[littlemanpoet]

Anakron walked into the village square; which wasn't really square but you had to call it something that didn't sound overly latinate. Without preamble he started right in on the issues of greatest import.

"All of the Offending Party have passed this test. Not one of you have cast a vote today."

Mardil was walking into the square and overheard this last comment. "But you told us that we had to lynch two people each day."

"Not so. I never said that you had to lynch anyone. Rather, I told you, after one of your number said 'we must lynch them', that in Mordor, because of the Dweomer, all lynchings in Mordor must be multiple. Never did I say that you must do so. Blame the moderator of this rpg if you like, but not me."

Mardil rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Technicalities."

Anakron smirked, then held up his staff. "Let the Dweomer be conveyed!" Suddenly, the ground swelled and rumbled wherever they had buried a fangirl, a nightly death, or a lynch victim. Fingers clawed at the air from beneath the ground. Girls screamed. Fléin retched rats. Arms pulled their own bodies out from beneath the soil until a host of fangirls, lynchees, and nightly victims were standing around, dusting their clothes of excess dirt. Even a beaver that had been two halves, became whole ... and stared evilly at Fléin.

"Juth waith thill a thlan geth heya, Thwoff! Th'a wonther thnow dothn't follow you!"

"Shut up you little orc," Fléin retorted.

"How's everybody feeling?" Anakron asked.

"Alive and well, no thanks to you!" cried Elempí.

"Tut tut, I merely convey."

"But how-" started Alli, "-how did they die if there aren't any werewolves, and how did they all come back to life again?"

"Through the secrets of the Dweomer. But this much I may reveal. The Dweomer functions as a conveyor of entities and items from another time in the future; but not just one single microsecond of time. Rather, the conveyance can be from any of a few million million seconds of time. Two nights ago, for example, the Dweomer conveyed a time when these fangirls were all no longer alive; and this morning, the Dweomer conveyed an earlier time, when they were alive."

Panakeia said, "So ... this village is real? This game?"

"Yes. But it was a very creative solution to the problem, even if it was not quite right."

Nilpaurion, here, was a special case, as he always seems to be, and even though he voted for himself, game's over. Sorry, too bad. Why do you want to be lynched, anyway, Nilp?"

"To be rid of my obnoxious alter ego once and for all, Sir Dweomer."

"Don't call me that. I only convey it. What makes you think being killed a second time will achieve this?"

"You mean it won't?"

"'Twould be far simpler for me to convey the Dweomer from a point in time when you and your alter ego are separate."

"You can do that?!?" Nilp asked, wide eyed.

Anakron held forth his staff. "Dweomer be conv- .... Oh." Anakron lowered his staff. "There is not point in time when your alter ego is completely separated from you. Sorry about that.

"And now to the point totals," Anakron continued. "Ten points for surviving; but subtract one for each individual you voted for that was lynched. Panakeia add one point for moral development. That is all.

"Oh, not quite all. These points do make a difference. Do not doubt it. That is all.

"Well, not quite all. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, meet here to be conveyed to Urukapolis for the final test. Good night all. Sleep tight. Don't let the CoDs, beavers, and betrayers bite. Elempí! Get over here!"

Elempí hurried after his master into the dusk.