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Werewolf XV: The Name of the Rose

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Welcome to Werewolf XV!


This will be loosely based on The Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco. Everybody is a monk/novice/servant at an Abbey in the XIV century, observing and speculating while a series of murders happen - are they really announcing the Apocalypsis?


Our players are:

Important Notes
  • the poll/sign-up thread will be used as OOC thread: any OOC and mod comments will be there, except for the accusations;
  • PM alliances are not allowed; PMs to set RP background are okay, but try to do that before the game starts ;). Wolves are free to PM to choose targets and plan strategies;
  • day phases last 48 hours; night phases, 24 hours. RP is free during night phases, however no accusation/speculation whatsoever;
  • "dead" players: feel free to be a friendly ghost and keep the RP; however, don't influence the living players in any way
  • no stating of the roles OOC; everything is done through RP;
  • Wolves: fanatic monks who think that the secrets of the Library must be destroyed because they harbor the work of Satan. There will be 2 wolves, with a possible 3rd by "turning";
  • Seer: someone who knows all the secret passages of the Abbey;
  • Baner: someone who has, at some point in life, received Martial Arts training and can protect people;
  • effects of baning:
Baned Result
wolves' victim no kill
wolf if more than one wolf = normal kill; if one wolf = no kill
anyone but wolves' victim normal kill




Concerning the lynchings/kills

  • when accusing, please add an OOC line clarifying your vote;
  • respect the deadlines... during day phase, if there's not either a clear majority or enough votes after 48 hours, there may be a short extension; however, once that is over, whoever has the most votes will die, majority or not. If there's a tie, the lynchee will be determined through dice;
  • same holds true for night phase: if the targets of wolf/seer/baner aren't PMd me in the 24-hour-period, they are forfeited (that is, there will be no kill/no seeing/no baning);
Don't worry about being true to the book, or trying to figure out the layout of the Abbey if you aren't familiar with the book; I will work the flavor text (modding posts) with anything you give me. I'm quoting the book just to help setting the mood.


Keep the RP within the reasonable for the XIV century, and have fun!

If you have any doubt, don't hesitate in PMing your friendly mod (a.k.a. me :P)


Game starts next post.




Keeper of the Lists (=backup mod): first active player who leaves the game will know who's who... so, if something happens and I disappear, go poke the backup! ;)


Edit: The Keeper of the Lists is Vahktang

Edited by Tanuchan

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"May the Lord grant me the grace to be the transparent witness of the happenings that took place in the abbey whose name it is only right and pious now to omit, toward the end of they year of our Lord 1327, when the Emperor Louis came down into Italy to restore the dignity of the Holy Roman Empire, in keeping with the designs of the Almighty and to the confusion of the wicked usurper, simoniac, and heresiarch who in Avignon brought shame on the holy name of the apostle (I refer to the sinful sould of Jacques of Cahors, whom the imipous revered as Joh XXII)." (The Name of the Rose, U. Eco)




At the end of November, in a beautiful morning after a night of snow, some monks and novices arrive at the Abbey. Located at the summit of one of the mountains in an isolated place, it serves its purpose in imposing silence and might. An Abbey of the Benedictines, it features the most important Library of the time; in its secret recesses this Library keeps the knowledge of several peoples of the world, all for the glory of the Lord.




"While we toiled up the steep path that wound around the mountain, I saw the abbey. I was amazed, not by the walls that girded it on every side [...] but by the bulk of what I later learned was the Aedificium. This was an octagonal construction that from a distance seemed a tetragon [...], whose southern sides stood on the plateau of the abbey, while the northern ones seemed to grow from the steep side of the mountain, a sheer drop, to which they were bound. [...] Three rows of windows proclaimed the triune rhythm of its elevation [...]. As we came closer, we realized that the quadrangular form included, at each of its corners, a heptagonal tower, five sides of which were visible on the outside." (The Name of the Rose, U. Eco)




The group is received by the Abbot, and led to the ample refectory that occupies the eastern half of the ground floor of the Aedificium. From the kitchens, that occupy the other half of the floor, servants bring a light meal. They eat in silence, as recommended by the Benedictine Rule, and some of the novices steal curious glances at the spiral staircase that wounds into the east tower, into the scriptorium on the floor above. And, above the scriptorium, to the Library that houses so many wonders and secrets.


After the meal, they visitors are shown to their cells, and exceptionally excused from the services to get acquainted with the Abbey in this first day. The Abbot talks quietly to each of the new monks and novices, and leaves reminding them that, from the next day on, they are already to be present to all services.




"After the gate (which was the only opening in the outer walls) a tree-lined avenue led to the abbatial church. To the left of the avenue there stretched a vast area of vegetable gardens and, as I later learned, the botanical garden, around the two buildings of the balneary and the infirmary and herbarium, following the curve of the walls. Behind, to the left of the church, rose the Aedificium, separated from the church by a yard scattered with graves. The north door of the church faced the south tower of the Aedificium, which offered, frontally, its west tower to the arrving visitor's eyes; then, to the left, the building joined the walls and seemed to plunge, from its towers, toward the abyss, over which the north tower, seen obliquely, projected. To the right of the church there were some buildings, sheltering in its lee, and others around the cloister: the dormitory, no coubt, the abbot's house, and the pilgrims's hospice. [...] On the right side, beyond a broad lawn, along the south walls and coninuing esatward bhind the church, a series of peasants' quarters, stables, mills, oil presses, granaries, and cellars [...] and the novice's house. (The Name of the Rose, U. Eco)




OOC: You're now in the Abbey; those who are newly-arrived are free to get acquainted with their new surroundings, possibly counting with the assistance of some other monks. Those who live in the Abbey are involved with their daily tasks and the services, but will surely meet the newcomers also.


You're free to introduce yourselves and RP for the next 48 hours or until everybody posts at least once, whichever happens first. After that period the special roles will be assigned and the mystery begins ;) .

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Adrian looked over his hives.

Five full ones, buzzing like anything.

And they'd sell one this year, good money to the abbey.

A thriving hive was expensive.

Maybe they'd even let him oversee it's installation.

'Glory to god and all his works,' he thought.

He went to Hive number V and lifted the slat. The royal chamber where replacement queens were grown.

Nice and healthy.


Life was good.

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. . .Amen.


Brother Thibault unclasped his tremulous hands and folded them on the rail, waiting for one of the novices to come to his aid. One came and gently supported the feeble brother by his elbows--"Lord be praised," thought Brother Thibault, remembering the last novice who had tried to grasp him by the wrist, notwithstanding his frail body. His shoulder still ached, and the careless novice, what-was-his-name, Felipe, hadn't finished his ten days of additional vespers yet. He'd have to have a talk with the willsome lad, for all the good it did--


He shuffled out into the thin sunshine, walking as directly as possible towards the gardens, squinting short-sightedly at the stones in the path. At the border between lawn and garden, Brothers Mathias (a good countryman) and Gulzar (some Crusader's good work) knelt but not piously, with a small pile of uprooted vines lying between them. Brother Thibault changed course and stepped in between them, and they ceased quarreling immediately. He nodded and grinned openly at the sign of respect for one's elders.


"Good, my children. . .Prayer can do much, but my old hands need some earthly assistance," Brother Thibault said, holding out one gnarled hand. "Would you be so kind as to recommend a remedy?"


"Taminier," Brother Mathias replied in an instant. He turned back to Brother Gulzar and explained, with a strained-yet-patient tone, "Bryony, in a poultice."


"Bryony?!" muttered Brother Gulzar. "You want that? I have spent hours pulling his bryony out of my lawn--"


"My children, you should not need to hear a sermon on the values of poverty and good-will!" His voice was raspy but just as loud as theirs and the spot of temper could be easily heard across the lawn. Two of the newly arrived visitors exchanged raised eyebrows.

Edited by Quincunx

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Brother Gulzar looks guiltily at the ground, and kicks his foot against a little stone to blow of at least some of the steam.


“Yes, Brother Thibault, if it is needed, than I will plant Bryony,”


“I’m glad we worked that out.” Brother Thibault says smiling, and shuffles on with the help of the novice.


As soon as they're out of earshot Brother Gulzar turns to face Brother Mathieu, he has a provocative look in his eyes.


“Would you like ‘Bryonia Dioca’, or do you think that ‘Tamus Communis’ would be a better idea?” He says haughtily.


In the corner of his eyes he sees one of the novices walking accros his lawn. Forgetting all about Brother Mathieu and the Bryony, he goes after the poor boy, waving with his fists in the air, and shouting, “Geroff my lawn!”


“Nutter…” Mumbles Brother Mathieu, shakes his head, and turns around to get back to his work.

Edited by Sweetcherrie

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Felipe took a shortcut when heading for the kitchens - he still had a lot of work to do there before he could start the additional vespers that Brother Thibault had given him.

Saving time had become one of his talents, though, and he felt confident that he'd make it until he heard a voice behind him.


“Geroff my lawn!”


As soon as he heard those words and the angry voice that spoke them he knew he should've paid more attention to where he was walking. He knew that he could easily make a run for the kitchen, but Brother Gulzar would catch him later, then, and the only effect would be that his punishment would be even more severe. So Felipe did something else he'd learned to be good at : he turned around and prepared to go through another lecture.


While Brother Gulzar was lecturing poor Felipe, the latter let his mind wander. He wondered if this was what becoming a monk was all about, and whether it was Bad of him to just let it all wash over him. Maybe he should try harder to find the Lesson in every lecture he got.

He snapped out of his thoughts just in time to her Brother Gulzar start about his punishment for treading on the lawns.


Not the garden paths, please not the garden paths, I hate those


"And to make sure you'll pay more attention to where you put your feet from now on ..."


please not the garden paths, I'll do anything but Lord please don't make me sweep the garden paths again, they get dirt stuck between them you can't sweep and


"... you shall keep the garden paths clean for the next week. And I want to hear you praying while you do so, as well."


A monk passing by shakes his head compassionately, thinking that Brother Gulzar tends to get a bit too carried away where his lawns are concerned ...

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Brother Caire squinted as he pored over an ancient piece of scrollwork he was copying, thinking less than complimentary thoughts about the long ago scribe with such horrid writing who'd originally written the work.


You'd think they'd have more care knowing that others had to read what they write, he thought to himselfas he finished scribing another line of his own then dusting it with sand to set the ink.


Sounds from outside drifted up, voices raised in argument? no in chastising a novice, for walking on the lawns, of all things, as though lawn was not made to be walked upon.


Shaking his head in silent wonder and amusement Caire turns back to his work, turning his mind from the other inhabitants of the Abbey, at least for the moment.

Time enough once he's caught up with the scribing of this document to help the Dominicans better build their inquisition.

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Francis, sweeping the path across the yard, couldn't help but overhear the lecture. The garden path! he willed frantically, almost gritting his teeth in desperate hope. He so hated sweeping the paths. Make him do the paths... yes... say it, yes... yes!!!! He smiled, and it was a real one, not just the smile he portrayed for the monks when they were around.


Gripping his broom happily, Francis made his way to the novice. Brother Gulzar had just finished speaking and was wandering off, so Francis addressed Felipe. "You'll need this," he said cheerfully. "It's half done already." He left thinking maybe he hadn't been quite polite enough, so he called over his shoulder, "Good luck!"

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Brother Mathieu sighs as he saws his master gardener running after the trespassers while Thibault looks at the head gardener with amusement.


- These newcomers will bring an interesting renewal in this Abbey.


While not expecting a reply from Brother Thibeault, the herbalist checks the garlics and the herbs, gathering those who are fresh enough for picking.


- Tonight's feast will be very well perfumed.

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Humming quietly to himself, Brother Alcott completes the last flourish of a line. He inspects his work carefully for any blots or errors, and finding it satsifactory, sets it aside. The copyist picks up his pen and begins the next page, carefully copying every curlicue of the aged calligraphy exactly. Though there are many works he wishes to copy from the great library, it would not do to rush and ruin the elegancy of the ancient words.


Loud voices sounding outside interrupt Alcott's painstaking work. He pauses and lifts his head, then smiles to himself. Ah, yes. Poor Felipe. He really ought to know better by now... Clucking his tongue at felipe's foolish ways, Brother Alcott continues his work. He takes a moment to admire the statuesque words before setting pen to parchment. As he copies, the brother allows himself to think, for a moment, of other monks, years later, copying his own copies, and feels a taste of pride that they will find his work everything they could ask for. Only a moment thought, before he quashes the thought, reminding himself that pride is a sin.

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Rhys slowly walks through the gate, entering the avenue of trees leading to the abbey's church.


'It has been a long journey,' he thinks to himself. 'I am certainly glad it is over. And how shall I ever bring news of Brother Maynard's death back to Cwmhir?'


As he glances off to the left, he sees the vegetable gardens, and several dark robed figures, one of which is busily cleaning a path. He heads across the lawn, his travel stained white habit swishing quickly above the immaculately trimmed grass as he heads towards the garden.


'What an excellent place to find some distraction from this journey! I have always loved working with the earth, with the seeds and plants. Perhaps these brothers could use some assistance with their labor?' he contemplates as he continues to walk across the beautiful lawn.

Edited by Akallabeth

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Brother Joseph looks upon Felipe, and shakes his head sadly. He also knew what it was like to feel as akward and clumsy as the young man. he though back to when he was part of the crew of a mechent ship that sailed from Eygpt and Arabia crrying spices for trade. he had been unused to sea life, having never been aboard a ship before then. Maybe if he hadn't fallen asleep in that Dutch bordellio he might not have gotten shanghied onto this ship. He had been a cooper (barrel maker) before he unwillingly because a sailor.


All the mistakes he made were novince mistakes that anyone could have made, but the captian of the ship didn't care for excuses, just results. He drove his point home with constent floggings for even minor misdeeds. It was around the Barbary Coast when Joseph proved his worth to the crew during an attack by pirates. While the captian was engadged in retreating from combat (he was really a very cowardly man) Joseph 'accidently' bumped him off the side of the ship and into the water, where the hapless captain drowned. The crew rallied under the first mate, turning the tide of the fight. Boarding the pirate's ship, they fought them down almost to the man, Joseph killing the pirate captian with his cutlass. For his heroics and the elimination of the captian, the first mate made Joseph captian of the caputed pirate ship. For the next ten years, Joseph made a fine living at sea trading spices and delicate silks from around the known world.


He eventually retired to a nice villia in Spain, enjoying his retirement and getting married. The woman who had taken his heart was the daugther of the local magistrate. She married him only for money and social position. For her, there was no love in the marriage, so, as many bored women do, she began several affairs. Joseph turned a blind eye. He knew what she was doing, but didn't have the heart to send her away.


One evening in the Fall, a rider had come to the villia requesting an audiance with Joseph. The rider was actually a Spanish explorer looking for someone to fund an expedition into central Africa, where present day Congo is now. Rumors had arisen that gold and ivory were plentiful there. After some thought, Joseph agreed to finance the expedition. Two months and a small fortune later, the two ships laden with supplies for the long journey set off. They were a week into the journey when a huge storm sank both ships of the shores of the Canary Islands. That was the first of Joseph's misfortunes.


The King of Spain, hungry for money and power, started to have large land owners accused of witchcraft and heresy. Joseph was one of those to be accused. He appealed to the Pope, but his plea was unheard, for the Pope was in on the King's land-grabbing scheme. With his lands taken, Joseph fled into the country side, a hunted man. He had taken two arrows into the back when the monks found him that rainy night so long ago. He never could sleep when it rained at night from then on.


Brother Joseph looked on at the young man sweeping for a moment longer, then turned to go pray.



OOC: Hope everyone enjoyed that. Sorry I haven't been able to turn more stuff out, but I've (as usual) been dealing with RL issues.

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Brother Thibault chuckled. "A fine dinner indeed. Do give it a bit of. . .extra blessing," he said, with a pious nod, and Brother Mathias nodded just as gravely. Sometimes, the dietary limitations needed to be set aside--strictly in the presence of guests on secular business, of course. "Send Francis to my cell with the poultice when you have time," he added, and shuffled towards the vellum workshops. Felipe stopped scrubbing at the flagstones well before Brother Thibault came near, and received a blessing as his robes remained free of flying dust. Once he passed, the novice resumed scrubbing his brush over the path with youthful vigor.


One of the younger brothers, by the abbot's command, stood at the door of the workshops and asked, politely, what Brother Thibault wanted. He gnawed over the matter silently, with the reek of quicklime standing betwen them, then said simply, "The Dauphin's kidskin." Brother Thibault heard the whispered conference once the younger brother went inside, and mourned--but after a few minutes, he returned with a narrow stack of bone-white vellum. "You. . .finished it," he rasped, and turned quickly to hold the pages up to the light and away from his tears. The vellum was perfect; no pouncing-dust came off when he raised it, there were no lighter spots from careless scraping, the nap was even from careful stretching of the original skin, it was altogether a finer work than Brother Thibault had created in the past five years. He composed his face and turned back to the young monk, handing back the sheets and adding, "Forgive an old man's curiosity. . ." (Vanity. He would need to pray) ". . .I came here to take some samples to the scriptorium. The visiting brothers might have brought their own, they might not."


With his new burden, Brother Thibault took the most direct path back to the abbey--Brother Rhys (some holier-than-thou White Monk) could see him and the vellum, but was preoccupied with speaking to a captive servant about the careless pile of bryony. He inclined his head before the altar, for God forgave an old man his knees outside of the hours devoted to prayer, and rested for a moment before continuing to the murmuring scriptorium. Brother Thibault moved in front of Brother Alcott's desk and waited. Brother Alcott (cared more for the words than the page, phff) paused in his copying and recitation to sharpen his quill; the old monk cleared his throat and spoke quietly, "Brother, do you know at which desks the visitors will be working?"


"Visitors?" repeated Brother Alcott, glancing over at Brother Caire (Brown Monk, blunt as a cudgel) and the empty desks in that row.


"Newly arrived, brother. They must not have been escorted to the scriptorium yet," Brother Thibault answered in a voice that could be heard in all the room, "if they have even met one of our own scholars at all. I have brought extra vellum before they have required it, now which one of you keeps records of the quills and inkpots?"

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Adrian was in the library perusing the volumes, bothered that he couldn't remember.

'A canticle for Liebowitz or a canticle by Liebowitz,' he thought, examining one scroll, then replacing it.

'Why would a lowly Pole of a monk have his own canticle?'

The light from his shielded candle illuminated only a small space around him.

'On the other hand, why would a lowly Pole of a monk have his name on a canticle he wrote? No one else does.'

Adrian took up a great scroll and began unrolling it, knowing if it was in this one, it would be in the precise middle, farthest away from being convenient.

'And the biggest question: why is this bothering me?'

Then he heard a noise, and a voice.

"Brother Adrian?"

Francis, the servent.

Adrian quickly arranged the folds of his habit and replaced his hood, so his face could no longer be seen, took up his candle and walked towards the entrance.

"Over here," he called.

Francis breathed a sigh of relief, having finally found his quarry.

"I've been looking all over for you. The visitors are here."

"Yes, I know. Is one interested in bee keeping?"

"Umh, I don't know about that, but one wants to see you. A woman."

Adrian almost stops, but continues to the entrance, shoos Francis out and goes to seal the door.

"She said she was your sister."

"My sister the heretic or my sister the lion tamer?"

Francis was stunned at the revelation, and wondered which was more remarkable. He settled on the former.

"You have a sister who is a heretic?"

After sealing the door, Adrian motions for Francis to lead the way with his greater light, the candle lantern, while extinguishing his own candle. Wax was expensive, and tallow was inappropriate for the library, too smoky.

"I have a sister who took the vows, much like me, but, unlike me, took the vows of the greek church. I still pray for her."

Francis knew the signal and stayed quiet for a moment, then his youthful impatience got the better of him.

They exited the building and began to walk towards the courtyard.

"Brother Adrian? I believe she said her name was Athena."

"Ah, the one still pagen named. The lion tamer."

"She tames lions?"

"She was unsatisfied with our home life, finding it confining and...'boring'. She was prideful and vain, shirking her responsibilities to her family. She left us to find her fortune. I have not seen her for many years."

He also wondered how she found him here. He no longer wrote his family, since taking his vows.

If his father had finally gone to join his mother he would pray for them, but not too hard. They were greek, too, after all.

They finally entered the courtyard and Adrian had his first look at his sister, Athena after many years...

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Flushed from running to tell yet another of the newcomers to stay off his lawn, Brother Gulzar walked back over to the garden, muttering to himself about inconsiderate walk-everywheres and bryony sprouting all over his lawn. He'd only just gotten back to work when he spotted someone else leaving the path out of the corner of his eye. He jumped to his feet, ready to lay into whomever was violating his lawn. "Geroff-" He trailed off with a sigh when he saw who'd left the path.


The tresspasser was hard to mistake. Towering over any monk in the abbey at six feet, with lanky brown hair and eyes without a trace of guile or malice in them, Good Bennet was easily the most recognizable person at the abbey. He'd been left at their doorstep seventeen years ago by a whore who claimed his father was here, although she never said who the father was. Like most of the brothers, Gulzar felt a kind of guilty duty to the softheaded giant. After all, he was the closest thing to a son any of the monks were like to get.


"Good Bennet, I told you, stay on the path. See the path?" Gulzar said softly, pointing at the garden path.


"See the path! 'G-off d' lawn!'" Good Bennet chimed happily.


Gulzar smiled at the imitation. "Yes, off the lawn, Bennet. Why don't you go down to the stores and pick me up a sack of fertilizer. The sooner this byrony grows, the sooner I get it out of my lawn."


"F'lizer! Off t' the stores!" Bennet replied, setting off straight across the lawn. Gulzar sighed inwardly, knowing there was nothing to be done for it. As he walked back to his work, he wondered idly if they'd ever find out who Bennet's real father was.

Edited by Kasmandre

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Looking up he saw Brother Thibault shambling towards the abbey with a pile of vellum in his hands.


He changed direction to gice Brother Thiabault a hand,thinking, "That man is older than Metuselah, and still he insists on carrying things like that himself.”


He had hardly taken two steps…and with a loud thudd, he found himself lying on the floor, face down in a big pile of Bryony roots.


Looking up he saw brother Rhys, and one of the servants.


“Hello, Brother Gulzar,” Brother Rhys said, while helping him up.


“I told you accidents were bound to happen if you don’t clean up behind yourselves,” He said to the servant, “for penance, you will-


“I’m sorry, but the Briony is my fault,” Brother Gultzar interrupted, “I wasn’t finished weeding the lawn yet.”


Brother Rhys looked from one to the other, stamped his foot on the ground, and with a last, “Fine!” he turned around and rushed away.


Brother Gultzar winked at the servant, “Just promise me to walk over the garden paths, and not the lawn.”


The servant stammered a thank you, and ran off.

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"Brother, do you know at which desks the visitors will be working?"


The words startle Brother Alcott, and he stop his work to peer bemusedly at Brother Thibault. "Vistors?" Visitors, visitors. There are always visitors, and they never tell me where they'll be working... He glances over at Brother Caire, hoping he knows anything about these visitors.


"Newly arrived, brother. They must not have been escorted to the scriptorium yet," Brother Thibault answered in a voice that could be heard in all the room, "if they have even met one of our own scholars at all. I have brought extra vellum before they have required it, now which one of you keeps records of the quills and inkpots?"


Alcott looks down at the page before him, and remains silent. Oh dear, the records. I do hope Brother Caire has been keeping them. I'm afraid I've been a little lax lately. The monk says a silent prayer asking for forgiveness for his forgetfullness...

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Brother Thibault brooded over the stack of the Dauphin's vellum as the sole unoccupied copyist conferred with one of the fish-lipped librarians. As he feared, the perfect pages left the scriptorium still blank, tucked under the librarian's arm and fated for God only knew which works, if the librarian wouldn't even bring it to the scriptorium. The Dauphin had given that flock of kids, black and speckled, to the monastery in exchange for a future Book of Hours, which would now not be copied onto his vellum. Librarians! Literate and not much else--


He muttered an apology to the copyist, already busy again with an account-book of ink and pigment and vellum, and shuffled out of the door after Brother Adrian (modesty is a virtue--in a woman), returning to his cell. While going to one's private quarters was unusual at this time of day, and drew some curious glances, no one dared to chide the old man for it. Regardless of his knees, he knelt on the cold stone by the windowsill, in the hope of dragging himself to his feet later:


I have been weak, o Lord. Not one but two of the cardinal sins had touched my heart today, goaded it against my brothers. Give strength to my confessor, o Lord, so that he may help me cleanse these sins--and grant me strength as well. These strangers have stirred up the dust of the wicked world, coming here, and I fear that worse may come. . .


For the rest of the hour he stayed there, not from faintness of the body, but of the spirit.

Edited by Quincunx

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Brother Mathieu enters the kitchen with a basket filled with garlic, herbs of all kind. The cook was pleased with the harvest. Brother Mathieu grabs some fresh basil and smells it.


- What a delicate smell. We will have a good meal tonight. Did Francis brought you the poultry?


The chef shows three feason that he started to plucked and shows the remaining twenty.


- Well, Brother Mathieu, he did but we have to hurry if we want dinner on time.


The herbalist agreed and started to pluck the birds along, wondering where these poultry came from.


- Oh, a royal caravan preceeded the new monks and we have been given these with His Majesty's regard.


Brother Mathieu looks at the cook with an amused gaze.


- Well, lets not dissapoint His Majesty and lets have a feast.

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The Brother Igottafiln strolls into the abby. He had been sent by his superiors to observe what is happening and to report back if anything strange happens. His simple robes and a satchel are all that the Brother has on him. He receives his spartan room from the Abbot. Rome has forgotten about this simplicity. Then the Brother goes about to find out the daily routine for this Abby

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The monks and novices leave the Church in silence after the Complines, most of them keeping the close communion with God that the service has brought, some of them immersed in their own thoughts about the day that now ends, and a very few with terrible secrets that no confessor has ever heard.


Little by little, as the sun sets, the monks retire to their cells, the novices' chat silences in their house, and the last servants leave the kitchens. The Librarian, Malachi of Hildesheim, and his assistant, Berengar of Arundel, ready the Library for the night and then close the Aedificium from the inside, leaving by passages only known to them.


It is a cold night, and the wind and the snow fill the dreams of several monks.



"The night of a great snowstorm, in which flakes as sharp as blades fell, almost ike hail, driven by a furious south wind." (The Name of the Rose, U. Eco)





As the morning comes, a goatherd rushes into the Chapter House babbling something about a monk's battered, frozen corpse. As the servants hear and murmur, and that murmur spreads quickly among the novices and the monks, the Abbot talks long with the goatherd. Then he sends some servants to the bottom of the cliff below the Aedificium and, with much difficulty, there they recover the body of Adelmo of Otranto.



"A monk still young though already famous as a master iluminator, who had been decorating the manuscripts of the library with the most beautiful images [...] Thanks to the battering the body had suffered in its broken fall, determining from which precise sopt it had fallen was not easy." (The Name of the Rose, U. Eco)



On inquiry, several of the monks recall having seen Adelmo during complines, but not at Matins. Amid the whispered speculations, Adelmo's body is prepared to be buried in the cemetery of the Abbey.


The Abbot, alone in the Church, stares at his hands folded on his lap, lost in thought.


The Lord forgive me... how could it be, that one of my own is guilty of murder... And in some days the Inquisitor will come. Will I have to hand some heretic into his hands... someone who until now I have trusted, and would swear before the Lord that was his humble servant? And how will we find this seed of the Devil among us...



His eyes fall now over the Bible at his side.


"The first angel sounded his trumpet, and there came hail and fire mixed with blood, and it was hurled down upon the earth. A third of the earth was burned up, a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up." (Revelation 8:6-7)




OOC: The first trumpet has sounded! Adelmo, NPC (and first death in Eco's book), has been found dead. You whisper and murmur, and speculate, in thoughts or in words. But you are also intent on finding someone to blame. The Inquisitor will arrive soon, and maybe he will take the responsibility of rooting out the Devil from the Abbey.


It's day phase. You have 48 hours from this post time-stamp to place an accusation. We have at least two wolves, and a possible third after the first three nights (see this post at the OOC thread). Keep your amazing RP!! :flower:



(late edit for font after board change)

Edited by Tanuchan

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Francis looks at the other servants as the five of them drag the dead monk's body back to the monastary. One of them is gripping the cloth, his hands white from the force, his eyes squeezed closed. Another is looking straight forward, mumbling some prayer in a frantic monotone. One is looking with morbid fascination at the bloody body, wrapped in rope and cloth. The last is also looking, walking backward holding the cloth around the man's shoulder's, but a furrowed brow belies his displeasure at the task. Francis steels himself and looks downward as well. "Stop," he says suddenly. He makes them lie the monk down for a moment and he gently closes the man's eyelids. Nodding to the others, they begin again the trip up the cliff.


The servants travel in silence for a while, the fervent prayer having stopped. Finally, one of them speaks. "Even with those visitors, yesterday sure wasn't much different."




They continue on. Then, "Wonder what this'll mean for us."


"Nothing," mutters Francis. "They believe everything happens for a reason. If someone dies, God did it, right? Ain't gonna change nothing."


"God din't do it, though, did 'e?" comes the reply, the speaker opening his eyes and looking at his fellows.


"Nope," says Francis, eyeing the body again.


The sound of their footsteps is the only sound for a few minutes more. They are nearing the abbey. Finally, one of them breaks down and says it aloud. "Who did, then?" Francis shrugs. "How should I know? Oh - watch the grass, here." That brings them back to the moment. Carefully picking along the path, even though Brother Gulzar was not in sight, the servants each fall back to their own thoughts.

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Brother Gulzar rumbled around in the messy tool shed. He found the shovel that he was looking for, and took it over to the sly stone. After all, Brother Adelmo deserved a decent grave, and for that his shovel needed to be nice and sharp.

With his foot he set the large stone in motion, and with the stone also his thoughts started turning.


Who would want to do such a thing?

It simply couldn’t be one of them, could it?

And if it had been one of them, then why?


Absentminded he pressed the shovel against the stone, a howling sound rose up from it.


I wonder what they discover when they study the body; maybe they will find some clues.

God must have had a reason for this, shame it had to be Brother Adelmo, he was one of the few that always took the paths.

God truly works in mysterious ways.


He shook his head to clear his mind, looked out the window, and saw the servant that he had helped this afternoon. Together with four others he was carrying the body towards the monastery.

Brother Gulzar couldn't help but smile when he saw how neatly they were taking the paths.


Maybe I should try and find Brother Rhys tonight, and apologize.

After all, I never meant to undermine his authority, I just couldn’t let an innocent servant receive punishment for my mistakes.

Yes, tonight I will go and apologize.


Happy with this resolution, he felt at the edge of the shovel, turned it around, and pressed the other side against the turning stone.

Edited by Sweetcherrie

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Scratching furiously on a piece of parchment with his quill, Brother Thomas looked about his small office, still taking his pennace into consideration. In the process of writing a book, Brother Thomas had also taken a vow of silence- and as such, had become quite proficient with the quill and paper- those being his only modes of communication. Curiously, he poked his head up from that which he had been writing intently, he left his chamber, and headed out into the communes-


To find that Brother Adelmo had been murdered. Curious- he had not seen him at Matins, afterall... It was a terrible shame, Adelmo had worked often with him.


With a silent sigh, Brother Thomas went to the church, to pray for the soul of the fallen monk.

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Brother Alcott takes his time walking to the scriptorium, enjoying the peacefulness of the snow-covered monastery. So absorbed is he in thoughts of his work, he scarcely hears the conversation of the monks and servants around him. That is, until a word catches his attention. Alcott stops on the path in mild shock. Dead...Brother Adelmo? How could this be? He was so young, so gifted. Why would the Lord take him from us?


Still reflecting on Brother Adelmo's death, Alcott slowly resumes his walk. As he enters the scriptorium, his thoughts turn to the consequences. There wil be suspicion. But we are all servants of God here. Who among us would have done such an evil deed? Who among us is masquerading as a holy man? The troubled monk seats himself at an empty desk, and sets out a quill and ink, but his movements are slow and dreamlike. It is difficult to bring himself to believe such an evil has truly been visited upon thier abbey.


As he begins his copying, Alcott voices his thoughts. Murmurring distractedly to himself, the time passes slowly as he scribes, all the time waiting to hear of the reaction to Adelmo's death.

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