Conan, Mewo, Arabmogus shared template

🌅 DAY 3 — WHERE THE FUN GETS UGLY

Dawn crawls up the trunks in pale fingers. Frost clings to webs and discarded bandages. Birds argue loudly as if trying to drown out the memory of last night. The camps blink awake in little, tense motions: rolling shoulders, rubbing eyes, checking weapons. The air tastes like iron and unease.

Everyone knows a death will change things today — the woods seem to hold its breath.

DAWN: Routines, Scans, and Tiny Betrayals

Watches rotate with mechanical efficiency. Shovel Man stands first-post by the river with Scoopheart planted point-down in the mud like a ward. Oliver paces the treeline, binoculars in hand. Cassie traces a charcoal glyph in the dirt every morning now; she says it calms the trees. Sector morphs into a low glass dome for the water store. Wembry chews at her lip and jerks awake at every twig snap.

Shovel Man (soft, to Oliver): “I will keep the perimeter. If anything moves strange, I strike.”
Oliver: “Good. Keep your shovel where we can see it.”
Cassie (muttering as she draws): “Watch rotations at two-hour spans. I’ll wake you if I sense a specter.”
CMP Goober’s absence is a raw hole; his discarded pages are still in Oliver’s pack, edges fluttering like guilty birds.

At the tactician grove, dawn is a business meeting full of sarcasm and undercurrents. Parcelboy sits on a log counting bolts. Scampton hums a jittery tune and sets little Pipis traps that beep when the frost melts. Stormy polishes his gun, half-smirk, half-warned. Spy appears from the mists like he was always there — slick, smelling faintly of cologne and danger.

Parcelboy (narrow-eyed): “Spy, you took those bolts yesterday. Put them back.”
Spy (smiling in that too-cool way): “I borrowed them. Aren’t you glad they’re safe?”
Scampton (loud whisper): “[MINI-GAME]—who wants to press the shiny button?”
Stormy (tail flick): “Less games, more pointing guns. I’m not into long speeches.”

Tension hangs — Parcelboy’s paranoia, Stormy’s impatience, Scampton’s need to perform, and Spy’s silk-slick evasions. Everyone watches the others’ hands.

Grimm, Goobert, and Pablo are a shadowed trio on a ridge. Grimm paces like a director waiting for the scene; Pablo is a quiet punctuation; Goobert sits chewing a lollipop and seems less sure-of-self than last night.

Grimm (low, pleased): “Luck is a spectacle. Use it. Remove what frustrates us.”
Goobert (murmuring): “:3” (but his smile is a fraction too small.)
Pablo: “Pablo thinks patience.”

Grimm’s presence is a pressure—Goobert shifts when Grimm speaks, a small tremor in his lollipop grip.

Predator pack splits their morning: Yujiro trains with violent, effortless motions; Biowaffe checks his blade-arm as if it were a tool that might fail; Springtrap tinkers with a small speaker that sighs like a child’s laugh. They exchange looks more than words.

Biowaffe (flat): “We hunt. We conserve. We strike clean.”
Yujiro (smiling like a blade): “Hunt whatever shouts first.”
Springtrap (soft, mechanical): “Strategic terror.”

MIDDAY: Team Drama Erupts

1) Oliver’s Camp — Pressure Cooker

Oliver’s group tightens under stress. Wembry’s clumsy anxiety clashes with Sector’s odd, static cheerfulness. Cassie’s ritual circles start to look like a fence rather than comfort.

Wembry (whispering, voice cracking): “I— I heard something scraping. Did anyone else—”
Sector (in a broken whisper): “GLASS—WATCH—” (morphs into a low dome)
Oliver (sharp, trying to be steady): “We need to move at noon. Gather rations. Shovel Man, can you dig a false trail?”
Shovel Man (hands on Scoopheart): “I can carve the ground. I will not let them reach you.”
Cassie (soft, suspicious): “Oliver… why did you hide CMP Goober’s pages? We needed that luck.”
Oliver (eyes narrowing): “We buried them. Not for luck — for bait. To see who’s greedy.”

Cassie’s face shifts; she wanted the pages for genuine safety, not as a trap. A crack shows: Oliver’s leadership is beginning to look manipulative — he argues it’s strategy, Cassie calls it deceit. The group’s cohesion frays at the edges.

Cassie (hurt): “You did that without telling us?”
Oliver (defensive): “Yes. I thought it was safer.”
Wembry (murmur): “I don’t like secrets.”

Drama: trust erodes. Shovel Man’s staunch protectiveness becomes overbearing; Sector’s simplistic loyalty starts to feel like blind faith. By noon they’re bickering about whether to move or hold the line.

2) Tactician Grove — Backstabbing and Blame

Tension there tightens to snapping.

Parcelboy hoards a fresh crate of bolts and a half-map. Stormy wants to take bold action. Scampton wants to “gamify” every decision. Spy smiles too much.

Parcelboy (snapping): “Those bolts are mine. I bled to get them.”
Spy (light, dismissive): “You bled? Charming.”
Stormy (leaning forward): “We should ambush the hunter on the ridge. Quick strike, fast loot.”
Scampton (spinning a card): “[ASSAULT MINI-GAME]! WHO DARES?”

The voices rise. Parcelboy accuses Spy of pocketing a medkit last night. Spy’s cool dissolves into a razor edge.

Spy (hissing): “I did what I had to do. We play to survive, not to share your hoarded toys.”
Parcelboy (fuming): “You always say that. Maybe we don’t need you.”

Scampton, feeling the group fracturing and craving spotlight, fires a small Pipis salvo at the ground — it rattles the group and accidentally sets off a hidden bait: a small, buried spring-scamper. A thunk. Panic. The distraction gives them no advantage — only exposes their divisions.

Drama: the tactician group teeters; accusations of theft, selfishness, and manipulation leave everyone raw. Someone whispers “traitor” more than once.

3) Grimm’s Trio — Guilt & Command

Grimm’s cool veneer cracks with Goobert’s half-smile. Goobert seems restless, haunted by CMP Goober’s scattered pages.

Goobert (soft, to Grimm): “:3 it felt weird. I’m not sure it was fun.”
Grimm (cold): “Survival is not about fun. It is about choice. You made your choice.”
Goobert (eyes down): “Pablo and I thought—”
Pablo (flat): “Pablo thinks it was efficient.”

Drama: Goobert’s remorse bubbles into anger by evening; he snaps at Pablo for being stoic. Grimm, sensing weakness, tightens expectations. The trio’s coordination starts to show strains — Goobert’s guilt could be a liability.

AFTERNOON: A Reckless Gambit

Spy, sensing the grooves of distrust in the tactician group and feeling cornered by Parcelboy’s accusations, attempts a bold move: a solo run to intercept supplies that Yujiro’s group is rumored to be collecting. He thinks speed and cunning can get him the cache — and silence his critics.

Spy (to himself, smoothing his mask): “A clean strike. Quick, clean. Leave no trace.”

He slips through underbrush, elegant and quiet. But Springtrap has been listening, building audio lures, waiting for a solitary, confident figure to appear.

Springtrap (whisper into a speaker): “Coo-koo… come closer…”

Spy closes in on the clearing where a crate rests — and triggers a subtle web of sound and light. Springtrap’s illusions make the clearing look empty and safe; behind Spy, metal teeth whir softly.

Spy (whispering triumph): “Perfect—”

A shadow drops, cold and heavy. Springtrap’s mechanical arm clamps and a low metallic rasp rings in Spy’s ears. Spy spins, throws a smoke capsule, but Springtrap’s tech is surgical — it pins, entangles, and in a flash of mechanical efficiency the Spy’s throat is cut off from the conversation. He collapses without a dramatic scream; his last expression is surprise, not terror.

Springtrap (calm, almost bored): “Silence is efficient.”

💀 Notable Death — Spy

Spy’s death is the big, brutal event of Day 3. It is clean, swift, and utterly shocking to anyone who depended on his subterfuge. The tactician camp hears nothing at first — only later when Parcelboy goes to check on him and finds the empty ground and a dusted cuff.

Parcelboy (screaming): “SPY! SPY WHERE ARE YOU—”
Scampton (hysterical): “[NO— WHERE DID HE GO?!]”
Stormy (low growl): “Springtrap. He did this.”

Reactions ripple: Parcelboy is inconsolable and furious; Stormy’s grin curdles into cold hatred; Scampton spirals into manic accusations. The tactician group fractures — some want immediate revenge, some want to run, others want to set traps. Trust breaks into shards.

EVENING: Fallout and New Fault Lines

Oliver’s camp tightens up further. Oliver uses Spy’s last-known route to set traps, convinced someone will use the same path again. Cassie mutters a long ritual that burns a thin line of ash across the clearing — a warning sign and a small ward.

Oliver (flat): “No one goes out alone. Not for water, not for anything.”
Cassie (hands trembling slightly): “Good. I don’t want anyone else… dead.”

Tacticians are a mess. Parcelboy blames Scampton’s dumb games for creating noise; Stormy wants to hunt Springtrap down; Scampton keeps shouting about scoring and points, and Parcelboy alternates between wailing and righteously smashing crates.

Parcelboy (through tears and fury): “He stole from us. He left none of our things!”
Stormy (snapping, cold): “We don’t find him. We ambush the mechanical bastard. We get the revenge and the supplies.”
Scampton (screaming): “[REVENGE MINI-GAME!!]” (He then trips over his own cards and ignites a pipis at his feet.)

Grimm & Co. watch the spiral with juxtaposed amusement and concern — their removal of CMP Goober has consequences; now the tacticians have no cunning leader and will be unpredictable. Goobert looks hollow-eyed.

Goobert (quiet, to Pablo): “:3 I— I don’t like killing. But I did it.”
Pablo (flat): “Pablo knows. Move forward.”
Grimm (smile thin): “Emotion makes prey easier.”

Predators — Yujiro, Biowaffe, Springtrap — regroup. Springtrap’s calculated move proves his warning: vacuum the field of spies and sow fear. Yujiro grins: fighting will be satisfying; Biowaffe remains an eerie, patient presence watching which way the lines tilt.

Yujiro (rubbing hands): “Now they scatter. Good.”
Biowaffe (silent): (only the blade hums.)

NIGHTFALL: A Different Silence

The forest is louder with grief than it had been with the earlier deaths. Spy’s disappearance is a pivot: a major player gone, a source of sabotage and reconnaissance removed. It rewrites plans.

Tacticians are paranoid, splitting between those who want immediate, perhaps foolish retaliation and those who want to hole up and regroup.

Oliver’s group consolidates, more watchful than ever. Oliver’s secret bait has become a dangerous gamble; his leadership has a new blood-stain.

Grimm’s trio sits on the ridge like judges, feeling the forest’s tremor of imbalance.

Predators smile quietly — every fissure and fear is a path to blood.

Final whisper before sleep:

Parcelboy (weeping, voice raw): “He was— he was the one who knew the paths.”
Stormy (cold, very close): “Then we learn the paths. Or we cut them out.”

The campfires smear circles of light across faces drawn tight with exhaustion and anger. Tomorrow will be about ambushes, retaliation, and who can turn chaos into control. One major player is gone. The game tilts.