Clewdo : an EF hunting event

Hello everyone.

Welcome to the most mysterious event ever created on EF. Welcome to Clewdo.

Clewdo is a mix between regular EF games and a mystery game like Clue.
I'll explain the story behind the game and the rules for those of you who want to enter.
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Someone broke into EF server and escaped with compromising information. I have good and bad news.
The bad news is that we don't know who did it.
The good news is that we managed to narrow it down to 11 players.

This is where you come in. We need your help to find the true culprit among the possible targets.

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Who can participate?
Any player of EF who has more than 10 games combined over the various "fighting" modes on EF (meaning any modes except Love, Femdom, Interactive and Hentai JOI)

How to win the game?
By playing games with the targets. Each time you win a match with one of the target, you will earn a clue that will allow you to narrow down the suspect list until you find out who is the real culprit.
Once you think you know who is the target, you can challenge them to a "Target spotted" match.
If you guessed right and managed to win the game, congratulations you won.
But if you guessed wrong, or if you don't manage to beat your target then it's game over for you.
That's right, you only have one shot at a "target spotted" game so don't rush. At the same time, winner will be the one who find the target the fastest so it's up to you as to how to proceed. Will you wait until you're sure of your pic or will you try your luck?

You won't know yet the result of the game after your target spotted game. That way, if you challenge the wrong target, the other players won't know if you were right or not.

How to play games

The targets have been instructed to try and play at least a game a day. You can either DM them to set up a game or find them in the matchmaking. Each target is a different veteran of EF so each has their own way of playing, it will be up to you to find and defy them.

1) No amount of RP is required for your games. It can go on for 4 hours or be a fast paced game with little to no RP, it's entirely up to you and your target.

2) Sexual orientation of the target is priority. If your target is a straight male player and you play as a guy, it's up to you to change your character to fit their taste. You may ask them if they're comfortable switching gender or orientation for a game with you, but it's their choice that matters the most. After all, you're the one looking for info so you're the ones having to go the extra mile to get it :)

3) Clues are not dependant of the target. Which means you can play the same target twice and win and get two different clues. That allows you to get all the clues even if you don't manage to face everyone due to time zone difference or compatibility issues.
With that said, you are forbidden to defy the same target twice in a row. You need to play at least another target before being able to defy the same target again.

How much time do I have to find the culprit?

The culprit is laying low for the moment but they will probably manage to sell the info by the first week of September so this is your deadline to find and capture it.

Of course if enough hunters manage to correctly identify and defeat the culprit, then I will announce the end of the game early.

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I think that's all for the rules and how to play, but don't hesitate to send me messages directly or on the forum thread I'll make about the game if something isn't clear.
I will post below the list of targets and their description that will be linked to the clues you'll earn.

Good luck and may the odds be in your favour.

Winston is a renowned diplomat from EF City, whose calm voice and impeccable manners have eased tensions at summits most thought doomed to fail. His reputation stretches across continents, marked by a string of peace treaties that bear his signature, always written in a careful, deliberate hand.

He is never seen outside without his iconic red coat, tailored to perfection and lined with fine silk. His white gloves, spotless no matter the weather, speak to both precision and pride, while his black top hat, adorned with golden emblems, is a solemn nod to his days as a decorated officer. Many forget, or dare not ask, what campaigns those medals were earned in.

Tucked securely into his breast pocket, the polished silver chain of a pocketwatch gleams with each movement, catching the light as if measuring more than just time. Whispers among EF City's elite claim that this timepiece once belonged to his mentor, a general who fell under mysterious circumstances.

Reserved but never cold, Winston listens more than he speaks, and when he does, people stop to hear. His presence alone commands the room, not with force, but with the quiet weight of experience and conviction

Mr. Valentine is a rising diplomat from the windswept Eastern Plains, known as much for his artistry as his eloquence. Before stepping foot in the world of politics, he made his name painting sprawling, dreamlike murals that captured the hearts of commoners and nobles alike. It was through commissions and whispered praise in marble halls that he found himself brushing shoulders with dignitaries, eventually earning a place at the negotiation table.

He is instantly recognizable in any room. His bright white coat, tailored with soft lapels and discreet inner pockets for his sketchbooks, glimmers faintly beneath the chandeliers of embassy halls. A blue scarf, wrapped loosely around his neck, shifts with each of his sweeping gestures, like the strokes of a paintbrush across canvas.

Atop his head sits a red beret, speckled with faint traces of pigment, the inevitable result of his habit of tucking paintbrushes into its folds when inspiration strikes. His black leather gloves, supple and worn in all the right places, protect his hands not from cold, but from the rougher sides of travel. Nestled on his nose, a pair of delicate glasses with golden frames glint in the sunlight, often pushed up absentmindedly as he leans over his notebook to sketch out a sudden idea, be it for a painting or a peace accord.

Though some dismiss him as an eccentric, those who underestimate him soon learn his wit is as sharp as any blade, and his brushstrokes are matched only by the precision of his words.

No one truly knows where Romantic comes from, but the most common rumors have him come from the sapphire domes of the Eastern Courts. What’s certain is that wherever he walks, eyes follow. A figure of charm and mystery, Romantic is best known as a silver-tongued diplomat, capable of defusing wars with a single toast and starting them with a smile.

He moves between worlds: one day gracing the marbled halls of foreign embassies, the next seen slipping through the backdoors of merchant guilds. Rumors paint him as a spy, an infiltrator with as many secrets as names. His mastery of trade routes and pricing wars also made him a respected merchant, though few ever see his ledgers.

His attire is unmistakable, a flowing blue cape pinned by an ornate gold brooch in the shape of a phoenix, fluttering just behind his tailored crimson vest. He always wears a velvet red hat, its wide brim decorated with a single silver feather. In his left hand, he leans on an intricately carved cane, while a gleaming silver ring rests on his finger, rumored to contain a hidden vial of poison. Beneath the courtly airs and polished manners lies a man who has played all sides, and intends to win.

Once the pride of the royal court of Domina, Linlin served as an exceptional diplomat, known for brokering impossible peace between feuding river kingdoms. But after a sudden coup swept through her homeland, she was forced to flee under cover of night, her titles stripped and her name erased from official records. Yet she did not vanish. Instead, she reemerged in foreign courts, her silver tongue and unshakable poise now turned toward a singular goal: to reclaim her country not with war, but with influence.

Her presence is unmistakable. A long white coat, tailored to elegance, flares with every step, its lining a deep red, hinting at the loyalty she still bears. A black scarf coils at her throat while her flowing green cape, a symbol of her house, marks her in exile more than any wound ever could. Atop her head sits a structured blue hat, formal but expressive, a nod to her enduring dignity.

A pair of silver-rimmed glasses rest lightly on her nose, catching the light when she fixes someone with her unflinching gaze. A matching pair of earrings, once gifted by the deposed queen, still gleam proudly. Around her chest hangs an old amulet, its worn etching the sigil of her former station, dangerous to wear openly, but she refuses to forget who she is.

Though she no longer walks the marbled halls of her nation’s palace, Linlin is no less dangerous. Every banquet, every council meeting, every whispered conversation, each is a thread she weaves into her quiet tapestry of return.

Lady Sasha Oculon of the Dravellan Court is as sharp with her words as she once was with a saber. A former general turned diplomat, she now walks the gilded halls of foreign embassies with the same ironclad authority she once brought to battlefields. Raised among aristocracy, her every gesture exudes the refinement of nobility, tempered by the discipline of a militarist past.

Her imposing black coat, tailored with precision, sweeps just above her polished boots, lined with deep blue silk on the inside, a quiet luxury reserved for the members of her house. Accents of red velvet edge her collar and cuffs, a nod to her house colors, and a memory of the banners once flown in her name.

A narrow gold-banded cane, more ceremonial than necessary, taps rhythmically with her stride, though no one doubts she could wield it with purpose if needed. Crimson gloves cover her hands, though never her poise, and a broad hat with a dark plume shadows her steely gaze.

A delicate gold earring glints behind her dark hair, matched by an ornate brooch pinned at her breast, shaped like a half-opened eye, the emblem of House Oculon. Though she no longer wears a sword at her side, few would dare cross her. Lady Sasha is a master of tactics still, only now her battlefield is the negotiation table, and her victories are won without a single drop of blood.

Once the jewel of Virellan’s cultural salons, Gia now moves through foreign courts wrapped in layers of charm, color, and quiet defiance. A gifted artist and trained diplomat, she was exiled after speaking too freely during a political upheaval in her homeland. Though banished, Gia has never stopped painting, and never stopped plotting her return.

Her style remains unmistakable. A tall green felt hat, tilted just so, sits atop her hair, pinned in place with a delicate golden brooch shaped like a lily. Her long white scarf, embroidered with abstract red flourishes, wraps twice around her neck and trails like a brushstroke behind her as she walks. Matching white gloves, always pristine, conceal the faint ink and pigment stains on her fingers, marks of someone who still sketches between meetings.

The red and green of her skirt, tailored in flowing layers and held by a belt with a silver buckle, makes her stand out in even the most crowded galleries. A slender pocket watch, its case engraved with birds in flight, is chained at her hip—she claims it once belonged to the patron who first discovered her talent, though she never says what became of him.

Her left ear bears a single gold earring, shaped like a painter’s palette, and her gaze carries both warmth and warning. Gia speaks in metaphors and smiles in riddles, but every word is deliberate. Her exile may have taken her home, but it did not take her influence. Through charm, diplomacy, and canvas, she intends to paint herself back into history, on her own terms.

Tanvir walks the line between wealth and war, a man of shifting allegiances and polished silence. Officially, he is a well-connected merchant, dealing in rare minerals and weapons-grade alloys, especially across disputed borders. Unofficially, those who matter know him as something else entirely: a ghost in the ranks of intelligence, a spy cloaked in civility and silence.

A sharp white coat, tailored to military precision, conceals reinforced seams and hidden compartments. The fabric whispers of old campaigns and newer betrayals. Beneath it, a deep navy-blue scarf is knotted tightly at his throat, its silken folds edged in silver thread, like the ceremonial trim of a uniform long since disavowed.

A low-crowned black hat, rimmed with subtle embroidery, casts a shadow over his face. His eyes are magnified by rectangular eyeglasses with silver filigree arms. His hands rarely rest; adjusting the heavy silver ring on his finger, or flicking open the lid of his steel pocket watch, its ticking a habit he’s never shaken since the academy.

An obsidian amulet, set in silver and worn under his shirt, rests close to his heart. It's said to come from the mountain tribes he once negotiated with, and possibly betrayed. Whether it's a token of guilt or a ward against vengeance, no one dares ask.

Tanvir speaks few words, but when he does, they're laced with calculated calm. He trades weapons with rebels and maps with generals. He smiles at nobles while charting their downfall. And though he plays the merchant, it’s the battlefield and the shadows that have shaped him, and the future he's quietly steering from behind the curtain.

Roby is a merchant of rare textiles and exotic pigments by trade, an artist by soul, and a diplomat by necessity; he traverses courts and markets with the same sweeping elegance that defines his brushstrokes.

His clothing is a masterpiece of deliberate contrast. A flowing black cape, lined in deep red silk, drapes dramatically over his shoulders, the fabric catching and shifting in the light with every poised movement. Beneath it, a green velvet tunic embroidered with threads of gold hugs his frame, the gleam subtle but unmistakable. Fine blue gloves, supple and ink-stained at the fingertips, hint at his continued devotion to his art, even in high society.

From each ear dangles a delicate gold earring, one shaped like a palette, the other like a tiny key, a quiet nod to the dual worlds he moves between: creation and commerce, truth and negotiation.

He speaks with the practiced ease of someone who has sold beauty to barons and smoothed ruffled feathers between feuding provinces. In gallery halls and merchant forums alike, his charm is as refined as his color sense, always knowing when to soften a scene, or sharpen it.

To some, Roby is merely a clever trader with a knack for aesthetics. To others, he’s a cultural envoy, stitching diplomacy into every thread and painting understanding between rivals. But in truth, Roby is a bridge, between nations, between disciplines, between appearances and intentions, woven with care and always draped in the finest colors.

Lady Jodie walks with the precision of a commander and the grace of inherited power. A scion of one of the oldest noble houses of the northern coast, she carries the legacy of aristocracy and battlefield tact alike, her every step a quiet declaration of control. Though now a diplomat, her former role as a general is never far behind, etched into the lines of her posture, the sharpness of her gaze, and the authority in her tone.

Her wardrobe is a regal testament to her station: a tailored white coat, crisp and formal, lies beneath a heavy black cape fastened with a brooch shaped like a falcon in silver and gold. The cape sways only when she permits it, the movement subtle, disciplined. Slim blue gloves conceal hands trained to hold both sword and pen, and her cane, topped with an eagle's head of polished silver, is more than decorative, it’s the symbolic standard of her rank and past command.

A wide-brimmed red hat, adorned with a dark feather and a golden crest, shades her eyes, though those behind her tinted spectacles know better than to think anything escapes her sight. A single earring, forged in the likeness of a coiled serpent, glints beneath her red hair: a reminder, perhaps, that even diplomacy has fangs when needed.

Though removed from active command, Jodie’s presence remains unmistakably martial. Every diplomatic meeting feels like a formal campaign when she enters, her words measured like troop movements, her silences loaded like cannons. But she does not threaten, she assures. She reminds rulers and rebels alike that peace, when backed by power and poise, is often more formidable than war.

In ballrooms and war rooms, Lady Jodie is the same: deliberate, unflinching, and impossible to ignore. A noblewoman tempered by battle, and a soldier refined by court.

Few know Case's true name. Fewer still know the full story behind the coup that exiled him. Once a decorated strategist and statesman in the western isles, Case had been everything, militarist, diplomat, and spymaster, until his own government turned on him. Official records claim treason. Case claims survival.

Now moving through foreign courts and smoky parlors under a different banner, Case wears exile like a second skin, elegant, discreet, and dangerous. His black cape, worn over a dark green coat, conceals hidden compartments and old scars alike. A white silk scarf, wrapped just loosely enough to suggest indifference, hides the telltale mark of the blade meant to silence him. Around his neck, a silver amulet, old and tarnished, rests close to his chest, it is said to contain a cipher key that once unlocked a kingdom's secrets.

His red and gold hat, a wide, soft-brimmed piece with a feather tucked in the band, draws the eye just enough to let his gloved hands work unnoticed. The gold-plated watch at his hip never ticks; it’s a hidden communicator. The man wears layers not for warmth but to mask weapons, messages, and the many faces he must adopt.

Case speaks with the elegance of a noble-born and the precision of a field general, but his real strength lies in what he doesn’t say. He listens. He calculates. He remembers. In the flicker of candlelight or the glare of diplomatic spotlight, he’s always watching, and when he leans close to whisper advice into a ruler’s ear, one forgets that this same voice once ordered silent coups and orchestrated vanishing acts that never made the papers.
He says he only wants to return home. But the way his hand rests on the hilt beneath his cape suggests otherwise.

Lady Dusk became a well-known figure around the world thanks to her stellar efforts in bringing the incessant wars in the far west to an end.
The only daughter of a minor count in the Westshire, she shocked the realm by rising through the ranks at lightning speed, eventually becoming the youngest general in the country’s history. Her brilliance on the battlefield earned her the reputation of a tactical prodigy, though her most legendary feat—the capture of the Bastille fortress in mere hours and entirely alone, remains shrouded in mystery. To this day, no record, no report, and no survivors want to explain exactly how she did it.

Since that day, her striking presence has become a fixture at high society galas and diplomatic summits. Her black and red scarf, emblazoned with the crest of House Dusk, is instantly recognizable. Paired with her emerald-green beret, adorned with an array of silver military medals, and her ever-present cane, she cuts a figure that commands both awe and caution. The sharp tap of that cane on marble floors is enough to silence entire rooms.

Her demeanor is poised, her speech elegant, yet there is a coldness in her silver-eyed gaze that reminds all that beneath the silk gloves and polished medals lies a woman forged by war. The silver watch on her wrist, delicate but precise, and the gold-trimmed earrings she wears with subtle pride are said to have been personal gifts from the King of the West himself, tokens of gratitude or perhaps repayment for favors whispered about but never confirmed