[Chief Rum]

It's always dangerous in Whitechapel, but the peril went on high after mob rule took over today.

Ringleaders and followers alike scanned those familiar faces, friends and foes, for that demonic killer responsible for last night's atrocity. Fingers are pointed and tempers flare--but no one seems to agree on anything.

Izulde attracts attention for a time. So does Barkeep. The crowd wavers from one end to the other as the sun draws close to setting and a final decision.

A late swerve of public opinion finally settles on Jonathon Ezarik. Faster than a torch in kerosene, a fire runs through the crowd, as they search for the notably quiet Jonathon.

Finally, a constable finds him huddled in a corner of an alley, hiding behind a discarded ale barrell. The constable drags him out into the open by his ear, his small frame kicking and screaming in pain.

The smallish waif can't be more than ten--and even a mob's high color can be cooled by the sight of a child, even a dirty one. Jonathon starts to cry as some of the more cold-hearted prepare the noose.

But the crowd is wavering still, and cries for mercy and good sense fill the air. "He is but a boy!" "He cannot have been strong enough to do what happened last night!"

Even the hardest hearts must eventually agree. Jonathon Ezarik is but an orphan, and urchin. He could not have done this. But they know he cannot remain in Whitechapel.

The constable escorts Jonathon aka The Artful Dodger to an orphanage outside of the district, never to return to Whitechapel. Jonathon Ezarik is not dead--but he is out of the game.

The crowd grumbles at choosing so young a target, and wanders away, swearing to do better tomorrow. Some eye the wandering clouds in the twilight sky, and surmise there could be rain tonight.

DAY ONE ENDS. NIGHT ONE BEGINS. NIGHT ACTIONS ARE DUE BY 7 A.M. EST/4 A.M. PDT