In Rimeridden.. - [Endgame]

[C-Worl]

I’m on mobile dude

Who’s mobile dude?

[PookyTheMagicalBear]

What does scum!Maria gain from threatening to leave the dance in 24 hours? Do you think she's lying about her intention to leave and won't pull the trigger?

psychological warfare

[MariaR]

What does scum!Maria gain from threatening to leave the dance in 24 hours? Do you think she's lying about her intention to leave and won't pull the trigger?

psychological warfare

sounds like a boring way to get tr ngl

[MariaR]

if I was a wolf I would want the entire thread going
"Oh Maria you're so towny and pretty you could never be a wolf"
:^)

[PookyTheMagicalBear]

its not for the tr

its for the drama

[MariaR]

.

you know I can't argue that one

[PookyTheMagicalBear]

if I was a wolf I would want the entire thread going
"Oh Maria you're so towny and pretty you could never be a wolf"
:^)

Maria, I can say without any reservations that you are so beautiful and captivating that even if you were a wolf I would enjoy losing to you because the thought of life without you is too bleak, painful and dull to be appealing to me.

[FakeGod]

The music of the waltz swirled around the grand ballroom, light and melodic, filling the air with a sense of elegance and celebration. The guests danced effortlessly, moving in time with the orchestra, but for Sir Cedric Dunne, the rhythm felt like an echo in the distance, out of sync with the storm brewing inside him. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, were fixed on Lady Aislinn O'Byrne, whose fiery hair shone like a crown of flames as she danced across the floor. Her laughter, light and unburdened, carried across the room, and for a brief moment, Cedric allowed himself to smile.

But there was something in her eyes tonight that unsettled him. A flicker of something—something he couldn’t quite place—had been gnawing at him since they had danced earlier. Her usual playful demeanor, the lightness in her touch, felt different now. There was an edge to her, a coldness that didn’t belong, as though she were wearing a mask. And it wasn’t just her—there were whispers in the air, conversations too hushed to catch, but their meaning was clear enough.

Benedict Farrow—ever the observer, ever the one with too many answers—had been watching Cedric from across the room. He caught Cedric’s gaze and offered a barely perceptible nod, the kind of gesture that felt more like a warning than a greeting. And when Cedric made his way over, Benedict was already there, his face serious, his usual smirk replaced by something more urgent.

“Benedict,” Cedric greeted, his voice low, the weight of the night pressing down on him.

“Sir Cedric,” Benedict replied, his voice just as measured. “I’m afraid I’ve come to tell you something you won’t want to hear. It’s about Lady Aislinn.”

Cedric’s stomach clenched, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. “What about her?” he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“She’s not who you think she is,” Benedict said softly, his words sharp and direct. “She’s been playing a dangerous game, one that you’ve been blind to. She’s been working with those who wish to tear this kingdom apart.”

Cedric froze, his blood running cold. “What are you saying?” His voice barely rose above a whisper, but it was laced with disbelief.

Benedict took a step closer, lowering his voice even further. “I’m saying she’s been meeting with mercenaries, conspirators—people who seek to exploit the kingdom’s weaknesses. And you’re standing right in the middle of it, Cedric, not realizing that you’ve been a pawn in her game.”

The room seemed to fade away as the words crashed into Cedric. The music, the dance, the guests—they were all just background noise to the pounding of his heart. His mind raced, struggling to reconcile the woman he had known—the woman he had trusted—with the monstrous reality Benedict had just painted.

“No…” Cedric muttered, shaking his head as if to shake off the truth that clung to him. “That can’t be true. Aislinn would never…”

Benedict’s eyes were hard, unyielding. “You’ve seen the signs, Cedric. You’ve seen the changes. The quiet meetings, the secrecy. It’s all there. She’s been using you to further her own goals.”

Cedric’s breath hitched, the weight of the accusation nearly suffocating him. He stood there, rooted to the floor, his mind reeling. Everything they had shared, every moment they had spent together—it all felt like a lie now.

Without thinking, he turned, his gaze locking on Aislinn, who had just spun across the dance floor with a carefree smile on her face. Her eyes caught his, and for a brief moment, something flickered—guilt, recognition, something.

But that was all it took.

Cedric’s steps were fast, too fast. He crossed the room in moments, his jaw clenched tight, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. Aislinn stood, frozen in the middle of the floor, her eyes wide as he approached. The crowd seemed to part as he reached her, his anger barely contained.

“Aislinn,” he said, his voice low but unmistakably sharp. “I need you to explain yourself.”

Her smile faltered, confusion spreading across her features. “What—what do you mean?”

The words burst from him, the anger, the hurt, the disbelief. “I know what you’ve been doing. I know about the meetings, the conspiracies. You’ve been playing a game, using me, using all of us. And I’ve been too blind to see it.”

Aislinn’s face went pale, and for a moment, she opened her mouth, as if to deny it. But the words wouldn’t come, and in that silence, the truth hung heavy between them. Her eyes flickered with something that looked like guilt—or was it shame? He couldn’t tell anymore.

“I never wanted you to get involved,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes avoiding his. “But I couldn’t control it. I never meant for you to get hurt.”

Cedric’s heart sank as the realization hit him. He stepped back, his gaze hardening. “Hurt? You used me, Aislinn. All this time, I thought we were building something real. But now I see... it was all just a game to you.”

Her eyes filled with something—regret, perhaps, or sorrow—but it was too little, too late. Cedric turned away sharply, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, but the one constant was the bitter taste of betrayal.

Without a word, he strode toward the exit, the heavy silence of the ballroom pressing in on him. He could hear her calling after him, but the words were lost to him, drowned out by the pounding of his own heart. Every step he took away from her felt like a weight lifting, and yet, something inside him—a piece of his heart—remained broken, shattered by the truth he had just uncovered.

The door closed behind him, and with it, the ball, the music, the dance—everything. What remained was a bitter emptiness, a loss so sharp it cut through the night air like the winter winds outside.

[FakeGod]

leave the dance

Gamma Emerald, who was

Sir Cedric Dunne

, aligned with

Town

, has

left

in

First Dance

.

marcistar, who was

Lady Aislinn O'Byrne

, aligned with

Mafia

, has

left

in

First Dance

.

[FakeGod]

The violins fell silent mid-bar, leaving a charged hush beneath the gilded ceiling. Moments ago the hall brimmed with graceful motion, but now the dancers stand frozen in uneasy clusters across the marble floor. In the sudden quiet, every whisper and rustle of silk is amplified. Guests exchange nervous glances and fan themselves with trembling hands. Without the music’s cheerful cover, an anxious tension clings to the air like a heavy fog.

A few attendants edge along the walls to light additional candles, but their footsteps echo conspicuously in the void of sound. The chandeliers overhead glint off half-finished glasses of champagne abandoned on side tables. A toppled chair near the dais remains as a stark reminder of the disturbance that halted the festivities. By the grand double doors – left ajar after the recent departures – two footmen stand at rigid attention, as though expecting the return of those who left or some new disruption to burst through.

In one corner, a woman in an emerald gown speaks in a hushed, urgent tone to a companion clutching her arm. The emerald-clad guest’s eyes dart toward the door whenever a shadow passes in the dimly lit corridor beyond. She keeps her voice low, but the quiver in her words betrays a deep worry. Only minutes ago she was the picture of poise on the dance floor; now her fan lies closed in her lap, forgotten, as she anxiously twists a jeweled ring on her finger. The tall knight hovering protectively a few steps behind her keeps a hand on the pommel of his sword, his broad shoulders tense under a ceremonial cape.

Near the center of the ballroom, a small knot of aristocrats murmurs among themselves, casting furtive looks at the empty throne-like chair on the raised platform. A distinguished silver-eyed lord stands apart from them, swirling a dark wine in his crystal goblet. His expression is unreadable save for the intensity of his metallic gaze scanning every face in the room. He appears almost eerily calm amid the nervous shifting of the others, one gloved finger tapping idly on the glass. Those nearest to him give the silver-eyed lord a wide berth, uncertain if he is plotting or merely lost in thought as the intermission stretches on.

By an alcove beneath a marble arch, the scholar with the worn gloves adjusts his spectacles and peers at a crumpled parchment retrieved from his coat. His lips move as if reciting something under his breath, oblivious to the curious looks of a few onlookers. Ink stains blot the fingertips of his faded gloves—a stark contrast to the spotless finery surrounding him. When a loud crack from the hearth makes a few guests jump, the scholar nearly drops his parchment. He recovers it with shaking hands, then presses himself deeper into the alcove’s shadows. It is unclear whether his pallor owes more to whatever message he read or to the charged atmosphere gripping the ballroom.

Scattered whispers ebb and flow. One cluster of younger nobles huddles near a tall mirror, their eyes wide and shining with barely-contained alarm. “Has the duke truly gone?” one asks in a quavering whisper, only to be hushed by another with a furtive gesture. Across the room, two military officers in dress uniform speak in clipped, low tones — their stiff postures suggest they are already bracing for orders. A lady with a trembling smile laughs too loudly at something her companion says, the sound ringing false and quickly dying as she glances about in embarrassment. No one moves to resume dancing; the polished dance floor remains ominously empty, its sheen reflecting the tense tableaux of guests at its edges.

Every so often, a curious hush falls over each group as they pause to listen, hoping for some cue that the night’s revelry can safely resume. But the only sounds are the soft guttering of candles and the clink of a dropped glass being hastily picked up by a servant. With each passing minute, the crowd’s restlessness grows. The woman in emerald shoots a pleading look toward the orchestra’s stage, where the conductor stands frozen with violin bow still in hand, awaiting a signal that never comes. The tall knight shifts his weight and exchanges a knowing nod with one of the officers, as if confirming unspoken suspicions.

Much remains uncertain — rumor and dread have become uninvited guests in the ballroom. All remember how, not half an hour past, a heated argument erupted near the gilded stairs, drawing every eye and halting the waltz in mid-step. The aftermath saw key figures swept from the hall: the bold duke who had challenged an accusation, the regal diplomat who had suddenly grown pale and excused herself, escorted out by concerned attendants. Their unexplained departures hang over those remaining like ghosts at the feast. Each person left behind now wonders if they will be next to face some unforeseen fate, or if they are simply witnesses to a calm before an even greater storm.

Under the painted stare of ancestors in the portraits lining the walls, the assembly waits. The grand clock in the vestibule ticks steadily onward, muffled by thick wooden doors, but each faint tick might as well be a drumbeat in the silence. A sense of irrepressible anticipation builds with every passing moment. Some guests stare into their wine glasses as if answers might be found in their depths; others cannot tear their gaze from the doors through which so many have fled. The silver-eyed lord lifts his chin, eyes narrowed, when distant echoes of raised voices reach the edge of hearing. The woman in emerald flinches at the sound, and the knight at her back straightens, hand tightening on his sword.

Still, no announcement is made. The chandeliers sway slightly as a draft finds its way through the half-open doors, causing candle flames to dance and shadows to leap across the ornate walls. In that flickering light, every unsettled face seems momentarily ghastly and strange. The scholar with the worn gloves closes his eyes in a pained wince, as if steeling himself for news yet to come. A collective breath is held as the double doors creak just a little further open — but it is only a servant slipping in, bearing a tray to collect abandoned glasses. Disappointed sighs and anxious coughs ripple across the hall.

As the intermission wears on, suspicion and worry permeate every whispered conversation and stolen glance. What had begun as a glittering night of music and merriment has shifted into something else entirely. No one dares to leave, yet none feel safe to stay carefree. Beneath the finery and forced small talk, each guest harbors the same thought: something momentous has already been set in motion, and before the night ends, the other slipper will drop. In that fraught pause between dances, the ballroom’s elegance is but a fragile shell over the turmoil brewing just beneath the surface.

[FakeGod]

Intermission

[FakeGod]

The orchestra’s last note hung in the air, the soft strings of the violins fading into an eerie silence. The once-lively ballroom, filled with swirling dancers and gentle laughter, seemed to take a collective breath, then exhale as one. For a moment, the guests stood frozen, caught between the end of one act and the anticipation of another. But the silence was far from peaceful. It was charged, filled with a sense of waiting, of something yet to unfold.

As the musicians lowered their instruments, the dancers began to peel away from the floor, their movements slow and measured. It was as though the music had been the only thing holding them together, and without it, they were left to face the growing unease that filled the space. The grand chandeliers above flickered ever so slightly, casting elongated shadows across the floor, the light now feeling less like a warmth and more like a distant, waning presence.

Lady Eveline Hartley was the first to break the stillness. Her sharp eyes flicked around the room, scanning the faces of her fellow guests, before her gaze settled on the exit. The tension had been building throughout the night, but now it felt like it had finally cracked open, spilling out across the polished floor. She exchanged a brief glance with Master Cormac Faelan, who had, at some point, stopped his lighthearted conversation and begun to watch the room with a more calculating gaze.

“What do you think of this?” she asked, her voice low enough to be heard only by him. Her usual poise was still present, but there was an undercurrent of something—doubt, perhaps, or a flicker of something darker.

Cormac, usually the one to fill the air with jokes, found no humor now. “I think we’ve all been waiting for something,” he murmured, his eyes scanning the crowd. “And it seems the night has finally decided to show its hand.”

From across the room, Lord Eamon O'Connor was leaning against a marble pillar, his usually relaxed posture now stiff with tension. His eyes tracked the departing dancers, his gaze lingering on the corners of the ballroom where shadows gathered just a little too thickly. The silence had an almost suffocating quality to it, and his sharp instincts told him that things were about to unravel in ways none of them had expected.

He caught sight of Lady Siobhan MacTavish, her fiery hair now a striking contrast to the subdued atmosphere, as she chatted animatedly with a group of younger nobles. But her smile was forced, and her eyes kept darting toward the door, as though she were anticipating something—or someone—to arrive.

Her laughter rang out suddenly, a brief, sharp sound that cut through the quiet, but it faded just as quickly. She was trying to dispel the tension, but it was clear that even she couldn’t shake the feeling that had taken hold of the room. The nervous energy rippled outward, palpable in the air.

Whispers began to rise, first soft, then louder. The quiet murmur of voices filled the space as guests began to inquire about the missing figures. The absence of Lady Elowen Ravenshade and Master Roan Albright had not gone unnoticed. A servant with a tray of empty glasses passed by Lord Alistair Kavanagh, and he paused to ask, his voice quiet, but urgent.

“Where is she?” Alistair inquired, his gaze flicking around. “Lady Ravenshade, have you seen her?”

The servant hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know, milord. I haven’t seen her in quite some time.”

Alistair’s lips tightened, and he glanced at Lady Eveline, who was now speaking softly to Cormac once more. He followed their conversation for a moment, then moved toward a quieter part of the room. His instinct told him that something was wrong, though he couldn’t place it yet. The night had already taken an unexpected turn, and he could feel the walls closing in, the air growing thick with uncertainty.

Lady Siobhan, who had been conversing with the younger group, now broke away, her steps quick as she crossed the floor, her face tense with quiet frustration. She had heard the murmurs too, and though she had tried to hide it, even she couldn’t deny the unease rising in her chest. She moved swiftly, seeking out a few familiar faces, her sharp eyes glancing back over her shoulder.

“Has anyone seen Roan or Elowen?” she asked, her voice low but commanding. The question seemed to hang in the air longer than she intended, and a sudden hush fell over those nearby. The silence stretched on, everyone waiting for someone to answer, but no one could.

Master Cormac Faelan watched her with quiet amusement, though his expression was edged with something more serious. He turned to Lady Eveline, speaking in a tone that was barely more than a whisper. “So, this is where it starts, isn’t it?”

Eveline’s lips curled slightly, the corners of her mouth lifting in a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s already begun,” she murmured. “And I think we’re all about to learn exactly what’s been lurking in the dark.”

The whispers grew louder now, a current of unease rippling through the room as the dancers slowly began to gather in smaller clusters. The music had resumed, but the once-glorious waltz now felt like a distant echo, a faint reminder of what had been. The guests moved with less fluidity now, their steps hesitant, their eyes darting between the crowd and the doorways.

Each passing minute stretched longer than the last, the uncertainty building, a palpable presence in the air. And though the dance continued, there was a sense of something heavier, something hidden just beneath the surface—waiting to be uncovered.

[FakeGod]

Dunnstral, who was

Master Roan Albright

, aligned with

Town

, has

left

during the

Intermission

.

LostDreams , who was

Lady Elowen Ravenshade

, aligned with

Town

, has

left

during the

Intermission

.

[FakeGod]

Second Dance

[FakeGod]

VoteCount 2.0

PookyTheMagicalBear - Bingle [0] -
Firebringer - C-Worl [0] -
Dannflor - Black [0] -
furtiveglance - fireisredsir [0] -
Spiffeh - MariaR [0] -

Not Voting [10]

- PookyTheMagicalBear, Bingle, Firebringer, C-Worl, Dannflor, Black, furtiveglance, fireisredsir, Spiffeh, MariaR

With 10 alive it takes 6 votes to execute

.

Countdown to deadline: (expired on 2025-05-24 18:00:00)

[Dannflor]

i solved the game btw

[Dannflor]

It’s spiffeh/bingle/furtive

I am slightly less confident on furtive, but I think if I’m wrong on furtive it’s fireisredsir so same difference.

I strongly think firebringer/c-worl should be our end game pair

I’ll lay out all my thoughts for this in a couple hours

[Dannflor]

I think firebringer cworl

Is a town town pair that scum have been ok with propping up because there’s such a high chance it gets mislimmed anyway or one of the pair just impulse leaves before end game

I think furtive / fire or bingle / pooky are probably the end game for scum

I think mariar is quite obviously town

I think Black is too and I’m in a t/t pair but I think it’ll be difficult for people to accept because how I played around marci makes me somewhat easy to push

My hope is to case firebringer / cworl effectively before my flip and also convince fb and cworl not to leave each other

[Spiffeh]

Dannflor / Black and furtiveglance / fireisredsir should be the next pairs to leave the dance.

[Spiffeh]

I think firebringer cworl

Is a town town pair that scum have been ok with propping up because there’s such a high chance it gets mislimmed anyway or one of the pair just impulse leaves before end game

I think furtive / fire or bingle / pooky are probably the end game for scum

I think mariar is quite obviously town

I think Black is too and I’m in a t/t pair but I think it’ll be difficult for people to accept because how I played around marci makes me somewhat easy to push

My hope is to case firebringer / cworl effectively before my flip and also convince fb and cworl not to leave each other

I agree with literally all of this except your claim that you are Town!

[Firebringer]

I kind of think black could be scum but don’t hold me to anything

My Marci read was trash apparently

[Dannflor]

Yeah mine too Black made fun of me

[Firebringer]

We should kill black so she can’t make fun of us

[Firebringer]

Wrong pt

[Dannflor]

I think firebringer cworl

Is a town town pair that scum have been ok with propping up because there’s such a high chance it gets mislimmed anyway or one of the pair just impulse leaves before end game

I think furtive / fire or bingle / pooky are probably the end game for scum

I think mariar is quite obviously town

I think Black is too and I’m in a t/t pair but I think it’ll be difficult for people to accept because how I played around marci makes me somewhat easy to push

My hope is to case firebringer / cworl effectively before my flip and also convince fb and cworl not to leave each other

I agree with literally all of this except your claim that you are Town!

hello scum propping up firebringer and cworl and distancing from furtive/fireisredsir bc you never end game anyway