Blanko quivered under his covers in fear as the sun sat below the western mountain. He didn't sleep at all after Enigma was killed in the village square, and with Chris dying last night, he was sure he was going to be next. Each creak in the darkness and gust of the wind in the night stole his breath for what seemed like hours. He dare not even make a breathing hole under the covers. Meanwhile, his bed continued to get hotter and hotter with the stench of fear and perspiration.
"I know I'm next," he would mutter over and over to himself.
"It's because I cursed the gods for having their shit all mixed up," he continued to cry. They were after all petty, vengeful, and prideful gods.
Finally, the sleep depravation caught up with Blanko and he drifted into unwelcoming land of dreams. Hours later, Blanko lifted an eye as the sunlight pierced his window. He had thrown his impenetrable covers free in the night, but that was not on his mind. He was alive!!! Blanko leapt from his urine drenched bed and ran to the window. There were villagers gathered about, but there were no signs of who was dead.
Blanko quickly put on his boots and threw on a coat as he ran outside.
"It was Parsifal," said Verrine solemnly. "Got him in his sleep."
Terror chilled his already cold body. The wolves can get you in your hovel. Blanko looked from face to face. As he scanned each one of them for incriminating clues a horrible thought struck him. Do the villagers know they are wolves?
"It could still be anyone of us," Blanko said re-saturating his pants.
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Let me commune with the wolves about the ratio. I just copy/pasted Wilmore's rules and didn't tweak much really. Anyways, it's day. Begin your accusations. Night will arrive at May 17, 2012, 12:00:00 PM.