It is now DAY PHASE (4) - you have until 20:00 GMT to cast your vote in Mafia Voting Channel!
Spartaci count: 2
Daylight’s [Publius Domitianus Mobba - Ordinary mob member] face hit the flagstones of the Via Appia. Hard.
He felt something crunch and tasted blood. He knew not what he had done to deserve this, but he did know there was no escaping from it. He’d seen it before, standing in a crowd, pitying the sorry bastard that was in for a bad time. He looked up to the soldier that had thrown him onto the ground.
“Futete! There was no need for that.”
The soldier shrugged and pointed forward to the two beams on the ground in front of Daylight.
“Just lie down on it, don’t make this any harder. It’s not even noon yet and I’m sweating my ass off already.”
“Go suck a fat dick already” bit Daylight back, receiving a swift kick in the ass from the soldier’s hobnailed sandals as reward.
From the corner of his eye he meanwhile saw that praetor pig from last execution strutting about proclaiming he had found another enemy of the Republic.
“What have you to say, Daylight? Do you confess your crrrimes, do you rrrepent conspirring with Caesar? Do you…” The praetor had taken a leaf from dead Pompey’s book on public speaking.
“Oh, do shut the fucking hell up already, you pompous twat!” Daylight yelled back. “And stuff your senile assed rhetoric up your fucking asshole!”
He looked over at the soldier.
“Hey, you, miserable excuse for a legionary’s butt boy, get on with the show already. So I don’t have to listen to that facefucked wannabe anymore!”
The crowd roared with laughter, while a furious praetor stomped off back to Rome.
“Make the crucifiction last long, don’t break his legs” he snarled at the legionaries who started strapping Daylight to the cross.
The soldiers then hammered the long nails through Daylight’s wrists and ankles into the beams, while Daylight continued to shout screams and curses, defiantly, enraged and struggling till the last.
The end for Daylight however, did not come soon, nor did it come gently.
Daylight [Publius Domitianus Mobba - Ordinary mob member] dies, lynched by town.
1 Like
“We’re going to grill this one for information” the praetor said.
"He should have some decent intel on him. He probably knows where Spartacus is and what they’re up to.
He laughed.
“You know, let’s just do that. Let’s fucking grill him!”
The soldiers looked non-committedly, awaiting clarification.
The the praetor made an impatient gesture. “Must everything be spelled out? We will roast this bastard. On a grill.”
One soldier was quickly dispatched to fetch a grill, and returned a little while later. Holding a really, really small grill.
“Hear me out sir. I know this is a ridiculously small grill, with which noone would ever want to be seen, or associated, with. It is clear it is not fit for any decent grilling purpose, and should actually be thrown off the edge of the earth lest it makes innocent people suffocate with laughter. In short, I know this tiniest of tiny grills is nothing anyone would want in their possession, but we can use it still!”
“Well?” growled the the praetor.
The soldier explained.
“Using just one or two coals, which will fill up the entire thing, we roast him bit by bit. We start with the lower half of his left calf, then the middle half, than the upper half, moving up to the knee joint, then lower thigh, middle thigh, upper thigh. Then we take the next leg, starting down again.”
He pointed at thirdrock (townie) .
“It will take an eternity, but all the while he will roast on this tiny ass grill. It will give him time to think, and to really feel the pain.”
“But can you actually get some heath from that ridiculous thing, with only one coal barely fitting in it? “ enquired another soldier.
“We have to be innovative, and try out new things though. You can’t always do the same thing forever.” opinionated the first soldier.
They decided to give it a go, and the one pulling the shortest straw had coal replacing duty.
Everyone forgot about it though, since it took days to cook even the tiniest piece of meat to lukewarm temperature on the grill. And eventually, after 3 days, thirdrock died of thirst, but had at least been reasonably warm all the time.
Thirdrock [townie] dies, lynched by town.
2 Likes
It is now NIGHT PHASE (5) - you have until 08:00 GMT to send me your decisions.
“Throw true! Do not aim with your hand, aim with your eyes! See the javelin, then see its trajectory. Your body is your tool, the throw the job!”
Spartacus stood behind a line of his men, training them, teaching them everything he could before the confrontation with the Roman legions would arrive and find them underprepared. His experience was vast. He drew from knowledge fighting with the Romans as a Thracian auxiliary as well from years spent as gladiator.
“The Romans are not invincible. They bleed just the same! I bled with them on the battlefield, and slayed them in the arena. They go down hard, but down they go!
The hard and dirty fighting which the elite gladiators trademarked, made them beacons to rally to on any battlefield. While the Romans relied on battle discipline, Spartacus knew he could not match them and tried to make a hybrid of individual skill held together by a superimposed Roman structure. Most of the times it worked half of the times. But they had spirit.
And his energy was inextinguishable. Driven by hatred, fueled by grief for lost ones, cast in a fire of purpose.
All this was witnessed by Torqez (townie). Torqez had snuck up to Spartacus’ camp to spy on them. Out of unhealthy curiosity, more than anything else. Not because he was on any particular mission or sent by anyone.
He hid behind some hay bales, and watched as another line formed, this time commanded by one of Spartacus’ gladiator buddies Crixus, a Gaul.
.
To his dismay Crixus’ line formed up before him. Before he knew it, or could scramble away, the giant Gaul threw the first javelin as a demonstration. Which went straight through the hay bale right next to where Torqez was hiding. He called over to Spartacus.
“Care to match that, friend?”
Spartacus grinned, and took another javelin.
It went straight through the hay bale, impacted into Torqez’ groin, and went further, again straight through, and affixed Torqez to the ground.
“Awww…Not in the… Not in the dick…” groaned Torqez. “That’s typical …dirty gladiator …fighting.”
Torqez (townie) dies, killed by Spartacus.
Player1 (townie) never saw him coming. One moment he was walking along the Tiber clutching the money from the bronzework he sold on the market, the next moment he was face down in stinking mud with nothing to show for his week of hard work.
“Thieves!” He yelled. No one responded.
“Stop that thief!” He pointed at the man who was running off in the alleys of Trastevere.
No one jumped to his aid, since no one wanted to get caught up in the maze of alleyways that was Rome’s no go zone for any honest man. Cursing and swearing, Player1 ran after the thief.
As anyone could expect this did not end well for Player1. He woke up in Caesar’s camp with a broken nose, bruises all over, a bump on his head and also a mysteriously sore ass.
The centurion explained the human-target-practice-for-recruits deal to him, and looked him over.
“You seem like an able man though. Lotta scars too. You served at all?”
Player1 peered up at the centurion through his battered and swollen eyes.
“Yeah, man. Like half a lifetime ago. Second Legion, under Pompey. We got hell from that usurper piece of shit Sertorius, but gave it right back to him too, back in Hispania.”
The centurion’s eyes widened.
“I heard stories from other vets. Ugly business. Victory didn’t come easily, and Pompey’s men took some serious damage there. ”
“No worse then you’re gonna get from me, soldier boy.” returned Player1.
The centurion’s grin returned.
“That’s the spirit, by Minerva’s tits! I salute you, legionary. Here, grab a gladius sword. And teach these slimy recruits what a real legionary is capable of!”
Player1 got up slowly, took the offered gladius, and sized up the 10 young tirones nervously gathered in front of them, all dressed in full lorica hamata, geared up with the large rectangular scutum, and the helmet with cheek protectors firmly on their heads.
“That all? I’ve had shits that looked more impressive.”
The centurion just kept on grinning and waved at him as if to say “get on with it then”.
He shook his head to clear it, and shuffled sideways slightly to position himself with his back to a tent. While he made a few practice swings with the gladius, he muttered a little prayer to his ancestors. He knew he wasn’t coming out of this one alive. Not alone, not without a lorica, not without a shield. He gritted his teeth. He’d give them hell though. Just like in Hispania.
Player 1(townie) dies, killed by mob.
It is now DAY PHASE (5) - you have until 20:00 GMT to cast your vote in Mafia Voting Channel!
Spartaci count: 2
(failed recruiting)
The people cosied up in an amphitheatre that was filled to the brim. For this spectacle, they had joined up two wooden semicircular theatres ( the Colosseum wasn’t built yet in Caesar’s days, but only nearly 130 years later by emperor Vespasian).
Melvin sat in the ima cavea, the lowest part and the one directly surrounding the arena, reserved for the upper echelons of society. “ He yelled up to Swagga who sat in a couple rows higher in the media cavea with the general public.
“So is Mels (Mob Anthony - mob roleblock) going to get it from some good damnatio ad bestias? Or you figure these will be gladiator games? “
Swagga yelled back. “Well, it depends whether you mean it in the broad or narrow sense. You have to distinguish between objicĕre bestiis and the actual damnatio ad bestias!”
Missy weighed in from way above, yelling down from the bad seats, the summa cavea, open to women and children.
“Yeah, keep up dammit, Melvin! We went over this. If Mels gets a weapon it’s going to be damnatio ad bestias, and we’re in for a good show. No weapon, and it’s just objicĕre bestiis and it’s going to be over in minutes."
It turned out to be was objicĕre bestiis. A great tiger chased after Mels for two minutes, leapt and sank its teeth into Mels’ neck and bit down hard. Mels writhed and struggled feebly while the hungry beast started feeding on the soft bits of Mels, but that was pretty much it.
Melvin, Swagga and Missy watched it for a bit, ordered a snack from a vendor, and waited for the next show. It was some real good real damnatio ad bestias this time, not the mere 2 minute show Mels’ death was.
Mels (Mob Anthony - mob roleblock) was lynched
(Note: other living and dead players just brought in for story sake - read absolutely nothing into it)
It is now NIGHT PHASE (6) - you have until 08:00 GMT to send me your decisions.
The captured slave raged defiantly at the assembled Legion X, sitting on his knees, wearing nothing but his loincloth. He was found sneaking around the camp. There was a lot of that going on these days, and this one had resisted thorough questioning as to what his purpose was.
“You keep on keeping the man down! I say “No more”!
The little man has risen and started a Servile War!
Capitoline Hill fat cats; time to settle score:
We about to end you. Gonna be hardcore!”
Then Caesar (The Unknown - mob gf) climbed onto the stage, swished his red and white toga aside and addressed the slave.
"You talk a lot of shit for a man in a diaper!
Heard you try spit poison but you a toothless viper!
Threats’ all you got, y’all brutes with no discipline,
While I’m slamming you with a scutum on your chin!
Grab your cowskin shield, and hide under it!
You fucking with the most triumphant of the best Triumvirate!
First of the empire, last of the republican,
Killing you with mad skilled legions of my countrymen!
Hold up waving them blunt-ass sticks at me!
If I wanted to shake spears, I’d waggle my biography!
Carrying more dough than my dead buddy Crassus,
I’m paving Roman roads with your goat-herding asses!
My front lines faint back and then spear you in the chest,
Then I decimate your horns; you can’t outflank the best!
Your reserve come at me? My ballista’s cocked and ready!
When I take aim, my whole crew keeps it steady!
But I won’t be murdering all of you heathen."
Caesar knelt down and looked at the slave beneath him in the eyes.
“They gun grow my wheat for me, after you are beaten.”
The assembled legionaries went straight out of their minds, whooping.
Caesar held his vitis, a 3 feet vine staff and the symbol of his power, straight out, dropped it onto the ground and kissed two of his fingers.
“Caesar exit, militchezzz”.
Caesar grinned. That slave had been served! He guffawed. Served! Servile war!. He had his moments.
He decided to celebrate this evening with some great Falernian wine. Caesar was a conaisseur, and appreciated this wine from Aglianico grapes grown on the slopes of Mount Falernus near the border of Latium and Campania.
Unfortunately, the captured rebel slave had had the last laugh. He had poisoned that wine just moments before his capture. Caesar fell into a perpetual sleep after chugging the entire amphora.
TU (mob gf) has been killed by Spartacus!
(served slave is not a Spartaci, just story)
Tortoise ( Legatus Gracchus Armisurplus - town cop 1) was feeling lucky. He had just won 100 denarii at the horse races in the Circus Flaminius and was looking to treat himself to a nice luxurious day at his favourite bath house.
He stopped over at the nearby temple of Mars to make a small offering and exchanged some casual banter with the soldiers loitering nearby. He bought a sausage in a bun from Sectio Meus Ipsum Jugulum (S.M.I.J.) Dibblericus, a shady street vendor, but tossed it away, disgusted after one bite.
He sat down on a milestone to watch a few street dogs fight over it, laughing as the victor sniffed it, yelped and ran off in a hurry. He was just coming round to the idea of buying himself a jug of wine to start his leisurely afternoon, when he heard a faint noise behind him…
…and woke up to a headache and a view on some busy engineers of the Legio X Equestris. And on a certain centurion.
“Pluto’s hairy nutsack, you’re the sorriest one they dragged in so far.” he greeted Tortoise.
“Welcome to Caesar’s finest, you Pompeian bastard.”
“What? Let me go! I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just doing my job! I just wanted to go to the baths. I just want to go home!”
“Oh, really?” guffawed the centurion.
“Turns out, we can help you with that last one. Whereabouts is your home?”
Bewildered, Tortoise oriented himself, and pointed roughly in the right direction.
“There, on the slopes of the Viminal Hill. Top floor of a cheap apartment building, an insula. It isn’t much, but I’m saving up for something better.” he added apologetically.
“Top floor? But that’s just prime, my good man. Just prime!”
He pounded Tortoise on the back and marched him to the engineers, who tied him to a large pole. Ignoring his cries of protests, they loaded him onto a ballista and winched the engine taught. The centurion ordered the machine to be turned towards the Viminal Hill and laughed.
“Buh-bye now, Icarus!”
Thirty seconds later, S.M.I.J. Dibblericus could not believe his luck. About 90 kilos of prime, fresh and pre-tenderized meat had fallen from the heavens and crashed down right in front of him! Business would be great this week! Grinning, he got to work.
Tortoise ( Legatus Gracchus Armisurplus - town cop 1) died, mob kill.
It is now DAY PHASE (6) - you have until 20:00 GMT to cast your vote in Mafia Voting Channel!
Spartaci count: 3
Mrblonde had woken up with the mother of all hangovers, to which soon existential questions were added. Did having slept with a Greek man, but who was painted up and dressed as a woman, make him gay? What if both pretended the Greek, Achilles, was actually Achilla? What if he had slept with Achilles, thinking it was actually Achilla, but only found out later? Would it make a difference if he found out during, or after? And if not, then surely also not before?
Inversely, if he would pretend he was not Mrblonde but Mrsblonde , would sleeping with a dressed up Achilla whom however he knew to be Achilles, not reverse the situation and bring it back to heterosexuality? Or would it become gay again, but on the female side this time? Would the answer differ once more if he really convinced himself he was Mrsblonde , and not Mrblonde? Would it matter then how Achilles felt, or if he was Achilla at any time?
He thought really hard and long about it. His ancestors, proud Batavians, wouldn’t have been able to help him. They plied themselves to their trade of providing faulty weights to dishonest merchants. Later, having narrowly escaped death by running away 2000 km, they became free citizens in Rome, and made an honest living diluting wine.
“Pluto’s crusty bunghole, I need a drink.”
He stumbled downstairs to find a jug of wine. Of of the good, non-diluted, heavy stuff.
Outside, he found a crowd of Roman citizen, who apprehended him. Mrblonde found himself tied up and in quite the predicament.
The citizens of Rome had brought him to a temple, to present them to an augur, one who would divine the future in these uncerain times, by reading a sacrifice’s entrails. Lying on his back on the altar, hands and legs tied underneath it, he could see the augur approaching. He was holding a ceremonial sickle.
“Hey, that looks fun. I’m always open to new sensation. What’s the idea? ” asked Mrblonde.
The augur didn’t reply immediately, and just studied Mrblonde’s stomach looking for the best place to start cutting. Eventually, having marked it with a tiny scratch, he responded solemnly.
“You have been voted to be the one to serve the greater good, and will give up your life in exchange for a glimpse of the future. What say you?”
“Can’t go wrong with a vote for Mrblonde!” considered Mrblonde .
The augur got to work on his bloody business, ignoring the occasional question from Mrblonde on wether the augur had got a fucking clue already, if he had not best kill himself instead , and the expressions of amazement that the augur still hadn’t figured it out. Eventually Mrblonde remained silent forever.
The augur rummaged through the blood, gore and guts for a bit, holding interesting bits to the light, tossing other bits aside on the ground.
The anxious crowd urged the augur for his conclusions.
“What does it say? What do the gods tell us the future holds?”
“It says the fifth star of Aries is in his Jupiter house, which means today will be a perfect day for his celestial radiations that will settle in the third axis of Neptune’s house of air.”
The crowd milled around for a bit, waiting for some explanation on that.
“It also says he was actually not Mrblonde but Tiberius Mobionicus (ordinary mobster), and Caesar should no loger beware the Ides of March. He 'll be happy, he was worried about that one. And… oh… Wait… I see… I see… the carpet merchant down at the Basilica Fulvia on the forum is holding a great sale!”
The augur quickly wiped his hands clean on Mrblonde ’s loincloth and took off at a jog.
“Must make haste, good citizens, there’s some great deals there!”
Mrblonde [Tiberius Mobionicus - ordinary mobster] lynched by town.
1 Like
Kratom (a s/Spartacus) was brought forward from the infamous prison situated on the northeastern slope of the Capitoline Hill, the Tullianum.
Kratom looked at the imposing Senate House, the Curia, in front of him. Some senators in full toga impassively stared back at him from its steps.
Located between the Curia and the Tabularium , with Vercingetorix’ blood still smearing the stones next to it, was a flight of stairs leading to the Arx of the Capitoline known as the Gemonian stairs. Or more appropriately nicknamed the Stairs of Mourning.
He sobbed.
His fate was told to him just moments before. As many before him, he would be publicly strangled on the top of the stairs.
But the praetor had added a gruesome twist:
“Your belly will be cut open, and we’ll reel out some guts, and then you’ll be strangled with your own innards! I have to listen to my gut feeling these days, Kratom. So let’s see your gut, feeling .Hahaha! !“
The praetor walked away.
“With his own innards! Hahaha! Gut! Feeling!! Hilarious!”
Kratom knew his corpse would then be thrown down the stairs but be transferred back up for display and left to rot on the staircase for weeks, in full view of the Forum, scavenged by dogs or other carrion animals, until eventually being thrown into the Tiber.
He had had better days. But he was sure he’d be seeing some old friends in the afterlife. He’d hang on to that.
Kratom (a s/Spartacus) was lynched by town.
It is now NIGHT PHASE (7) - you have until 08:00 GMT to send me your decisions.
Cleomobtra (youfool, mob suicider) sat on her throne, playing with a viper.
It was actually just a painted garden snake with some wax prosthetics. She wouldn’t do anything as stupid as actually keep a viper close. Those things kill. But royalty must keep up an image.
“A visitor, straight from Rome! He is a delegate of Spartacus!” announced a fat eunuch at the door.
“Oh, great. Business again.” thought Cleomobtra . “And from Spartacus. Probably to negotiate about the condition of slaves, err , public resources taking care of piram… err, imperial infrastructure. Or maybe alliance shenanigans”
Cleomobtra was never one to not keept options open.
“Send the guards out.” she ordered. “ I want this one to be strictly confidential. “
Goddess (a s/Spartacus) walked in, grim smile on her face.
“Cleo, for your inaction to improve the condition of slaves in Egypt, we decided to take action against you. It would be a powerful symbol for servile revolt throughout the empire. This is an ultimatum.”
Cleomobtra thought fast. She foolishly had sent the guards out, but she had some tricks left.
“And must you now, right away? Are you sure you want to execute the verdict immediately, my dear man?” she asked sweetly. ”I have much regard for gladiators. They bring me …new and exciting pleasures. So much more than my Egyptians who are all in awe. I like someone more…up to the task. I shall be blunt. Can we spend my last moments in carnal celebrations?”
She saw the delegate pondering it over.
“I will take your breath away” she promised with a smile, and started slowly swaying and dancing around him, pinning Goddess in place with shining eyes.
As the delegate started grinning and warming up to the idea, she suddenly moved with all of a trained dancers speed and swiftness. She kicked Goddess hard in the nether regions, then the sternum and as Goddess doubled over, delivered a crushing kick to her windpipe, shattering it.
“Told you I would.”
Thinking herself safe already, she started making plans immediately to get out of the city and hide out in a safe place and try link up with the Populares again. She would need…
He thoughts were rudely interrupted by the entry of an armed squad of former gladiators. The delegate hadn’t come alone. Dammit. Caesar had always told her she needed to plan more.
“Isis’ eyes!’
She ran for the window. Vaulting out of it, she aimed for the adjacent roof, which was unfortunately a little too far, and instead plummeted down, splattering onto the cobblestones like a rotten apple in autumn.
Youfool (cleomobtra - mob suicider) was killed by Spartacus.
Goddess ( a s/Spartacus) was killed by cleomobtra in return.
Tishxo [town priestess] woke up with the usual bump on the head, amidst Caesar’s Xth legion elite soldiers. A centurion walked up and introduced himself.
“Hey there. Getting kind of tired of explaining the whole spiel to every new guy here, but I can be brief. You’re dead. All you’re still good for is target practice.”
“But… but…” Tishxo stuttered.
“Ah, how rude of me. I’ll let you get your bearings. Wine and dine first before we get to fucking you eh? Hahaha!”
He walked Tishxo to a group of engineers.
“Let me introduce you to some of our oddballs. Our engineering outfit sure is something special, but awesome. They sure as shit saved us all at the siege of Alesia, when we got hemmed in from both sides by the Gauls.”
He pointed at one guy in particular.
“See Yoshi over there? Yellow skinned fellow. Says he came wandering from an isle even beyond the silk-producing Seres people way in the far east. No idea why.”
The centurion shrugged.
“But he’s welcome. True warrior and he’s got a knack for tinkering with these things. He operates and perfected our scorpios. Gets all excited when we fire them, screams his own special war cry and everything. “Banzai!” he goes. Heh. And we got a Gaul too, Mantronix there, building a decent battering ram, and then some more guys working on prefabricated parts of fortifications.
“Why the fuck should I care.” growled Tishxo .
She felt sick, knowing he was going to die while this centurion was just toying with her.
“Whoa temper, buddy. Just making conversation. But I see you’re not in the mood. Let’s just get you strapped in then.”
The centurion beckoned a legionary over.
“Get our little sunbeam over here to the pole at the far side of the compound. We’re gonna get some target practice for Yoshi.”
While Tishxo was being led to the place of his execution, Yoshi fired a test shot at the wall. “TSAA” twanged the scorpio and shot its arrow deep into the palisade . Tishxo shivered, and heard Yoshi boasting of his battery of ten scorpio’s to the Gaul engineer. Pointing at the battering ram the latter was crafting, he said;
“Hey, I know Mantronix is really great, but my style is much better!”
“Better?” asked the Gaul angrily.
“Better!” confirmed Yoshi. “Much better!”
“Better” grumbled Mantronix to himself, and wandered off, shaking his head. “Much better.”
Then Yoshi commenced firing his scorpio’s in rapid succession. His skill and accuracy was immense. Every single arrow hit its mark and pierced Tishxo.
“Tsa! Tsa! Tsa!!” twanged the war machines.
“Banzai! Banzai!” screamed the eastern auxiliary enthusiastically.
“Tsa! Tsa! Tsa!” whipped three more of the scorpions.
“Banzai!”
The pandemonium of the foreign soldier screaming his enthusiasm mixed with the sound of the scorpio’s was the last thing Tishxo heard.
Tishxo [town priestess] died , mob kill.
It is now DAY PHASE (7) - you have until 20:00 GMT to cast your vote in Mafia Voting Channel!
Spartaci count: 2
Rand0 (Mobtavian- mob cop) was looking out at the Via Appia, and at the rows of crosses alongside it where slaves, rebels and populares sympathizers were in varying degrees of dying. He was now one of them.
He saw his friend Daylight a little further ahead, and wanted to wave at him, but it is kinda hard when your wrist are nailed into a wooden beam.
He was not the only one though. The citizens of Rome, whipped up in a frenzy of uncertainty and politics had decided to forego strict interpretation of the law and applied a punishment reserved to slaves and foreigners; crucifixion, to their own.
Flanking Rand0 on the left was was also Undeath [townie]. Undeath was there because he had greatly dishonored Roman society by refusing to take sides in an essential conflict, for too long.
Rand0 had tried protesting this verdict, based on their status as citizen. Being a Roman citizen was something to be proud of, and which was protected by the law of the 12 tables, the legislation now 400 years old that stood at the foundation of Roman law and had consolidated earlier traditions, reaching even more centuries back .
But law only works when society is enforcing it. In times of civil war, nothing was sure anymore.
Rand0 tried his best legalese jibberish though.
“Audi alteram partem - Hear the other side!””
But a magistrate shouted back:
“Boni judicis est judicium sine dilatione mandare executioni! It is the duty of a good judge to cause execution to issue on a judgment without delay.”
Rand0 tried again: “Festinatio justitiae est noverca infortunii - The hurrying of justice is the stepmother of misfortune. And erm, Lex plus laudatur quando ratione probatur - The law is the more praised when it is supported by reason!”
The magistrate waved it away with a hand.
“Juduces non tenentur exprimere causam sententiae suae - Judges are not bound to explain the reason of their judgment.”
“That was dismissed too easy!” thought Rand0.
“Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat - The burden of the proof lies upon him who affirms, not he who denies!”
The magistrate was fed up now.
“Ex praecedentibus et consequentibus optima fit interpretatio - The best interpretation is made from things preceding and following. What follows will make matters clear. We’ll interprete it as best we can. It is for the public good - pro bono! Cadit quaestio - The matter admits of no further argument.”
Rand0 tried again.
“Facultas probationum non est angustanda - The right of offering proof is not to be narrowed! And homo praesumitur bonus donec probetur malus - one is innocent until proven guilty!”
The magistrate shrugged, turned away, and walked back to the city.
Undeath desperate now, weighed in finally.
“Qui tacet consentire videtur - He who is silent appears to consent.”
Apologetically, driven by a mind formed around justice the magistrate turned back one more though.
“Iter arma leges silent - In war the laws are silent.”
Rand0 (mob cop) was lynched by town.
Undeath (townie) was lynched by town.
It is now NIGHT PHASE (8) - you have until 08:00 GMT to send me your decisions.