As the sun sinks down behind the trees, the trainers drift back to the little places they've marked out for themselves on the sand, settling down for what is sure to be a nerve-wracking night. This time more of them get a bit of sleep, though this is mostly just because their failure to do so earlier is starting to catch up with them. Shivering within their costumes, they wait out the night in varying states of discomfort and unease.
When morning arrives, there is no question as to who the mafia's target was over the previous night. A driftwood gallows has sprung up at the middle of the beach, and swinging from its gnarled beam is Chiropter's body. How the mafia managed to bring in or assemble a gallows without anyone noticing, much less execute someone on it, is beyond the trainers who gather at the base of the grisly structure. For the moment, they're feeling too depressed to really speculate, anyway, and it's not as though everything about their situation isn't already surreal. At least now they have a less up-close-and-personal means by which to execute their chosen victim at the end of the day.
Well, everyone except Flora and Ashes, that is. Quite unlike her peers, she seems to find the sand more than passably comfortable and snoozes right through roll call and the discovery of Chiropter's body. All attempts at rousing her fail and several trainers gather around her to gawk, at a total loss about her condition.
Chiropter is dead. He was not mafia.
Forty-eight hours for discussion.
When morning arrives, there is no question as to who the mafia's target was over the previous night. A driftwood gallows has sprung up at the middle of the beach, and swinging from its gnarled beam is Chiropter's body. How the mafia managed to bring in or assemble a gallows without anyone noticing, much less execute someone on it, is beyond the trainers who gather at the base of the grisly structure. For the moment, they're feeling too depressed to really speculate, anyway, and it's not as though everything about their situation isn't already surreal. At least now they have a less up-close-and-personal means by which to execute their chosen victim at the end of the day.
Well, everyone except Flora and Ashes, that is. Quite unlike her peers, she seems to find the sand more than passably comfortable and snoozes right through roll call and the discovery of Chiropter's body. All attempts at rousing her fail and several trainers gather around her to gawk, at a total loss about her condition.
Chiropter is dead. He was not mafia.
Forty-eight hours for discussion.