Lycantyr is a Werewolf game that will not fit into one evening. Night falls when night actually falls. Debates run all day. And while you are at work, someone is planning your death.
Enter the villageYour role, what you saw last night, who told you: nothing is forbidden, and you decide what to keep quiet. Private side conversations are allowed. The one absolute rule is never to show your screen. And dying does not silence you: you keep talking until your faction and your role are revealed — without ever giving them away yourself, because you still play for your own.
Eight nights, seven days. In between, life goes on: you open the game on waking to find out who vanished, you plead your case at lunch, you pick your target before bed. Nobody waits their turn around a table — the village runs at your pace, and you at its.
The village Witch resurrects. The wolves' Witch paralyses. Same name, same card, two entirely different games. Uncovering a role is therefore never enough to expose anyone: you have to understand what they do with it.
A third faction, invisible to the other two. Every night its Leader sacrifices a victim on the altar — and all the while, the Cult converts. A villager handed two occult tokens switches sides without ever choosing to, and now plays against their own. By the time the village works it out, it is usually too late.
Five districts: the inn, the church, the town hall, the market, the mill. You cross paths there, you watch each other, you sacrifice. Knowing where someone spent the night is sometimes worth more than an accusation.
They run the debates: you go through them to take the floor. They receive the anonymous notes slipped by the Little Girl, and can pass a motion that changes the village rules mid-game. All that remains is working out who they really work for.
Lycantyr is and will remain free to play. Nothing on sale grants the slightest in-game advantage.