The village went their separate ways for the night, buoyed by the news. The Emperor had given them the name of a villager - they had a starting point. They returned to their own houses, in their own camps. Some stayed up late, making plans with their cells. Some spent the night resting, catching up on sleep. Others spent the night doing their own thing, or arguing over the correct version of the plural of 'abacus' - was it 'abaci' or 'abacuses'? Who knew?
The discussion grew more heated, and one man was sure he was right. The more he argued, though, the more his opposition protested. Eventually, they grew weary, momentarily meeting either other's eyes with a steely resolves, before one of their number took a knife from their pocket and plunged it into the man's heart.
Apollo is DEAD. He was a villager from factio VENETA.
1 vote each, 1 to die.
A multi, now, will lead to multiple deaths.
