Thread:Rocketlauncher22/@comment-29711200-20160922031821/@comment-26444418-20161201031328

He closed the door quietly behind. The shutoff of the cold draft of air straightened the old wax candles, reused and reused to stunted stubs of charred, sad wicks. He was going to have to find new ones soon, but that must wait. This was more important.

He took the badge off the table, and rummaged for some polish. When he was satisfied, he carefully attached the pin to his brown leather coat. Making sure his hat covered his face properly, he slipped out the door again, candles snuffed out. There was business to be done tonight, and to find out if he had made another ally.

That morning he made sure he was close. Not too close, or it could attract suspicion, which was every Town’s downfall. The Framer has died the previous night, shot by a Vigilante, thanks to the report he send anonymously the previous day. Applauding them silently, he glanced around, making sure everyone else was out of earshot before quickly leaning into his ear, quietly, carefully. The words were spoken in a swift movement, and one they were uttered, could not take back. The deed was done.

“I had to check you last night, to confirm. I am the Sheriff.”

He nodded, face impassive. He did not notice his fists clench - victory, danger. Anticipation. Revenge.

Blood was spilt that night, and the wolves howled to the moon as the Godfather avenged his fallen friend.

This actually happened once - I check someone when they asked me for my role. I answered and died to mafia straight after.