Capo di Tutti Capi IV [Concluded]

[The Stranger]

winner will be declared King of Games and will face Yugi in the finals!

[Moros]

It's only Night 3 and already this game thread is longer than the first (and longest) online Mafia game thread I ever played in.

Dead guy talking:

Yeah well how many times did you play a Mafia game with about 117 players?

You guys have no idea how hot it can be in a coffin. I just can't get to sleep. I should have picked a coffin with airco.

[sturmhauke]

Dead guy talking:

Yeah well how many times did you play a Mafia game with about 117 players?

Never. The most was around 30. This is a whole different league.

[The Stranger]

im not getting out of my bed anymore for less than 50 players.

[Askthepizzaguy]

So, I see the illuminati are doing pretty well.

Shame about the breadcrumbing.

[GamezRule]

Really? I think I like 30-40 player games best...

[Askthepizzaguy]

So, I see the illuminati are doing pretty well.

Shame about the breadcrumbing.

Yeah. You know I'm not going to let this go, either. So, wanna start explaining?

[Cecil XIX]

Illuminati? But Aussiegiant and Ramses II CP aren't in this game!

[Askthepizzaguy]

@ The Illuminati

I put it to you like this.

Maybe you're neutral, maybe you're scum, maybe you're townie.

But if you're neutral or townie*, you're about to get exposed by me I think. So, if you have reasons to protest your innocence and/or have reasoning that should convince me to shush my face, well you've got about 12 hours.

I expect something in my inbox or I'll point at all the crumbs I see, and then we'll get a vacuum cleaner and that will be the end of you.

*Scum, same deal, but I doubt you'd come forward then.

[GeneralHankerchief]

Well, good thing I changed my user title from "Illuminated" not even a day ago...

[Montmorency]

Just try it, Pizzafly.

[Askthepizzaguy]

Just try it, Pizzafly.

[Xenoneb]

So, I see the illuminati are doing pretty well.

Shame about the breadcrumbing.

Ummm. What?

[Askthepizzaguy]

Ummm. What?

Yeah, I know.

It could all just be my imagination, but then again, I haven't gotten much sleep.

First I see communists everywhere, then Nazis, and now Illuminati.

Next, I'll be declaring that I see a secret society of smurf-lovers, and their goal is obviously to get rid of Gargamel and his Cat Azrael, represented by the kitten lovers El Barto and whats his face, whose name escapes me at the moment...

[GeneralHankerchief]

I have just mass-deleted the previous twelve posts as spam. Really, there could have been more, but I decided to make that the cutoff.

Please remember that there are still over 100 people playing this and many of them are having a difficult enough time of keeping up with things. Do not make it any harder for them than it already is.

[Populus Romanus]

Night 3 now over.

[El Barto]

Well, good thing I changed my user title from "Illuminated" not even a day ago...

DIS-Illuminate!!! ;)

Just try it, Pizzafly.

Oh no you didn't.

[glyphz]

I have just mass-deleted the previous twelve posts as spam. Really, there could have been more, but I decided to make that the cutoff.

Please remember that there are still over 100 people playing this and many of them are having a difficult enough time of keeping up with things. Do not make it any harder for them than it already is.

Wow! You are the real deal, Director!

Imma selecting you from now on.

[El Barto]

I don't wanna raise trouble, but are moderators allowed to moderate game threads where they're playing in?

[GeneralHankerchief]

Yes we are. In the very rare case where there's a conflict of interest (say someone reveals sensitive information when they shouldn't and the moderator has to remove it) we just suicide and take ourselves out of the game. This has happened maybe once or twice in the Gameroom's five-year history, if that.

[Suburban Plankton]

I have just mass-deleted the previous twelve posts as spam. Really, there could have been more, but I decided to make that the cutoff.

Please remember that there are still over 100 people playing this and many of them are having a difficult enough time of keeping up with things. Do not make it any harder for them than it already is.

And yet this exchange still remains:

So, I see the illuminati are doing pretty well.

Shame about the breadcrumbing.

Yeah. You know I'm not going to let this go, either. So, wanna start explaining?

So Pizza is actually having a conversation with himself (and a rather contentious one, at that). Does he do this often over here?

[Erebus]

That's the third such pizza on pizza exchange this thread I believe.

[El Barto]

Yes we are. In the very rare case where there's a conflict of interest (say someone reveals sensitive information when they shouldn't and the moderator has to remove it) we just suicide and take ourselves out of the game. This has happened maybe once or twice in the Gameroom's five-year history, if that.

Thanks! I was just asking in case there was some conflicting situation. :)

And yet this exchange still remains:

So Pizza is actually having a conversation with himself (and a rather contentious one, at that). Does he do this often over here?

That's the third such pizza on pizza exchange this thread I believe.

Pizza's been known to leave clues a.k.a. breadcrumbs out there for people to follow.

[GamezRule]

Like in Highway to Hell when he WIFOM'ed the town to victory?

[Askthepizzaguy]

Oh shush. It's very clear I was repeating myself for emphasis, not talking to myself like a deranged Askvaard Von Pizzaguy.

[El Barto]

Like in Highway to Hell when he WIFOM'ed the town to victory?

'He' in the singular? You do Renata, civplayah and me no credit at all my good humiliatingly defeated sir.

Oh shush. It's very clear I was repeating myself for emphasis, not talking to myself like a deranged Askvaard Von Pizzaguy.

Oh, that Arsetaard fellow who wouldn't let me exploit loopholes in his rules.

[classical_hero]

Look at all this meta-gaming.

[a completely inoffensive name]

Look at all this meta-gaming.

Psssh. I could do better.

[El Barto]

Too much metagaming, classical? Is this complaining you metagamicial of itself?

Psssh. I could do better.

__
{o,o}
|)__)
-"-"-
O RLY?

[Seamus Fermanagh]

“But you better know how to point out the liars.
You’ve got to weigh your wars make sure you’re not fighting for nothing. Nothing.
But these things take time love.
These things take backbone.
And they’ll tell you what you want to hear ’cause they think it’s better. Better.
But you better know how to point out the liars.
You’ve got to weigh your wars make sure you’re not fighting for nothing. Nothing.

Are you fighting for nothing, nothing?”
….Fighting for Nothing
….Meg & Dia


Halloween Night -- The Streets of Fatlington


Arjos didn’t head straight home, but went to his office on the Bayside near the docks. The office block wasn’t impressive, but it was only a couple of blocks down from Club 30. Besides, he had had the office ‘built to suit.’ It wasn’t very big, but it was well buttressed against assault with reinforced walls, a steel door, and windows with blast shutters.

Parking his car, Arjos noticed four shadows standing up from behind the 55-gallon drums in the warehouse lot next door. He was running before he really knew why and already had his own revolver out as the quartet raised their weapons.

Both sides fired, and both sides achieved absolutely nothing – except to make the other side duck and dodge a little harder. Arjos hit the stairs running and was up to the office door at the top before his attackers could reach him and fire up the stairwell. Three agonizingly long seconds later, the door was open, Arjos was through, and the door was swinging back to a locked position.

It wasn’t enough. From the street opposite the office, two other figures lugged out their heavy PIAT launchers. One shot hammered into the blast screen of one of the office windows, partially penetrating it and blowing off the shielding and smashing the glass. A little stunned by the first blast, Arjos could only watch as the second projectile, fired a second after the first one, arced up and into the window.

“Oh, rats…” Arjos muttered.

The round impacted inside the office on the roof near the overhead lamp. All of the careful reinforcement now served to contain the blast within the office – unfortunately for Arjos. He would be found dead in the smoldering office an hour later. Though his body had been savaged, his face was unmarred and strangely peaceful.


Chaotix was not a happy man. He’d started out well enough, heading home in the car, using a different route than normal. This being Fatlington, when he was rear-ended into the car in front of him, he didn’t hesitate at all, he just dived out and rolled to his feet.

It wasn’t enough. Two pairs of attackers kept after him, one in each pair firing short bursts from some kind of machine pistol whenever they got a good glimpse of him, and the second in each pair using….

>FOOOOOOOOM<

Flamethrowers! Malfing flamethrowers!. Chaotix might be able to outdistance them, but if he fell behind he was quite literally toast. Whenever he tried to break contact by crossing the street, the sub gunners would hold him back with sustained bursts and the pyrotechnic types would rush his position. He was being herded – and that was what had him unhappy.

Suddenly, he reached a spot where two cars almost closed the gap across the street and took his chance. Forty-five slugs ripped through his whirling trench coat as he shot the gap and a gout of flame warmed his back as he leapt behind the second car, but nothing touched him. He raced towards the half-open doorway of a warehouse. If he could get inside he could shake them!

He reached the doorway and stopped suddenly as the blue-suited man, blu ski mask et al. stepped into the doorway to block his progress. The man held a preposterously large revolver in his hand and spoke around his cigarette.

“Pas ce soir, mon ami. Au revoir.”

As the revolver steadied, only feet away from Chaotix’s grimly resigned face, the warehouse door slammed shut and intercepted the bullet. A screeching car raced down the street, scattering the other gunmen while simultaneously revealing another auto, sitting there idling with its door open. Chaotix took the hint, hopped in, and motored off to Club 30 for a few bracers – and a nice safe crowd of people to mingle among.

In the warehouse, the masked man lowered his revolver and stared at the door.

“Merde, Je deteste zese ‘alloween treecks.” he muttered softly.

He lit a fresh cigarette, glanced at his watch and then faded into the darkness, almost as though he had become invisible.


Taillesskangaru had seen the posters nailed around town, covered in saucy fingerprints.

"Wanted: Dead or Alive- Fatlings who have forsaken their civic duty. All those who refuse to attend the Committee of Vigilance will be punished for the crimes of abandonment, dereliction of duty, un-patriotism, malfeasance, offense against public justice, offense against public trust, offense against public order, high treason, low treason, lurking, middle treason, and loitering in a public area after 6pm, which is a violation of city ordinance 107 dash B subsection 17, and may be punishable with a fine of up to three dollars or 12 hours of community service with no coffee breaks."

Well, that didn't seem so bad, Tailless thought to himself, as he hopped up the stairs of his apartment building. But just as he was about to twist the doorknob, something warm and wet smashed into the side of his head, and knocked him to the granite. He wiped the muck from his eyes, and looked at his hands; they were covered in blood. Confused, he looked up and saw something swinging from a rope, dripping blood everywhere. On closer examination, he saw that it was some sort of animal, or at least part of one. The gory scene in front of his eyes was so disturbing and so sudden, that Tailless turned away, and began rushing down the stairs to get back to his car. That's when he saw the glowing Mizza Mut sign... on his own vehicle.

>>>Dear God, no....<<<

The explosion was deafening. Taillesskangaru dropped to the ground and covered his face and his head, a heavy piece of metal nearly hitting him in the temple. His quick reflexes did him credit. Feeling exposed, he hopped to his feet and tried to hurry back up the steps and into the apartment building, but just as he was about to reach his destination, a thick, disc-shaped object landed on the ground next to where he was standing with a loud splat. Tailless looked up to see what had happened, only to get a face full of steaming hot pizza pie, courtesy of someone standing on the roof, wearing a trenchcoat and fedora.

"Limited time only, get two for the price of one, Mister Kangaru! No charge for additional toppings! Don't forget to tip your driver!"

As Tailless pulled the pizza from his face, he saw more pizza pies hurtling toward him, and he quickly hopped out of the way.

"You're fast on your feet, that's good hustle, Mister Kangaru! But are you faster than the fastest pizza delivery man in all of Fatlington?" shouted the figure on the roof.

Tailless looked up and saw the man on the roof pull out a Thompson sub-machine gun, and he bolted toward the door.

“Trick or TREAT!”

Maniacal laughter permeated the streets of Fatlington as the man on the roof fired down in the general direction of the scrambling Kangaru. But somehow, Taillesskangaru managed to get inside the building. He scrambled into his apartment, slammed the door behind him, and then hid under his couch and cried like a little girl. Somehow, he escaped with his life.... just barely.


Craterus was walking away from the Convention Center up Atlantic Avenue, alongside Seaside park, heading uptown to the Bar at the Hotel Abbatoir. He was keeping an eye out and searching his surroundings – a cautious Fatling was something of a redundancy – when he glimpsed the strangest looking contraption passing across Atlantic on the far side of the hotel.

>An M4 tank made of…or cardboard?< thought Craterus. >That can’t be right…oh, it must be some kind of Halloween gag….<

He had only been distracted for a moment, but that had been time enough. A tall man stood next to him, face muffled with a scarf and sporting one of those fuzzy hats you saw on the Soviet leaders in their parades.

“Good Even-ing, Tovarisch.”

The fellow made no untoward move. Craterus turned slowly, seeing no other threat, but still wary.

“I vas sent by a group of come-rades to ask you a few questions, Da?”

Craterus stood stock still. Which is exactly the moment for which the sniper positioned up in the Hotel Abbatoir had been waiting. The marksman squeezed the trigger gently, like all good shots the actual firing came almost as a surprise – as did the result.

The shooter couldn’t see the blade in the darkness, at least not against the outline of Craterus’ gray fedora. The round hit the blade of a long polesword transfixing the tree just next to Craterus and the richly engraved blade of the ashenderi turned the shot. Against all the odds, Craterus had been given a reprieve.

The shooter’s second effort was rushed and hit the tree as Craterus bowled over the conversational decoy and made it into the darkness of the park. Some chaps are just luckier than others.


For others, their luck was at an end. El Barto, puttering around in the kitchen getting dinner for himself and Felix, kept wondering why Felix wouldn’t sit still – and then he heard it.

>Meeeew, Meeeww<

El Barto saw a little kitten in the spot of grass that served as the front yard to his brownstone. The poor thing was hopping on its little legs, dragging one leg that was injured or broken. No wonder Felix had been on edge – that cat had been hearing the cries of his fellow feline long before El Barto could.

He had to intervene. Grabbing the shotty he kept by the door, El Barto stepped onto the stoop and scanned the terrain. Setting the shotty aside, he knelt down and cradled the skittish and injured kitten. The leg was definitely broken.

>>>Rotten kids! Torturing a harmless kitten and breaking a leg for some sick Halloween prank.<<< “There, there, kitty….

Falling three stories might break your legs too, but you stand a much better chance if you can land on some poor unsuspecting soul and get him to break your fall. El Barto was hammered flat by the dive-bombing attacker, and was in no position to defend himself when he was scooped up and carried unceremoniously to his backyard.

The maple that grew there wasn’t particularly tall – the sandy soil of a barrier island is a better home for pines then for maples – but it was tall enough. A noose was produced and fixed around his neck while others held his arms and legs. El Barto was tied hand and foot and then the rope was hauled. Up he went as the main branch took his weight, kicking and thrashing as he strangled. His attackers tied off the rope and then watched until his struggles ceased, then the half dozen strong party doffed their hats and filed away.

El Barto’s corpse swung gently in the breeze, back and forth, with only Felix’s silently swaying head watching from the kitchen window to bear witness.


For another, luck wasn’t involved at all. Secura favored absenthe, that pale green nectar that was poison and passion wrapped in one. So after the committee wrapped up, her destination had been an easy choice. Only Reenk Roink would serve that illicit beverage – rules never quite seemed to apply to him – and therefore Secura was at the bar at Club30 when it happened.

The five would-be assassins were dressed for anonymity, each wearing a western style bandanna over their faces and fedoras pulled low over their eyes. Their shotguns and heavy pistols were very recognizable however as they moved forward through the retreating crowd at the bar.

But not all the crowd were moving away. With exquisite choreography, five masked waiters whirled in front of the advancing gunmen, overturning tables to make a neat barrier. Secura was whisked from the bar, blindfolded, chloroformed, and out the back door of the club even before the Club30 guards had closed off the outer doors to the bar. The gunmen stopped, appalled, without even the chance to fire their weapons.

“Tsk, tsk, fellows,” said Reenk softly, “that simply won’t do.”

The gunmen stared at Reenk Roink over the barrels of their weapons. Roink brushed a fleck of lemon rind off of his lapel and looked back. The tableau held for a moment, and then the gunmen lowered their weapons and their gaze.

“Better. Now, be a set of dears and scurry about tidying up my bar. If you’re very quick and nice these heavyset hirelings of mine won’t remove your incredibly out-of-style masks – I suppose we can just think of you a fashion-challenged trick-or-treaters – and then you can go on about your business. I have better things to do.”

With a moue of distaste for the attackers and a jaunty wave to the major domo, Reenk was off, leaving the impromptu clean-up team to their work.

Secura woke a short while later, lying on a rattan four-poster bed that looked as though it belonged in The Raffles. The whole room (apartment?) was eclectically, yet in its own odd way quite elegantly, furnished. Still a little hazy, she only just then noticed the fellow standing at the other side of the bed.

>>>Reenk?<<< she thought hazily.

“Ah….so glad you could rejoin me, dear one. It’ll make you much better company. And I shouldn’t worry too much about wagging tongues…after all, you can blame it on the absenthe, or that I insisted on the treat rather than a nasty trick…”

^Fade to black^


Slysnake too ended up at a bar – his choice was the Hotel Abbatoir. He needed to get his strength back after the food – at least that was what they said it was – they’d tried to feed him at Mercy Hospital. He wasn’t certain that the fruit in the bottom of the Rock and Rye bottle counted as food, but he was willing to do the field study to find out.

That’s when the trio of shooters opened up and gunned down the bar-back and and the rather aged faux-blond sitting next to Sly, who up until her head was shot through had been getting progressively more attractive as Sly got closer and closer to the fruit in his bottle.

The trio of shooters seemed competent enough, but never really got in rhythm with each other’s efforts. Sly vaulted the bar, going quickly through the secret drop door to the cellar – ah….Prohibition – and out of the line of fire. The shooter trio hit a few more patrons on the way out, though none seriously, and ran off through Seaside Park.

Slysnake did not get off scot-free however. The old dropdoor had too much refuse below it and he landed badly. Though not crippled, he would be spending some time at Mercy.


Lord Brennus, out for a stroll on Atlantic Avenue, saw the commotion down by the Abbatoir a few blocks distant and decided to wander over and see what was up. He’d really been ambling along, for all the world as though it were just a normal evening – he’s seemed a little out of it to his fellow committee persons. He simply wasn’t paying attention.

Person A simply stepped from the store doorway and shoved Brennus over. Person B, then zipping along at 45mph down Atlantic Ave in a Deuce-and-a-half with “Seward’s Folly” on the canvas sides, simply didn’t swerve to avoid and didn’t apply the brakes. Brennus flew fifty feet, breaking a leg and an arm as he landed. Too many witnesses prevented a quick second effort and good citizens saw to it that Lord Brennus was at Mercy Emergency even before the pain got started. All in all, a charitable soul might label that good luck….of a sort.


One man, watching in the crowd as Brennus was loaded into the ambulance, was surprised to be talking to a masked man standing next to him. With all the attention on Brennus, nobody really noticed details about either of them. Besides, it was Halloween, and a surprising number of folks were wearing masks of one sort or another. A few questions were exchanged, a matter of a few minutes hushed discussion, and the masked man said, simply, “I will look forward to your call.” He melted into the night.


Fatlington was a town that attracted dangerous loners, something that fit Tincow to a tee. He preferred to keep his own counsel and work quietly toward a goal.

When confronted by the lone gunman, he did the prudent thing – he ducked and then ran for cover. The first shooter, unfortunately, didn’t miss when Tincow slowed. Hit in the shoulder, TinCow was in agony. A hit through the deltoids was not at all like the ones in the movies.

Off-handed, he fired back, forcing the first shooter under cover. That’s when the second shooter hove into view. Disheveled, a bit manic, looking for all the world like he was about to snap, the person TinCow had dismissed as a ‘bo down on his luck pulled out a sawed-down Garand.

“Game over, man, Game over!”

He didn’t even seem to really be talking to Tincow, just at him. Tincow turned to meet the new threat, but not fast enough. The second shooter may have been talking crazy, but he shot just fine. Two slugs took Tincow in the throat and left him bleeding in the gutter.

The two shooters looked at the corpse, and then wandered in different directions.


Cecil XIX had just finished a later supper at Iron Felix’s, though not quite the repast he had watched the preceding evening, and headed for his car for the short drive to Club30 for a nightcap.

As the car pulled away from the curb, a lone figure shouldering a bazooka stepped out from behind a car 30 yards away. He fired immediately, hammering the round into the cars radiator.

The DeSoto blew up, but most of the blast went up and away from the cab. Cecil was shocked and confused – a sitting duck for any following effort at a coup de grace. It never came.

Looking nearly as confused, the bazookaman looked around at the nearby cars and storefronts, shook his head, and then made his escape at the sound of the rapidly approaching sirens. Cecil never did quite figure out what had happened.


There would be no doubts in the mind of anyone about what happened to Xenoneb.

Xeno’ had been at Club30 during the evening, and had got to witness the kerfluffle at the bar when Secura had been spirited to safety by a five-person team of faux waiters. He’d staid for a half dozen rounds more, but nothing else exciting came up.

Since he figured that that was about it for entertainment, he’d decided on a quick trip to his flat for some sleep before facing the committee in the morning. The trip ended a lot quicker than he had hoped.

The man standing up suddenly from behind the city trash can near the corner moved very fluidly, the short sickle slicing through the trenchcoat and deeply into Xenoneb’s guts in one short, powerful arc. Xenoneb gasped, the air rushing out of him even before he could scream.

The sickle reversed and swung up. It came down again, this time on Xenoneb’s neck, but more slowly. It cut his neck and pulled his head down onto the trashcan top. Unable to move without cutting into his own spine, Xenoneb was trapped as his assailant brought up a nine-pound hammer. Four blows later, Xeno’s head sagged like Halloween pumpkin after 2 weeks in the sun. He was dead long before the last hammer-blow fell.


Ameranth had slept peacefully and awakened before dawn to get down to the Convention Center, and the added police protection, that was his goal for the day. The early bird catches the worm, after all.

But apparently, that early bird also manages to duck the pool cue. Ameranth was striding purposefully up the block, not hearing the soft footsteps of the pair coming up behind him or the shadows of the second pair in the alley next to the pool hall. As for the fifth attacker, Ameranth had the lucky good fortune to spot a heads up penny on the sidewalk – which he ducked to grab without breaking stride – and the fifth attacker’s pool cue whistled over his head and directly into the pair of trailing attackers.

Ameranth jumped sideways and backwards and, in a scene reminiscent of the keystone cops, the pool cue swung back for another strike and ended up hammering the other pair as they came forward from the alley. Ameranth took off at a run before they could get reorganized and made it to the safety of the convention center.

>>>Good luck indeed,<<< thought Ameranth, >>>I would have been dead back there without my lucky new penny.<<<

And sometimes it is better to be lucky than good.



09:33AM, Thursday, 1 November 1951
The Executive Meeting Room (Small Ballroom)
Fatlington Convention Center
Fatlington, New Jersey


“…so that’s as much as we’ve been able to piece together. It was a horrible night for Fatlington and we’re certain to have lost many good citizens. You MUST stop these evil scum in their tracks!”

Mopping his brow, Fermanagh took a moment to calm himself and looked out at the disgruntled committee.

“We’ve got the first post-mortem results as well. It seems that Captain Blackadder was just a standard John Q. Citizen. A few odds and ends made things seem unclear about him at first, but deeper investigation proved he was one of our solid citizens. He will be missed.

In addition, our modest director wanted me to remind you all that you voted heavily for him to continue in his position. You all knew that, but we forgot to publicly announce it last night.

Stop these animals. Stop them if you can.”

Generalhankerchief strode to the podium, once again dressed in business gray. Another day had begun.



OOC

Day Four, lynch vote only, begins:

Phase ends:

Remember, do NOT edit a post with a vote in it; post the change in a separate post.

Results etc. as soon as I can get to them. It’s to bed for me now.



Attacked: a completely inoffensive name (n2), Ameranth (n3), Askthepizzaguy (n1, n2), Cahoma (n2), Cecil XIX (n3), Chaotix (n2, n3), Craterus (n3), Earthling (n1), El Barto (n2), Master Necromanver (n2), Montmorency (n2), Raskolnikov (n1), Secura (n3), Slash and earn (n1), slysnake (n3), taillesskangaru (n3)

Wounded: Slysnake (n1,n3), Lord Brennus (n3)

Killed: Arjos (n3), Captain Black Adder [townie] (n1), El Barto (n3), ELITEWARMAN8GINGYBREADMENMILK (n2), Moros (n2), Pharoah (n2), TinCow (n3), Xenoneb (n3)

Lynched: Earthling (d2), a completely inoffensive name (d3), Subotan (d3)

[U}Active[/U]:

AggonyKing
Ameranth
Andres
Askthepizzaguy
B Ray
Backwards Logic
Beefy187
Believer
Beskar
Bestrfcplayer
BillMc
Bow-wow-wow
BSmith
ByzantineKnight
Cahoma
Camikaze
Cecil XIX
Chaotix
Choxorn
Clitsome
cpdwane
Craterus
Crazed Rabbit
DaveShack
dcmort93
Death is yonder
Diamondeye
Diana Abnoba
Double A
Drunk Clown
edse
Erebus
Frozen In Ice
fubbleskag
fyremarble
GamezRule
GeneralHankerchief
gibsonsg91921
gnarley charlie
God Emperor
Guiri
hero di classico
Ibn-Khaldun
Ironside
Issaikhaan
Ishmael
Jarema
J.D.
Johhog
johnhughthom
Jolt
Kagemusha
kennigit
Khazaar
Krill
landlubber
LazyMcCrow
Lewwyn
Lord Brennus
Lord Winter
Major Robert Dump
Master Necromanver
Memnon
Monk
Montmorency
Neri
Nictel
Nightbringer
Niklas
O!TheLastDays!
Peasant Phil
Populous Romanus
Psychonaut
qlphz
Raskolnikov
Renata
Riedquat
Robbiecon
Romanic
Sasaki Kojiro
Scienter
scottishranger
Secura
Seon
shlin28
Sigurd
Silver Jan
SisterCoyote
Skotsko
slash and earn
slysnake
Sprig
sturmhauke
Suburban Plankton
taillesskangaru
Thefluffyone93
The Stranger
Tratorix
ULC
Visorslash
White_eyes:D
Winston Hughes
woad&fangs
Xehh II
Yaropolk
Zack