[littlemanpoet]

The villagers stayed up late discussing the finer points (no pun intended ... at least at first) of Dwarven women's beards, getting to know each other, making friends and enemies, and generally choosing sides.

Next morning they were up late, and straggled out of the cottages they had chosen for themselves, to the center of the village.

There they found a newly built gallows. Hanging by the neck from it was none other than Elempí, his tongue blackened and hanging out of a ridiculous smile. His spectacles still bespected his visual orifices; however, written in blood on both lenses was the number '3'. The villagers noticed that Elempí's thumb and pinky had been removed from both hands. So had his big and pinky toes from his feet. The villagers were beginning to sense a theme.

"Three what?" one of them queried.

In answer, Elempí's blackened tongue fell out of his mouth and began hopping around, a set of vocal chords wagging along behind it. Somehow, they got a sound from this misapprehension that sounded something like "wer ..... w ....vzzz", a sound that it repeated over and over again.

Finally, one of the brighter ones in the assemblage said, "I think this means there are three werewolves."

"We must lynch them!" said another.

"Brilliant," came a sardonic voice from behind them. Anakron sat on a cushy lazyboy, his feet up, eating popcorn and nursing a six pack. "Just understand that here in Mordor, because of the Dweomer, the lynchings are always multiple, and there are cobblers amongst you. Yes, notice the plural. I think I'm going to really enjoy this."

"But this could take days!" Panakeia cried, thinking about the rapidly disappearing time she had to do her make-up test.

"Maybe, maybe not. Those who remain of the Offending Party after two or three days (I still have to decide how many I'll make you toil through) will be excused, and the rest of the village will be free to continue to decimate each other, or flee, or bury themselves in the mud, or run to Roggie and beg upon his gracious mercy. Proceed.

"Oh, and one more thing. Do not assume that fellow members of the Offending Party are not werewolves." He grinned malevolently, and continued to much and quaff.