L!otC 1

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Ravenswood Bluff / $gamechapter

<div class="menu-item"> <<link 'go back'>><<run Engine.backward()>><</link>></div> <div class="menu-item"><<link 'settings'>><<script>>UI.settings()<</script>><</link>></div> <div class="menu-item"><<link 'characters' 'characters'>><</link>></div> <div class="menu-item"><<link 'saves'>><<script>>UI.saves()<</script>><</link>></div> <div class="menu-item"><<link 'credit' 'credit'>><</link>></div> <p class="menu-item mn"><<link 'menu'>><</link>></p>

Love! on the Clocktower (lotc) is a work of fiction using the setting, rules, and mechanics created by and belonging to the Pandemonium Institute. This product is not commercialised. Please check out the original social deduction game Blood on the Clocktower! Music "Anamalie" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License <<nobr>> <div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item"><<link "Return to game" $return>><</link>> </div> <</nobr>>

<<fadein 3s>><<linkappend "The bell chimes, heralding your arrival to Ravenswood Bluff." t8n>> <<playlist "ambient" volume 0 fadeoverto 30 0.5>> <div class="imgdiv"><img src="images/1.png"/></div> Beside the hourly disruption, Ravenswood Bluff is a quiet village, barely holding onto its last life. An insignificant space, half-abandoned when you moved away and third-quarter-abandoned now that you’ve returned. It has turned sepulchral; you imagine Caskblight will be pleased if nothing else. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Why did you leave? |2]]</div> </div><</nobr>> <</linkappend>><</fadein>>

Stupid question; you have never left. Ravenswood Bluff has burrowed itself deep underneath your skin in a way nothing else has managed to do. Any passing fixations of yours pale in comparison to the cawing of ravens, disgustingly nostalgic. Despite the distance you’ve put between yourself and this village -- physically and emotionally -- you still find yourself missing the damn place. Never thought you’d be in a toxic one-sided relationship with a village, but it is what it is. Even just looking at the old clocktower has got you feeling less lethargic. More awake and aware. Like a cold bucket of water has suddenly been dumped on you, and you’re shaking and quivering but your pupils are blown and your hands are no longer translucent. You find some irony in that. Well… At any rate, Ravenswood Bluff and, by extension, your feelings for it can be as contradictory as it wants. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Why did you come back? |3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The ravens call for you. Not in any sort of metaphorical spiritual metaphysical //I-hear-the-call-of-Mother-Nature// soul searching way. No, this village sent a murder of them to your old place of residence, and they fucking screamed at you, echoing their master’s will -- the village’s will -- without ever taking a break. They followed you on your travel as well. You saw one of the ravens cawed itself to death, and then cawed some more. So here you are, at the Townsquare and looking up at the clocktower. There’s nothing for you to find at this moment, but you imagine the village will present to you the world’s worst welcome-back gift soon enough. In the meantime, you should move along. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Back to your cage. |4][$ch = 0]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[Back to your refuge. |4][$ch = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <<if $ch == 0>> <<set $ch1 to "unpleasant.<br /><br />Not at the fault of your caretaker, mind you -- he was the closest thing to kindness that you could find in this Godforsaken village, and he had tried so hard to give you a resemblance of a normal childhood; instead you lay the blame at the monastery. You spent years of your life coped up behind those walls, where silence filled the corridors and nestled between you and your caretaker.<br /><br />A malicious part of you is glad to see the building no longer standing tall, its walls having succumbed to the passage of time.<br /><br />Still, it is home.">> <<else>> <<set $ch1 to "pleasant. Your caretaker -- the closest thing to kindness that you could find here in this Godforsaken village -- would always greet you with a warm smile and, similarly, the monastery’s doors would always be open for you. It’s his gift to you. It’s the closest thing you have to a home.<br /><br />Something inside you twists; you’ve missed his funeral and the subsequent annual grieving, and in his passing and your absence, the monastery has succumbed to the passage of time.">> <</if>> <</nobr>>\ You walk along the familiar cobbled road, hoping no one will intercept you. The sun is about to set anyhow; no one likes to be out on the street after dark. It’s the one rule of Ravenswood Bluff that you abide to with fanaticism, even though you have no real idea of the consequences of staying out. Deep down in your marrow, and because you’re not stupid, you know not to stray too far from the light. With that thought in mind, you quicken your pace across the village, your steps only faltering when the monastery comes into view. Born and raised in that building, you remember little of your childhood, only that it was $ch1 The door creaks as you push it open, the hinges rusted but not in such a state of disrepair as the wooden door, swelled as it is. It's a telling grind. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[The prodigal son’s returned. |5]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The monastery is rotting. The distinct sense of stagnancy hits you full force the moment you step inside, accentuated by dark spots of mold and the occasional rustling noises heard within the cracks and crevices of the walls. It’s disquieting warmer inside, the heat coating you like fungus, a sharp contrast to the bitterly cold weather but humid all the same. You open the window and trade the yeasty air for petrichor. Over the sudden rain, you can still hear the ravens cawing their throats out. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[“Like a caw-cophony,” says the Storyteller. |6]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Unnecessary veil and gaudy, ludicrous eyewear. A pristine suit that carries a sense of gentlemanly sophistication, undercut by their self-satisfied chuckle. <div class="imgdiv"><img src="images/2.png"/></div> You do not know if you’re capable of hating the Storyteller, an extended limb of Ravenswood Bluff that they are. They are harder to love than the still stone bricks and cobbled roads, but they have been here for as long as you can remember and then longer still. So you have had the time to settle, gradually, into something close to fondness for them. Even if they have the tendency to crack lame joke. It is rude to show up unannounced though. They shrug. You point out that the front door exists for a reason. They could have at least knock. They say that expected customs have become all the more boring in recent years. They no longer feel like wasting time following a needlessly complicated dance of polite small talks and roundabout prodding, and have shed that ill-fitted suit of mannerisms. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[When they smile at you, it’s all bones. |7]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Despite their declaration of them abandoning the social script, the Storyteller still inquire after you. Indulgently, you answer them, though there is little to speak of your life away from Ravenswood Bluff. Nothing memorable, at any rate. They make a curious noise. You try to explain how not real the outside world is. Rest assured, you still felt the wind -- calmer than the screeching banshee outside -- caressing your skin, and nothing can rip the first sighting of the moon out of you, and what food that you managed to eat did not taste like ash and rot on your tongue, but you were only half-content. Nothing stands out from the others, and nothing’s real. The sound of pen scribbling against paper trails off some seconds after you stop talking. The Storyteller peeks at you from behind their grimoire, an eyebrow raised. You meet the gaze heads-on. Hold it for a minute, just until the silence get unbearable, before looking back out at the outpour. The Storyteller considers you for another moment. You squint, barely making out the clocktower in the far distance. It’s-- “You’re a ghost!” they exclaim. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Yeah, no shit. |8][$gh = 0]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[They’re talking nonsense again. |8][$gh = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <<if $gh == 0>> <<set $gh1 to "You miss nothing and remember nothing. You’re a mute phantom, aimlessly drifting elsewhere.<br /><br />Yet, from the moment you stepped foot into Ravenswood Bluff, you are painfully human, your existence confirmed by the overseeing clocktower">> <<else>> <<set $gh1 to "The Storyteller smiles ever wider. “You miss nothing and remember nothing.”<br /><br />Yes! …No.<br /><br />You amend their observation: you //were// a mute phantom, aimlessly drifting elsewhere. You’re painfully human now, your existence confirmed by the Storyteller’s gaze">> <</if>> <</nobr>> $gh1 …Feeling a fool but suddenly embolden with a foreign need to do so, you whisper your name. You are <<textbox "$name" "Nobody" "9">>

<<set $name to $name.toUpperFirst()>>\ The Storyteller blinks. They look as startled as you feel, rendered as speechless as you are by your own impulsive decision. Nobody calls you by your given name, you realise; no one has for a very long time now. You had a name and you were generally referred to by that name as a child, but the people of Ravenswood Bluff know you more by your caretaker’s moniker that, naturally, will become your moniker. Has became your moniker, you suppose, after your caretaker passed. You’re the monk. As with everything in Ravenswood Bluff, it’s not meant to be taken literally. Your caretaker did not partake in a monastic lifestyle, nor did he believe in… anything really, but he was the monk. You do not even know his first name. You know he was a //protector// though; the man certainly shielded your naivety from the cruelty of Ravenswood Bluff for as long as he could, and the monastery’s door opens for not just you. He couldn’t save himself from death, but he damn well saved others. That’s why he was the monk. Or rather, he was the monk because he protected others. What about you? <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[You’re the monk, so you protect. |10]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[You protect, so you’re the monk. |10]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Oh, what’s the difference? It’s your role at the end of the day, pre-destined and woven into the tapestry by the Storyteller in ways you can’t comprehend. It’s half a cliché, but it’s interesting either way: a reluctant monk who steps up, a proper monk who fails, an avoidant monk who stands back and watches. The point-of-view character, the could-have-been Storyteller. You’re $name. The Storyteller hums with renewed interest. Their cheeks have gotten a touch pink behind tinted orange glasses. With affected nonchalance: “It suits you.” Haha. Sure, whatever they say. They scrunch their nose and scratch something out in that grimoire of theirs, pause, then tear the entire page off. They insist that you’ve given them a lot of work //right on the eve of the game, honestly,// but they have no choice but to do it, as it’s their job. You don’t get it. They laugh, pause again, then ask if they can stay here for a while longer. The rain is awfully heavy with no intention of stopping soon, and they don’t feel like braving the weather. It isn’t like you can stop them from coming and going as they please. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[They admit, after serious consideration, that they will die tomorrow. |11]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<playlist "ambient" stop>>\ <<audio "mainTheme" volume 0 fadeoverto 15 0.3 loop>>\ !Love! on the Clocktower <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[This is a title card placeholder. |12]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $gamechapter = "Night 1">>\ <<audio "mainTheme" stop>>\ <<playlist "tense" volume 0 fadeoverto 30 0.5>> During the hellish thunderstorm, you hear the tell-tale sound of pierced flesh. Or rather, you feel the same piercing sensation through your body, the pain of it travelled from the dirt upward, infecting the stone, the wooden floor, the bed frame, and then where your skin lays in contact with the mattress. You stay curled up in bed, breathing heavily through your nose and out your mouth. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[It’s not purely physical; if it was, you could have endured it with little fanfare. |13]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

As is, there’s another hidden, insistence pull at your heart. And you know with absolute certainty that the Storyteller is dead, just as they said they would. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Get out of bed. |14]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You don’t bother making your bed. You open the window: the rain obstructs your view. You can barely make out of the clocktower in the distance. It’s a minute pass midnight. Your present has been delivered, crudely skewered on the hour hand. It’s still dark. You can’t go out, lest you end up with your body impaled there as well. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Go back to sleep. |15]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Not like you can do that either. Still, you drop back onto the mattress, huddling deeper into the blankets and willing for it to block out the blood rushing in your ears. The pain has receded; you miss it suddenly. The Storyteller isn’t here to tether you to reality anymore, so pain is the next best thing. The only thing that makes sense in Ravenswood Bluff still. You’re tempted to go out. Let the demon rotting this town get its hand on you next. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Go back to sleep. |16]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You’re trying. The pain passes you by and, eventually, your body stops its quivering as well, allowing you to settle. Your eyes dart back and forth between the ceiling and the open window. Your thoughts slow to a crawl. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Sleep comes. |17]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You can’t stay within its hold for long. You wake several times throughout the night: to throw your blanket off, to go to the bathroom, to grab the blanket again because it is cold and you’ve started to shiver, to get some water. Then you go back to a restless sleep and wait for the next disturbance. You don’t have to wait long; a voice whispers you awake. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[You look over. |18]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The Storyteller’s gaze is dulled. See-through. You grab them by their bloody collar and give a weak pull. The Storyteller tries to tell you something. Their voice is hoarse, the pointy end of the clock hand still tickling at their throat. They say that they won’t be here long. They have other places to visit. Work is never done. You reach out and slap your hand over their mouth. Tomorrow. That’s for tomorrow. For now, you tug at them again. A muffled sigh, as they slide under the blanket beside you. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Go back to sleep. |19]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<set $gamechapter = "Day 1">>\ When you next open your eyes, the sun is up and the ghost of the Storyteller is gone from your bed. You go through your morning routine, your steps dragging in a shuffling sleepwalker’s gait. You pull open the kitchen cabinets with little hope; some stray boxes of non-perishable surprise you, mostly untouched by pests. You’re rarely hungry these days. You try anyway, throwing together something vaguely edible. The feel of the spoon in your mouth is alien. You remind yourself how to chew, then to chew. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[The ghost of the Storyteller looks at you with narrowed eyes. |20]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You startle; they are not wearing their glasses. You’ve seen their eyes once, long ago. Maybe they were wiping their glasses, the steam of a hot drink clouding the lenses. Maybe at Archie’s. Something sharp used to lurk behind those dead fish eyes. They used to be able to cut you open with the same ease of a coroner’s scalpel. The Storyteller have lost that edge now; there’s only a tint of brown-or-green-like putrefaction, and not much else. You assure them that you still eat, sometimes. The ghost of the Storyteller looks away with reluctant understanding. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[What do ghosts eat? |21]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Stupid question; their own flesh, of course. You wonder how long the Storyteller has before their own pain and misery eat, slowly, through their conscious mind and they wither away. Long enough, you suppose. Until the end of the game. You’re more worried for the actual people living in this town, yourself included. Your mind would certainly give under the pressure in two days top, and that’s being generous. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[How do you stop this? |22]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

By executing whatever it is that kill the Storyteller before it kills you. Simple enough on paper, except for the fact that the demon and its minions take the form of human by day, blending in. A //It could be you! It could be me! ad infinitum.// situation. You look at the ghost of the Storyteller, half-wondering if they even like this trope that the story’s built on. Their face is as inscrutable as ever. They remind you that you should go to the Townsquare soon, before you become more suspicious in the eyes of the others. It already does not help that you came back on the exact night that they died. Ah. This is why Ravenswood Bluff called you back, isn’t it? The Storyteller smiles. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Fine. Game on. |23]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

There’s already a small crowd gathered by the foot of the clocktower. The chiming of the bell at the top of hour is almost mocking, but expected. You look up at the clock. It’s seven, yet the body of the Storyteller’s still stubbornly grasping onto the hour hand, dripping blood yet refusing to come down itself. Caskblight would remove it sooner than later, but for now it makes a good perch for the ravens. “Death’s a good look on me, isn’t it?” You glance at the ghost of the Storyteller and ask if they were even alive to start with. They do not deign you with a response, instead directing your attention back to the crowd. All familiar faces, despite the passage of time. None have noticed you, though all must have known of your arrival back to Ravenswood Bluff. If not from the Storyteller, then straight from the beaks of the ravens. All of them just about to split up into smaller, more private groups, the paranoia already seeping into their blood streams. You can make out Kenneth first, the man cornering Casey into a separate chat in his office. It’s only natural that Kenneth is taking control of the situation, you suppose; his moniker //is// the investigator, after all. If there’s anyone who is gonna thrive in this incredibly specific situation, it’d him. You do wonder what bone does he have to pick with Casey -- the ravenkeeper -- of all people. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Another duo catches your attention. |24]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The next to depart are Rosanna Seere -- the fortune teller, and Mark Caskblight -- the undertaker. An interesting pair. You don’t remember either of them interacting with the other before, but maybe they have grown closer in the time that you’re gone. You watch as they head inside the clocktower, no doubt heading up to deal with the body of the Storyteller. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Who’s up next? |25]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

“How about them?” the ghost of the Storyteller murmurs, pointing toward Joy Kier and Mr. Vickers. The chef and the mayor, respectively. Another pairing that, as far as you remember, have not interacted much with each other. Mr. Vickers was the only one who couldn’t muster a smile at Joy’s… more experimental dishes, so to say, and he had opted to simply not cross path with her too often. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[You do not have much of an appetite for her cooking either, but food is food. |26]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Before Mr. Vickers departs though, he sends his butler toward the edge of the forest. Peters Jeeves is as frantic and flighty as always, but obedient. He gives a salute with such vigour that it would have been mocking or sarcastic if not for the fact that he means it before rushing away. Ah. To fetch Greyhound, of course. The slayer resides deep in the forest surrounding Ravenswood Bluff, and there is certainly much to keep her busy in there. She might not know of the Storyteller’s passing yet. To give the job to Jeeves seem like Mr. Vickers is throwing a rabbit into a tiger’s den though… <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[And then there were two. |27]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Finally, still at the clocktower: Father Camio -- the saint, and Archie -- the empath. You watch as Father Camio gets down on his knees, his hands clasped together and prayers spilling from his lips. You watch as Archie closes her eyes as well, paying respect to the Storyteller. They have been close; closer than you’ve seen the Storyteller with anyone else in Ravenswood Bluff. You glance at their ghost. The Storyteller raises an eyebrow when they notice you. They don’t have anything on their face, do they? Or could you just not resist staring at their face? <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[How come you’re the only one who can see them? |28]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

“Ravenswood Bluff works in mysterious ways,” the ghost of the Storyteller says with a ghost of a smirk. “If //I// have to guess, however, it’s because it’s more entertaining this way.” What’s so entertaining about following you around? The ghost of the Storyteller laughs like you’ve told the funniest joke they’ve heard in years. Who cares about the rest of them when they get to watch //$name// perform? Now rest assured, they will continue to carry out their duty dutifully, but in the meantime, would you be so mean as to deprive them of your company? <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Does your answer really matter here? |29]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

The ghost of the Storyteller shakes their head. However, it wouldn’t do if //you// are deprived of your autonomy. They once again directing your attention away from themself and toward the rest of the townsfolks: here’s a choice that matters. After all, you wouldn’t be able to solve any murder mystery if you were just idling here with them. Who do you want to talk to first thing first today? <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <<link '<div class="choice-item">Kenneth and Casey; the investigator and the ravenkeeper.</div>' '30'>><</link>> <<link '<div class="choice-item">Rosanna and Caskblight; the fortune teller and the undertaker.</div>' '31'>><</link>> <<link '<div class="choice-item">Joy and Mr. Vickers; the chef and the mayor.</div>' '32'>><</link>> <<link '<div class="choice-item">Jeeves and Greyhound; the butler and the slayer.</div>' '33'>><</link>> <<link '<div class="choice-item">Father Camio and Archie; the saint and the empath.</div>' '34'>><</link>> </div><</nobr>>

You follow Jeeves as he makes his way deeper into the forest, his hands all up in a panic as he tries not to get hit for the third-- fourth time by the branches. He’s muttering to himself, self-censored curses as he tries to keep his appearance. Yeah, it is like sending a rabbit into the tiger’s den. Eventually he pauses in front of a clear patch, taking a few minutes for his rushed breathing to settle before he takes a deep breath, then pauses. He walks around more in circle, whispering self-encouragement, then takes another deep breath. It’s the most pathetic imitation of a howl that you’ve ever heard in your life. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[The ravens caw mockingly in the ensuing silence. |33.1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

“Grant us, with all who have died in the hope of resurrection--” “//Resurrection?//” “--to have our consummation and bliss in thy eternal and everlasting glory, and with the blessed Virgin Mary and all thy saints.” Father Camio pauses, then looks up. “Do you trust the stories they tell, Archie?” “You know I do,” Archie mutters. She looks up as well, following his gaze toward the body of the Storyteller. “Impaled on the clock hand. They’d have loved that.” The ghost of the Storyteller nods, concurring with an impish smile. If nothing else, the demon got a sense of humour. They ask if you have a favourite way to go as well. Before you can answer, Archie interrupts again: “On the night that our monk came back as well.” You shrug. Seeing no point in keeping a distance anymore, especially now that you’ve been noticed, you walk closer. Archie shoots you a friendly smile as she awkwardly offers you a hand. So unlike her usual devil may care attitude. Maybe the years have mellowed her out, or maybe the death of the Storyteller has hardened her up. Maybe she’s a stranger now, but she still follows up the handshake with a tight hug and two pats on the back. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[She’s warm. |34.1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

In contrast, father Camio is more reserved in his greeting, though that’s not a surprise. He’s reserved in general. Perhaps to the point that you’d describe him as repressed. Or maybe you’re projecting on the old priest, and it’s you who have a problem or two deep down inside. You trade pleasantries with Archie as father Camio goes back to his funeral rite. It’s calming background noises, his words even and easily pushed to the sideline against Archie’s forced-cheerful inquiries of your life outside Ravenswood Bluff. She interrupts herself frequently enough to echo an Amen, but you can tell her attention is waning. She fully tunes out by the time father Camio is reciting the Gospel; the sharpness of her full attention on you is telling enough. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[She’s been waiting to talk to you, you realise. Why. |34.2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Archie smiles. Yes, she has something to discuss. With both you and father Camio actually, so it’s rather convenient that you two are the one left behind with her. But it can wait until father Camio’s finished with his kind-of-mass. There’s no coffin in front of him upon which he can cleanse with holy water -- the body of the Storyteller’s still hanging there, though you can spot Caskblight trying its best to retrieve it -- but it’s a nice gesture that deserves its time. She can’t remember the last time she saw the Storyteller attending church, but she believes that they would appreciate this. The ghost of the Storyteller laughs without humour, agreeing easily enough. They //do// believe in a higher power, but nothing as holy as the God father Camio follows. Nothing that his God can reach, at any rate. So, it’s half an honour to be blessed by the star. You do not have the time to process the Storyteller’s words: the moment father Camio stands up, Archie grabs the both of you by the hand and starts dragging you toward her cottage. Despite the fabric covering his eyes, you can tell father Camio is reluctantly endeared by her childlike impatient, a scold just on the tip of his tongue and held back by a rather thin thread. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[To Archie’s cottage the three of you go. |34.3]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You get to Archie’s small, wooden cottage quick enough. Sitting by the edge of the forest with Kenneth’s office on the other side, her place is surprisingly modest and subdue for someone of her temperance. Archie opens the door and ushers you in. Her living room is even more bland than the outside of her house, with little to no personal touch to speak of. Nothing that represents or implies her existence: just a couple of chairs surrounding a table. She leaves you and father Camio there as she rushes deeper in, shouting something about brewing some tea. Something never changes, her obsession with hot drink included. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Take a seat. |34.4]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Father Camio sits down opposite to you, his hand folded neatly in his laps and his head held high. Even with the blindfold, you feel his gaze on you; the visible lines carved into his forehead furrowed. Without beating around the bushes, he inquires after your reaction to the death of the Storyteller. Physically or emotionally? One affects the other, he replies with a beginning of a smile. Both then, or neither. Whatever you’re willing to give him. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[It hurts, physically. |34.5][$re = 0]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[It hurts, emotionally. |34.5][$re = 1]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[You’re happy that it happened. |34.5][$re = 2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <<if $re == 0>> You and everyone else it seems. <br /><br /> Though maybe the demon and its minions do not experience the same piercing pain, father Camio muses aloud. Or they feel it tenfold, as a punishment. Either way, it was one of the more unique wake-up call he’s experienced in his life, and he has been woken up quite rudely before. <br /><br /> You glance at the ghost of the Storyteller, wondering if they have an answer to father Camio’s hypothetical. <br /><br /> “Maybe you should ask the demon yourself when you find them,” the ghost of the Storyteller replies, smiling a smile that they only show when they know something the others do not. “In the meantime, though,” they look toward the doorway as Archie stumbling back, a tray in her hands. <<elseif $re == 1>> The ghost of the Storyteller coos at you mockingly. <br /><br /> In contrast, Father Camio gives you an understanding smile, offering what little comfort he’s allowed to. <br /><br /> It can’t be help, he shrugs. The Storyteller was a big part of everyone’s life in Ravenswood Bluff, and it’s a shame that they . It’d be more of a surprise if anyone was entirely apathetic to their passing. More curious to him is the one who takes their passing with extreme reaction. <br /><br /> He looks toward the doorway as Archie comes stumbling back, a tray in her hands, with something pained and giving. <<else>> Bright laughter rings out in the silence space between you and father Camio; the ghost of the Storyteller curls onto themself, snorting and giggling to the point of almost crying. <br /><br /> Father Camio hums, regarding you with renewed interest. “The Storyteller would agree with you,” he finally says with a deeper sense of understanding than you were expecting. <br /><br /> And yeah, damn fucking straight they would. A sideway glance toward them shows they have finally calmed down from that little outburst, faking wiping a tear away as they look back at you. For the first time today, there’s light behind their dead fish eyes. <br /><br /> The ghost of the Storyteller opens their mouth, though any words from them is interrupted by Archie walking back into the room, carrying a tray in her hand. <</if>> <</nobr>> “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t even ask if you want any!” Archie frets as she places the tray down. Steam rises up from three cups. She still keeps those hand-painted cups from when the both of you were younger. Her full collection -- 16 individually painted tea cups, each representing a role -- is impressive, though it’s a shame that the village is no longer full as it was. Most have moved away as you did, though they are lucky to escape the summon back from Ravenswood Bluff. Or they are unlucky, still suffering outside. Father Camio assures her that it’s fine, picking his cup up and cradling it between gloved hands. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Pick your cup up as well. |34.6][$tea = 0]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[You’re not too thirsty yourself. |34.6][$tea = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

$ch - childhood. 0 - bad, 1 - good. $gh - ghost. $re - reaction (to the Storyteller's death) $tea - tea. $hw - howl.

<<nobr>> <<if $tea == 0>> You enjoy the warmth the tea provides you that seems to spread through your body and, somehow, relieves you of some tension in your shoulders and jaw. She’d make a good tea lady in another life; her intuition and need to protect certainly seems fitting of the role. <br /><br /> Alas, it’s no time to day dream despite what the comforting atmosphere of the three of you sipping tea has to say. <<else>> “Well, more for me,” Archie laughs, picking her own cup up and taking a generous sip. <br /><br /> It is rather early for a murder mystery, you suppose. But the demon waits for no one, and time is running away. <</if>> <</nobr>> <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Why does she want to talk to you and father Camio? |34.7]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Well, she’s the empath. You two are not her living neighbours yet, but you are only one-step removed from her. Archie leans in, and when it’s not close enough in her opinion she drags you and father Camio closer still. There are two possibilities here, Archie starts, voice quiet. She raises her pointer finger: there could be a poisoner sneaking around in Ravenswood Bluff, and what she’s about to tell you is incorrect. She raises her middle finger: either Kenneth or Greyhound is evil. You see father Camio stiffens. Understandable; if you find out one of the two minions or, God forbids, the demon is living next to his church, you’d react like that as well. And last time you were here, you remember father Camio and Kenneth being quite close to each other. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[You’re not sure what to think about the possibility of Greyhound being evil yet. |34.8]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Archie sighs. She drains her cup, slamming it harshly back on the table and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She doesn’t want to point any finger; in fact, she wishes she was poisoned so that she does not have to incite any conflict between Kenneth and Greyhound, but… It’s too late to not wish conflict upon Ravenswood Bluff. And she needs to catch this demon. It’s only a matter of where to start. Father Camio hums to himself as he leans back against his seat. There’s too little to go off on either of them yet, he points out. It’s only the start of the first day. “And the monk has not been back for long either,” he adds. “Yeah…” Archie sighs, both hands massaging her temples. “But I’ll have to deal with this one way or another, so.” The ghost of the Storyteller giggles. At your gaze, they shrug. What’s wrong with enjoying a little personal dilemma? Right. Or do you just want some help? That’s cheating, you know? And they would never mess with the integrity of the game, despite their inclination toward certain players. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[You do not know if you were expecting more or less from them. |34.9]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

They wave you off, chiding you for focusing on them instead of Archie and father Camio. There are other factors at play here. You look back at Archie, seeing her staring at you as well. She’s clearly waiting for an answer to an unfair binary choice. You glance to father Camio to see an air of resolute. He admits, with some degree of necessary difficulty, that Kenneth would be the better choice to start with. He’s done his part, while Greyhound still has her use. A pragmatic view. “But,” he continues, “if you are courting votes, I would not be of help. Love your neighbours as yourself; there is no commandment greater.” Even when your neighbour is responsible for one murder and counting? “All is saved through salvation and faith.” “//Salvation//,” Archie echoes. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of you. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Target Kenneth. |34.10][$camio.trust +=1]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[Target Greyhound. |34.10][$archie.trust +=1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <<if $camio.trust == 1>> You see father Camio’s point. Logically, he’d be the one to remove. <br /><br /> He’s also capable of spreading false information more than Greyhound. A wrong read from him equals to two innocence condemned. <<else>> She’s a good distraction. <br /><br /> And her gone mean Archie will be able to read you. And you’ve got nothing to hide from her gaze. If that’s what it takes for her to trust you, then so be it. <</if>> <</nobr>> Father Camio hums at your answer, a finger lightly scratching at his cheek. Archie just laughs. “That’s… I’ll keep that in mind,” she says in a confidential tone. She stands up then, clasping her hands together loudly and startling you out of the tense atmosphere. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to keep the both of you long, and just for that simple question. ‘m sure you have other places to be… people to talk to.” Father Camio, to his credit, does not falter at the sudden change of pace. He nods courteously, draining his cup before excusing himself. Like she said, there are much to do. And it wouldn’t do if the church is left unattended in the midst of this crisis. You stand up too, exchanging quick greeting with both Archie and father Camio. Back to the clocktower you go. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <<link '<div class="choice-item">Back to the Townsquare you go.</div>' '35'>><</link>> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <div class="container1"> <div class="box box-1" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/nrcWyW4H/img-5.jpg);" data-text="Jeeves"></div> <div class="box box-2" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/KjqWx5ft/img-4.jpg);" data-text="Camio"></div> <div class="box box-3" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/DZhHg0m4/img-3.jpg);" data-text="Kenneth"></div> <div class="box box-4" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/KjqWx5ft/img-4.jpg);" data-text="Archie"></div> <div class="box box-5" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/nrcWyW4H/img-5.jpg);" data-text="Greyhound"></div> <div class="box box-6" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/sgBkfbtx/img-1.jpg);" data-text="You"></div> <div class="box box-7" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/3RZ6bhDS/img-2.jpg);" data-text="Joy"></div> <div class="box box-8" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/DZhHg0m4/img-3.jpg);" data-text="Rosanna"></div> <div class="box box-9" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/KjqWx5ft/img-4.jpg);" data-text="Caskblight"></div> <div class="box box-10" style="--img: url(images/vickers.png);" data-text="Vickers"></div> <div class="box box-11" style="--img: url(https://i.postimg.cc/KjqWx5ft/img-4.jpg);" data-text="Casey"></div> </div> <</nobr>> <<nobr>> <div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item"><<link "Return to game" $return>><</link>> </div> <</nobr>>

Greyhound still does this, huh? The ghost of the Storyteller snickers. It was cawing last week, they share, and she’s got a good laugh as the murder of ravens descended on Jeeves for his crime against corvid. Still, howling to summon her is a classic, and it isn’t like Jeeves can just opt out of doing such act. Despite how much he wants to, and looking at his dropping shoulders and broken spirit, he certainly wants to. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Get over there and help him. |33.2]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Yeah, he’s too wet and pathetic for you to not do anything about it. You announce your presence; Jeeves genuinely jumps at that, turning back to you with wide eyes. “Oh!” He quickly bows at you; you can see the miscellaneous leaves stuck to the top of his head clearer like this. “I’m terribly sorry. I-- I didn’t see you there…” Saving him the floundering, you wave his apology off. Moving on. Seems like he’s in the middle of something. Jeeves deflate even more as he casts a forlorn somewhere deeper into the forest. You know how Greyhound can get, he sighs, scratching the back of his head. But not to worry: even though he could not make a proper howl, enough bad attempts will lure her out either way. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Sit back and watch Jeeves make a fool of himself. |33.3][$hw = 0]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[Why don’t you give it a go? You’re a decent howler. |33.3][$hw = 1]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

<<nobr>> <<if $hw == 1>> <<set $greyhound.trust+=1>> Jeeves whips his head toward you the moment you offer, stars and unshed tears in his eyes, all but begging for you to relieve him of this torture. <br /><br /> Haha, watch and learn. <br /><br /> You take a few deep breaths yourself as you cook up a proper howl. Cupping your hand around your mouth, you let out the best damn howl of your life. The sound spreads through the forest, overtaking Jeeves’ cheering in the background. <br /><br /> A few seconds pass. <br /><br /> Then, from behind you: “I’m impressed.” <br /><br /> You look back, startled despite yourself. <div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Greyhound matches your gaze with a smirk. |33.4]]</div></div> <<else>> Well, if he says not to worry. <br /><br /> You’re just gonna find a clean spot to sit down and watch the spectacle then. <br /><br /> To Jeeves’ credit, he’s not doing the howl thing half-heartedly. The quality of his howl does not increase, but poor guy is trying best anyway, and that’s more than you can say about other people. And the situation is too absurd that you don’t feel bad about laughing. <br /><br /> Then suddenly, a tittering laugh joins into your and the ghost of the Storyteller’s chortles. <br /><br /> You startled despite yourself. <div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Next to you, Greyhound smirks. |33.4]]</div></div> <</if>> <</nobr>>

Jeeves scrambles back at the sudden sight of Greyhound, barely keeping himself from falling flat on his back. “Ms. Greyhound! I-- I didn’t see you there…” That’s the point. She leans back, her eyes leisurely switching between you and Jeeves, a clear question. There’s no way she wouldn’t have felt the death of the Storyteller. But, as you look closer, you see bandages peaking from underneath her shirt, and maybe she’s mistaken their death for lacerations from whatever beasts reside in the forest. It’d certainly explain why she wasn’t even there beneath the clocktower; you have no doubt she’d be the first one there, before the sun even rises. There’s no good way to break the news either. Still, Jeeves does it for the both of you. His voice is even, the usual stuttering uncannily absent. You don’t doubt he has practiced repeating this to himself over and over again. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[“The Storyteller’s dead.” |33.5]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Greyhound raises an eyebrow at Jeeves. You watch a smile slowly creeps onto her face; she tries very hard not to laugh, yet giggles still manage leak out through clenched teeth. You see her shoulders shake; her entire frame vibrating. Hysterically. Jeeves awkwardly laughs along as he takes a step back. And another, and another. His eyes flicker toward you for a split second; you suddenly realise how close Greyhound is to you. How vulnerable your throat is to her teeth if she wants to pounce. “You’re lying,” says Greyhound. “No,” says Jeeves. “The Storyteller’s fine,” says Greyhound. “No,” says Jeeves. “They’re dead. Dead dead //dead.//” “Alright,” says Greyhound. She’s stopped laughing. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Uncomfortable silence engulfs the scene. |33.6]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You carefully watch as Greyhound steps toward Jeeves, backing him up until his back collides against a tree. She towers over him; you can barely see Jeeves’ frail frame from this angle. His whimpering is just out of earshot. The ghost of the Storyteller assures you that she, at least, will not kill him. You beg to differ when you see Greyhound pull out a knife. The ghost of the Storyteller points out that she’s not reaching for the crossbow, so it will be fine. And even then, there’s nothing to fear if you’re properly good. And, as they give you a once-over, it isn’t like you can do try and stop Greyhound. You’re as much of a prey as Jeeves is at the moment. …The ghost of the Storyteller advices you to get away. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[Stay where you are. |33.7][$jeeves.trust +=1]]</div> <div class="choice-item">[[Step away from Greyhound. |33.9]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

You’re not sure why you ignore them. Altruism? Curiosity? Fear that paralyses you? All possible answers that don’t matter, because the fact of the matter is that you’re just standing there. Watching. “How did the Storyteller die?” she asks. Jeeves stumbles through the answer, his stream of words interrupted by occasional hiss of pain. You can’t see what Greyhound is doing to him, but you see her wipes the knife cleans every so often. Blood spreads through the cloth wrapped around her waist. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[She’s holding him up by his hair now. |33.8]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

“Who killed them?” she asks. Jeeves manages a weak //I don’t know.// Everyone’s trying to figure it out. That’s why she is being called to the Townsquare. And he doesn’t need to explain this like she’s some sort of outsiders or tourists; she knows darn well that this day will come. And the day has come, and her job is to kill the demon with that crossbow of hers, so maybe she oughta get back before mayor Vickers got too mad at him for not doing his job properly. Please. Greyhound sighs. She steps back, revealing lacerations across his neck. Nods once at Jeeves, once at you, before she vanishes as sudden as she’s appeared. You count Jeeves’ laboured breathing. In and out, and in and out. Finally, he suggests going back to the Townsquare. His voice tries for cheerful and just about getting there if not for a slight edge, but that much is understandable. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <<link '<div class="choice-item">Go back to the Townsquare.</div>' '35'>><</link>> </div><</nobr>>

Sensing your movement, Greyhound turns toward you. Her eyes narrow, daring you to take another step. You can vaguely guess her thoughts easily enough: you come here with Jeeves, so you are also included in the messengers-to-be-shot category. Therein lies the problem: you don’t want to get shivved, yet she certainly wants to penetrate you. You think about pain. Or maybe you do want it. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <div class="choice-item">[[“Who killed the Storyteller?” she asks. |33.10]]</div> </div><</nobr>>

Jeeves manages a weak //I don’t know,// and that’s enough for Greyhound’s attention to whip back to him. He babbles on and on, answering her question with drawn out answers, and at that point you’re smart enough to take the hint. You take another step, then another. Not far enough to miss Jeeves’ weak hiss that seems to only increase in frequency, but then, eventually, far enough that you can’t hear his cry at all. <<nobr>><div class="choices"> <<link '<div class="choice-item">And then further still, until you’re back at the Townsquare.</div>' '35'>><</link>> </div><</nobr>>