Silas Ansel
Victim NPC
Warden of the Ninth Bell for forty years; he has run every Drawing since before most of the coven was born. Found an hour before first bell in the sealed Wardroom, torn open by claw-work beside his own lottery bowl —…
Murder Party · ready to clone
A scenario by Murder Maker
Behind a 24-hour laundromat, a quiet coven has kept an old compact for sixty years: every seventh year one name is drawn from the bowl, one member walks down the maintenance stair, and the city's luck holds. Tonight is Tithe Night — but an hour before first bell, Warden Silas Ansel is found torn open by claws inside a room nothing inhuman can enter, and every slip in the lottery bowl bears his own name. The doors are sealed until a tithe goes down at 3 a.m. Someone at this table rigged the drawing. Someone knows what waits below. And the bowl is still waiting.
Silas Ansel
Victim NPC
Warden of the Ninth Bell for forty years; he has run every Drawing since before most of the coven was born. Found an hour before first bell in the sealed Wardroom, torn open by claw-work beside his own lottery bowl —…
Maren Okonjo
Suspect
Silas's designated warden-successor: a precise, exhausted woman who has spent ten years learning the compact's law line by line. From first bell, the seal, the bowl, and the 3 a.m. decision are hers — and she did not…
Douglas Pryce
Suspect
The schismatic. Ten years ago he walked out of the Wardroom mid-Drawing and has spent every cycle since vowing — in pamphlets, at meetings, to anyone who would listen — to end the tithe 'by any means the god leaves…
Theo Marsh
Suspect
The coven's warding-mason for twelve years: the quiet man who keeps the thresholds chalked and the seals sound. If a door in this building holds, it holds because of him. He has no family anyone has met, no photographs…
Ruth Castellan
Suspect
Alderman for the river wards and the coven's most public-facing secret. Her district's luck is famously good; her re-zoning votes famously well-timed. She arrived tonight in a city car she made the driver park two…
Ida Bell
Suspect
Widow of the last tithe. Walter Bell's name came out of the bowl seven years ago and he walked down the stair with his chin up. Ida has attended every coven meeting since — silent, in the same grey coat, taking notes…
Nan Verity
Witness
The bone-reader. For twenty years, every Drawing has opened with Old Nan casting the god's signs in the copper basin and confirming its hunger. Coven law says the bowl cannot be drawn until the bones speak. Tonight…
Ellis Tan
Suspect
First-cycle initiate, nineteen years old, grandson of a founding member of the Ninth Bell. Tonight his name is in the bowl for the first time. He has folded and refolded the same towel at the front counter for an hour,…
Cole Ferris
Suspect
The elder Ferris twin by four minutes; runs a locksmith stall by day and the coven's odd jobs by night. Wears the family's three generations of tithe-scar bravado like a coat that doesn't quite fit, and has been…
Corin Ferris
Suspect
The younger twin; the coven's errand-hand and dock-loader. Counts everything twice — crates, favors, grievances — and has spent seven years being politely, relentlessly present at his brother's elbow. Something in that…
Marisol Duarte
Witness
Owner of the Wash & Fold for thirty years and Silas Ansel's wife — the only person in the building whose name has never been in any bowl. She has kept the front, the books, and the secret for three decades. Tonight she…
Inspector Wray
Detective
A city utilities inspector with a subsidence file three inches thick and access papers naming 'the stairwell structure beneath the Duarte block.' He picked tonight, of all nights, to serve them — and walked in twenty…
Hazel Nix
Suspect
Hedge-witch of the flower-stall on Ninth; does small mercies for small money — sleep charms, grief-knots, pain eased at fair rates. The coven bailed her out of something three years ago, and she has attended every…
He swore for ten years he'd end the Drawing by any means. Tonight it ended. Now he has to survive being right.
There are two seals on this building tonight. One is chalk and sixty years old. The other is a phone number written inside a cupboard.
Every favor in this coven has two columns. The man who kept the book is dead, and the book is missing. Start counting.
Sixty years of luck, bought and paid for. Tonight somebody asks the question you must never ask a miracle: is anyone still collecting?
Seven years, one name, one stair, no return. The arithmetic has held for sixty years. Tonight somebody audits it.
Forty-one slips, one bowl, one name — the dead man's. The Drawing has never lied before. Someone taught it how.
Behind a 24-hour laundromat, a quiet coven has kept an old compact for sixty years: every seventh year one name is drawn from the bowl, one member walks down the maintenance…
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