gave a gasp before dying.

“Told you I was innocent…”

Then everybody came to their senses. Garin took one look at the villagers and made a beeline for the village gates. The others were hard on his heels.

“Get out of my way so I can shoot him!” said Amanaduial, but they were running too fast to stop.

At the head of the pack was Kuruharan. As he explained later, Dwarves are natural sprinters, very dangerous over short distances.

And so it proved for Garin. Just before he made it to the palisade walls of the village, the Dwarf had caught up to him. Massive axe in hand, he swiped at the fugitive, causing him to stumble, though he didn’t manage to maim him.

The rest of the village caught up, and made a ring around Garin, cutting off his escape.

“Traitors!” snapped Garin. “Come and help me, why don’t you!”

Who he was snapping at was never learned, for Kuruharan’s mighty axe clove deep into his stomach, severing him nearly in two. Dying even as he fell to the ground, Garin began to transform, his body shaking as his human features transformed into those of a hideous, cloven beast- the form of a WEREWOLF. The village all stepped back.

“No Werewolf twists my words for their own means and gets away with it,” said Kuruharan, wiping his blade.

“It’s not the one who killed Formendacil,” said Valier. “This one still has its tail.”

In the sky, the sun was setting.

“Let’s get to bed,” said Farael. “I’m sure we’ll pay for this tomorrow…”

NIGHT 3 has now begin.

I need names from the Seer, the Ranger, and Wolves. Dead people, be ready for a PM from me, from the Seer.

~Michael A. Joosten - WW XVI Moderator~