Shadowbound
Incorrugible
- Joined
- Mar 4, 2007
- Messages
- 4,078
Signed,
A. Rostovsky of the Foreign Directorate
A. Rostovsky of the Foreign Directorate
December World - game thread
- Thread starter Ahigin
- Start date
tobiisagoodboy
Prince
Italy hereby support this treaty , even if we are no signatory , we will guarantee the proper enforcement of it.
As some of you attending the Discord chat may already know, I'm about to launch a supporting mini-game for December World, covering heroic adventures that have nothing to do with geopolitics.
The game will be known as December World - Untold Escapades.
Here's the Ruleset. I'll start the mini-game soon.
P.S. And here are the stats.
The game will be known as December World - Untold Escapades.
Here's the Ruleset. I'll start the mini-game soon.
P.S. And here are the stats.
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SouthernKing
crickety cricket
To: The Royal Commonwealth of Great Britain
Salaamu'lekum,
Considering the current global situation, it has come to our attention that you are no longer capable of properly administering your enclaves along the Maghrebi coast. With that in mind, we ask that you cede their administration to the royal authority of the Sultan, effective immediately. We can guarantee that British nationals and British interests will be protected with the fullest assurances of Maghrebi laws.
We have every desire to avoid unnecessary bloodshed in this matter, and we trust that you believe the same, for it would be terribly regrettable if Britain were to make the wrong decision.
Salaamu'lekum,
Considering the current global situation, it has come to our attention that you are no longer capable of properly administering your enclaves along the Maghrebi coast. With that in mind, we ask that you cede their administration to the royal authority of the Sultan, effective immediately. We can guarantee that British nationals and British interests will be protected with the fullest assurances of Maghrebi laws.
We have every desire to avoid unnecessary bloodshed in this matter, and we trust that you believe the same, for it would be terribly regrettable if Britain were to make the wrong decision.
From British Royal Commonwealth
To Maghreb
We are quite capable of administering the Barbary Coast cities and thus have not a slightest idea what you mean. That is, unless we assume you simply threaten us with war, in which case we might be inclined to let you fight it out. After all, it saves us time and money on redeploying the troops that have just erased Liberia from the world map.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
From NGF
To Maghreb and BRC
Warfare in East Atlantic and so close to vital trade routes of the Mediterranean is intolerable to the North German Federation.
We invite representatives of both nations to discuss an equitable and peaceful arrangement with regards to the British North African ports without resorting to threats of war and violence.
To Maghreb and BRC
Warfare in East Atlantic and so close to vital trade routes of the Mediterranean is intolerable to the North German Federation.
We invite representatives of both nations to discuss an equitable and peaceful arrangement with regards to the British North African ports without resorting to threats of war and violence.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Songbirds
Asset 8891 could shoot, clack, solve puzzles, track a villain, and collect clues better and faster than any in the world. Asset 8891 AKA AL’s particular talents had little value to most of the old folks still meandering about like a cow to a pond, but few of the newer folks appreciated her talents very much.
Not many of them made a fuss when she barged into the officer’s lounge at BND branch office one night, newsboy cap pulled down and loose-fitting patchwork jacket fluttering in the airflow. Immediately, most of them rose from their seats and walked out the door. Whenever and wherever AL appeared, they saw and heard things that they really shouldn’t. Thirty seconds later, the room was clear except for the cigarette smoke and the Songbird emerged from behind the counter of the lounge, hands akimbo and back hunched.
“Damn it, girl,” the Songbird said. “You aren’t supposed to be here, how the hell did you get in here?”
“The vents, it was easy,” the girl signs back. The infuriating girl was fully capable of speaking, she simply seemed to never bother. She dropped her tools—a screwdriver and a pair of magnets—onto the lounge’s counter and sat on a stool. “Can you get me a glass of milk?” she signs.
“No!” the Songbird cries out, then drops to a quiet hiss of a whisper. “And you have been briefed as to what we are doing tonight, right?”
She flashes an OK sign. “Stealing millions from ourselves. Seemed kinda stupid and overcomplicated,” she signs. “It’s perfect.” The Songbird winces and glances out the window. In the distance is the Golem: a monstrosity of gears and steam churning in the distance. Its inventors boasted that it was so complex and sophisticated that it would be impossible to clack. Asset 8891 would make fools of them all tonight.
“Arrogance before fall,” he mutters.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
The little girl wears a blue newsboy cap that is too large for her. Her hair is short, but greasy and matted like a used mop. Her patched brown coat, also too large for her, have sleeves cut and tied around her arms in a mostly failed attempt to control its size. Her pants are full of holes and rips.
In front of her is the Songbird—tall and terrible. The plague doctor’s mask is tiled sideways as the agent assess the curious girl blocking his path. In one hand he grips onto a body of a promising child, bundled up and drugged for use in the great project. Wind gushes forth here on the rooftops, so close to the sea. Dust and salt and vapor from the waves washes over them both. She grips onto her hat. His cloak bellows wildly. Neither of them moves. The Songbird cannot stay, for soon, the children will awaken and they will question where their Poet disappeared to. He still does not move, for the little girl blocks his path. Behind her is the zipline—his preferred avenue of escape.
The girl doesn’t scream. Doesn’t raise the alarm. She stares, and the Songbird stares back. “Move aside, little girl,” the agent says eventually. “I won’t hurt you, just don’t tell anyone about what you’ve seen.”
She doesn’t move an inch from where she stands. She points to the Songbird’s subject and shakes her head. “Girl, if you don’t move,” the Songbird growls. “I’ll toss you from this roof, and you’ll—” he stops when the girl points at herself and nods. “You… want me to take you instead?”
She nods.
Songbird laughs. A mute little girl, asking to be taken instead of her friend. It’s a painful kind of laugh—a mix of absurdity and shame. “You must be joking,” he says suddenly. “You don’t know who and what you are messing with, kid. Move aside, or…”
He stops.
On her outreached hand sits a small automaton of whirring gears scrap metal sheets, and blinking lights. Its photoreceptors blink on and off as it focuses on the Songbird and waves a little claw at the towering agent. “Ah,” the Songbird says. “Well, perhaps there is something we can discuss after all.”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Control Room, Golem of Prague.
The Songbird pores through sheet after sheets of Ticker Ledger being printed by the Machine, mostly to pass the time. The Asset pores through the schematics of the Machine. The agent gave up trying to make sense of the damned thing after a few minute’s glance and a piercing headache. The asset does not seem affected.
The inside man stands at the control console, sweating bullets as he sees the agent and the asset at the heart of the machine.
“What’s that girl doing here?” the inside man asks. He is an aging man with a receding hairline and a handlebar moustache. One doth think he tries too much to look respectable. No wonder—the Clockwork Council helped the man pad his resume when he applied for work in the Machine.
The Loeb family wanted nothing but the best technicians to operate the Golem, and the Federation was all too happy to provide. It was completely and utterly unnecessary. Modern machine was so advanced and complicated in all its failsafes, user interfaces, and conveniences that even a child could learn how to operate them. Now fooling them—that took talent.
“None of your business, do you want to keep your damned job or not?” the Songbird said dismissively. The technician winces. The old man considers what would happen if he declined the job now. The word that the Federation overlooked a man padding his resume would leak. The Federation would be scandalized for a day or two, week if somebody important enough cared. Then everyone, including the Loeb family, would forget that it happened and move on with their lives. He would lose his job.
“Fine, but I don’t want to be blamed if anything goes wrong,” he says pathetically. The asset raises one of her eyebrow and gesticulates.
“What’s she doing?”
“She said if you do your job, and it’s a simple job, nothing would go wrong,” the Songbird translates. “She’s the expert, so I wouldn’t worry.” He returns to the Ticker Ledger and smirks. “Hey, did you know that the mayor paid 3000 marks to—”
“She’s the expert?!” the technician exclaims. The Songbird stops to glare at the technician. “Yeah, she is,” the agent says. “Don’t interrupt me, and don’t ask.”
“I’m not sure what you think this Machine is!” the technician continues to ask. “A little girl can’t pull off what needs to be done to fool it, it’s impossible!”
“Are you saying that women are less capable than men?” the Songbird says sarcastically. “I didn’t take you to be a reactionary.”
“There is a difference between a woman and a girl, sir! You don’t expect a little boy to be capable of planning a war either.” AL kicks at a vent, sending clanging echoes throughout the control room. “What’s she doing now?”
She gesticulates back. “Work, leaving now,” the Songbird translates. He returns to poring over the Ticker Ledger. Another kick from the asset, and the vent cover comes loose. “You can’t go in there, it’s unsafe!” the technician protests, but the asset is already clambering into the tight passageways.
“She’s fine, she’s trained under worse,” the Songbird mutters as he pores through the tiny items on the ledger. Portions of the machine’s computing power is currently dedicated to handling the massive amount of transactions transfers happening in Prague and Berlin, down to the third decimal point. The machine noted in special red ink whenever it judged that an error has been made—perhaps the numbers printed did not match the totals, or entries looked very much like duplicates.
The Ticker Ledger continued to spool out of the machine. It was much longer than the norm. Flurry of redevelopment effort across the Federation saw to that. Each individual housing unit constructed, each individual factory subsidized, and each lamp posts and tree seedling purchased had an entry in this massive ledger.
“Does anyone actually read this stuff?” the Songbird asked.
“Only if there’s an investigation.”
“Mmm.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” the technician says. “What’s a little girl going to do?”
“I have no idea,” the Songbird admitted.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Everything’s on fire. Mission is a total failure. The Songbird slips away from the inferno above and into the sewer systems. The accursed detective destroyed what she couldn’t sneak past. The rioting children had done a number on him and the other guards in the project.
It was fine. There were more cities and more projects ongoing than just this one city. He would simply need to retreat and—
The girl with the newsboy cap and tattered brown coat sits at the bottom of the ladder, holding a pistol aimed firmly on his rear end—as if she somehow knew all along that the inferno accidentally set by the fleeing children would have forced him into this particular sewer and was simply waiting for him to move into her line of sight.
She gives him a smile and a friendly wave.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The little girl (a bit taller now) swings from gear to gear, leaps from belt to belt. Here, at the heart of the machine, she listens to the song that metal grinding against metal makes and takes in the smell of burning rubber. There, she hears the note of a broken worm drive that must be replaced. Yonder, she hears the sound of a freshly replaced rubber belt roaring compared to its compatriots.
She might have spent a few moments time appreciating the songs, but she has a task. She kicks at a gear, and the part goes flying off into the distance. By itself it will not fell the machine—the are many fail safes and redundancies. A backup program will be executed and the repair crew will fix the issue in the morning. The Federation will need more time than that for its self-destructive program to fully execute. She reaches in beyond the cavity of the now missing gear—all whirring with enough force to shred her arms—and towards the emergency access terminal.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The Songbird smiles as he sees an entry regarding funding for the construction of a new housing unit in Berlin. He has seen that entry before a few pages back. The machine have not noticed the duplication—it does not mark the ledger in any way.
“Why are you smiling?” the technican asks nervously. Songbird casually leans around to face the mousy man. “Did you know that the mayor of Prague is apparently using city money to purchase properties in Berlin?”
“Oh… I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, me neither,” the Songbird replies. “I think we are done here. Thank you for your service, Herr Mann.”
“That’s not my name.”
“Yeah I don’t give a damn.”
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
A moment passes. Then two. “Well,” he says finally. “An undignified end, but if you want to kill me, you better do it quick.”
She considers this for a moment, then lowers her pistol. The Songbird immediately leaps down from the ladder, pinning the girl to the ground. The pistol slides harmlessly across the brick floor and plunges into the filthy waters. “You are going to regret not taking that chance, little girl,” he mocks.
“Couldn’t kill you,” she says. It’s a raspy, almost boyish voice that trembles from disuse. “Still need you.”
“What the hell? What the hell do you mean by that?”
“These lips are sealed.” And she speaks no more.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Herman Vogel (if that really is his name) lights a cigar outside the Analytical Machine. The little girl drops from above in front of him. “You did what you came for, didn’t you?” the agent asks. AL nods.
The Songbird drops the lit match onto the ground and stomps on it. “Well then, let’s get the hell out of here.” She leads the way. “Hang on, could I ask you a question?”
She stops to look at Vogel. She tilts her head to motion the man to continue. “Why did you have to get into the machine itself? Couldn’t you have sent in one of your gizmos or messed with the exterior panels?” The girl sighs and shakes her head.
“Had to be sure,” she signs. “Best way to change a machine is from within. You gave me a way inside,” she says.
“Uh huh, is that for the Golem, or for something else?” She speaks no more as she walks off, humming a strange and haunting little song.
Asset 8891 could shoot, clack, solve puzzles, track a villain, and collect clues better and faster than any in the world. Asset 8891 AKA AL’s particular talents had little value to most of the old folks still meandering about like a cow to a pond, but few of the newer folks appreciated her talents very much.
Not many of them made a fuss when she barged into the officer’s lounge at BND branch office one night, newsboy cap pulled down and loose-fitting patchwork jacket fluttering in the airflow. Immediately, most of them rose from their seats and walked out the door. Whenever and wherever AL appeared, they saw and heard things that they really shouldn’t. Thirty seconds later, the room was clear except for the cigarette smoke and the Songbird emerged from behind the counter of the lounge, hands akimbo and back hunched.
“Damn it, girl,” the Songbird said. “You aren’t supposed to be here, how the hell did you get in here?”
“The vents, it was easy,” the girl signs back. The infuriating girl was fully capable of speaking, she simply seemed to never bother. She dropped her tools—a screwdriver and a pair of magnets—onto the lounge’s counter and sat on a stool. “Can you get me a glass of milk?” she signs.
“No!” the Songbird cries out, then drops to a quiet hiss of a whisper. “And you have been briefed as to what we are doing tonight, right?”
She flashes an OK sign. “Stealing millions from ourselves. Seemed kinda stupid and overcomplicated,” she signs. “It’s perfect.” The Songbird winces and glances out the window. In the distance is the Golem: a monstrosity of gears and steam churning in the distance. Its inventors boasted that it was so complex and sophisticated that it would be impossible to clack. Asset 8891 would make fools of them all tonight.
“Arrogance before fall,” he mutters.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
The little girl wears a blue newsboy cap that is too large for her. Her hair is short, but greasy and matted like a used mop. Her patched brown coat, also too large for her, have sleeves cut and tied around her arms in a mostly failed attempt to control its size. Her pants are full of holes and rips.
In front of her is the Songbird—tall and terrible. The plague doctor’s mask is tiled sideways as the agent assess the curious girl blocking his path. In one hand he grips onto a body of a promising child, bundled up and drugged for use in the great project. Wind gushes forth here on the rooftops, so close to the sea. Dust and salt and vapor from the waves washes over them both. She grips onto her hat. His cloak bellows wildly. Neither of them moves. The Songbird cannot stay, for soon, the children will awaken and they will question where their Poet disappeared to. He still does not move, for the little girl blocks his path. Behind her is the zipline—his preferred avenue of escape.
The girl doesn’t scream. Doesn’t raise the alarm. She stares, and the Songbird stares back. “Move aside, little girl,” the agent says eventually. “I won’t hurt you, just don’t tell anyone about what you’ve seen.”
She doesn’t move an inch from where she stands. She points to the Songbird’s subject and shakes her head. “Girl, if you don’t move,” the Songbird growls. “I’ll toss you from this roof, and you’ll—” he stops when the girl points at herself and nods. “You… want me to take you instead?”
She nods.
Songbird laughs. A mute little girl, asking to be taken instead of her friend. It’s a painful kind of laugh—a mix of absurdity and shame. “You must be joking,” he says suddenly. “You don’t know who and what you are messing with, kid. Move aside, or…”
He stops.
On her outreached hand sits a small automaton of whirring gears scrap metal sheets, and blinking lights. Its photoreceptors blink on and off as it focuses on the Songbird and waves a little claw at the towering agent. “Ah,” the Songbird says. “Well, perhaps there is something we can discuss after all.”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Control Room, Golem of Prague.
The Songbird pores through sheet after sheets of Ticker Ledger being printed by the Machine, mostly to pass the time. The Asset pores through the schematics of the Machine. The agent gave up trying to make sense of the damned thing after a few minute’s glance and a piercing headache. The asset does not seem affected.
The inside man stands at the control console, sweating bullets as he sees the agent and the asset at the heart of the machine.
“What’s that girl doing here?” the inside man asks. He is an aging man with a receding hairline and a handlebar moustache. One doth think he tries too much to look respectable. No wonder—the Clockwork Council helped the man pad his resume when he applied for work in the Machine.
The Loeb family wanted nothing but the best technicians to operate the Golem, and the Federation was all too happy to provide. It was completely and utterly unnecessary. Modern machine was so advanced and complicated in all its failsafes, user interfaces, and conveniences that even a child could learn how to operate them. Now fooling them—that took talent.
“None of your business, do you want to keep your damned job or not?” the Songbird said dismissively. The technician winces. The old man considers what would happen if he declined the job now. The word that the Federation overlooked a man padding his resume would leak. The Federation would be scandalized for a day or two, week if somebody important enough cared. Then everyone, including the Loeb family, would forget that it happened and move on with their lives. He would lose his job.
“Fine, but I don’t want to be blamed if anything goes wrong,” he says pathetically. The asset raises one of her eyebrow and gesticulates.
“What’s she doing?”
“She said if you do your job, and it’s a simple job, nothing would go wrong,” the Songbird translates. “She’s the expert, so I wouldn’t worry.” He returns to the Ticker Ledger and smirks. “Hey, did you know that the mayor paid 3000 marks to—”
“She’s the expert?!” the technician exclaims. The Songbird stops to glare at the technician. “Yeah, she is,” the agent says. “Don’t interrupt me, and don’t ask.”
“I’m not sure what you think this Machine is!” the technician continues to ask. “A little girl can’t pull off what needs to be done to fool it, it’s impossible!”
“Are you saying that women are less capable than men?” the Songbird says sarcastically. “I didn’t take you to be a reactionary.”
“There is a difference between a woman and a girl, sir! You don’t expect a little boy to be capable of planning a war either.” AL kicks at a vent, sending clanging echoes throughout the control room. “What’s she doing now?”
She gesticulates back. “Work, leaving now,” the Songbird translates. He returns to poring over the Ticker Ledger. Another kick from the asset, and the vent cover comes loose. “You can’t go in there, it’s unsafe!” the technician protests, but the asset is already clambering into the tight passageways.
“She’s fine, she’s trained under worse,” the Songbird mutters as he pores through the tiny items on the ledger. Portions of the machine’s computing power is currently dedicated to handling the massive amount of transactions transfers happening in Prague and Berlin, down to the third decimal point. The machine noted in special red ink whenever it judged that an error has been made—perhaps the numbers printed did not match the totals, or entries looked very much like duplicates.
The Ticker Ledger continued to spool out of the machine. It was much longer than the norm. Flurry of redevelopment effort across the Federation saw to that. Each individual housing unit constructed, each individual factory subsidized, and each lamp posts and tree seedling purchased had an entry in this massive ledger.
“Does anyone actually read this stuff?” the Songbird asked.
“Only if there’s an investigation.”
“Mmm.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” the technician says. “What’s a little girl going to do?”
“I have no idea,” the Songbird admitted.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Everything’s on fire. Mission is a total failure. The Songbird slips away from the inferno above and into the sewer systems. The accursed detective destroyed what she couldn’t sneak past. The rioting children had done a number on him and the other guards in the project.
It was fine. There were more cities and more projects ongoing than just this one city. He would simply need to retreat and—
The girl with the newsboy cap and tattered brown coat sits at the bottom of the ladder, holding a pistol aimed firmly on his rear end—as if she somehow knew all along that the inferno accidentally set by the fleeing children would have forced him into this particular sewer and was simply waiting for him to move into her line of sight.
She gives him a smile and a friendly wave.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The little girl (a bit taller now) swings from gear to gear, leaps from belt to belt. Here, at the heart of the machine, she listens to the song that metal grinding against metal makes and takes in the smell of burning rubber. There, she hears the note of a broken worm drive that must be replaced. Yonder, she hears the sound of a freshly replaced rubber belt roaring compared to its compatriots.
She might have spent a few moments time appreciating the songs, but she has a task. She kicks at a gear, and the part goes flying off into the distance. By itself it will not fell the machine—the are many fail safes and redundancies. A backup program will be executed and the repair crew will fix the issue in the morning. The Federation will need more time than that for its self-destructive program to fully execute. She reaches in beyond the cavity of the now missing gear—all whirring with enough force to shred her arms—and towards the emergency access terminal.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
The Songbird smiles as he sees an entry regarding funding for the construction of a new housing unit in Berlin. He has seen that entry before a few pages back. The machine have not noticed the duplication—it does not mark the ledger in any way.
“Why are you smiling?” the technican asks nervously. Songbird casually leans around to face the mousy man. “Did you know that the mayor of Prague is apparently using city money to purchase properties in Berlin?”
“Oh… I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, me neither,” the Songbird replies. “I think we are done here. Thank you for your service, Herr Mann.”
“That’s not my name.”
“Yeah I don’t give a damn.”
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
A moment passes. Then two. “Well,” he says finally. “An undignified end, but if you want to kill me, you better do it quick.”
She considers this for a moment, then lowers her pistol. The Songbird immediately leaps down from the ladder, pinning the girl to the ground. The pistol slides harmlessly across the brick floor and plunges into the filthy waters. “You are going to regret not taking that chance, little girl,” he mocks.
“Couldn’t kill you,” she says. It’s a raspy, almost boyish voice that trembles from disuse. “Still need you.”
“What the hell? What the hell do you mean by that?”
“These lips are sealed.” And she speaks no more.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Herman Vogel (if that really is his name) lights a cigar outside the Analytical Machine. The little girl drops from above in front of him. “You did what you came for, didn’t you?” the agent asks. AL nods.
The Songbird drops the lit match onto the ground and stomps on it. “Well then, let’s get the hell out of here.” She leads the way. “Hang on, could I ask you a question?”
She stops to look at Vogel. She tilts her head to motion the man to continue. “Why did you have to get into the machine itself? Couldn’t you have sent in one of your gizmos or messed with the exterior panels?” The girl sighs and shakes her head.
“Had to be sure,” she signs. “Best way to change a machine is from within. You gave me a way inside,” she says.
“Uh huh, is that for the Golem, or for something else?” She speaks no more as she walks off, humming a strange and haunting little song.
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Zappericus
Euro scumbag
Signed,
Minister of Foreign Affairs, Riyyad Fawzi
Terran Empress
Hornet
Ya know what, I'll rejoin as Gran Paraguay
Paz y Justicia!
Paz y Justicia!
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Treaty of Frankfurt
Recognizing the need for closer cooperation beyond simple economic means in case of resurgent armed aggression against the Fatherland, the two nations of the Fatherland hereby agree to the following obligations.
1. Two nations will agree to make military and civil assets available for the defense of the Fatherland as defined by current territories of NGF and Austro Bavaria
2. In case of an armed aggression against a member state, the other shall devote all available military and civil asset for the defense of the Fatherland.
3. The two nations will hereby agree to adopt a common foreign policy against the aggressor if the aggressor attempts armed invasion of the Fatherland.
Signed, Chancellor Rosenburg of the North German Federation.
Recognizing the need for closer cooperation beyond simple economic means in case of resurgent armed aggression against the Fatherland, the two nations of the Fatherland hereby agree to the following obligations.
1. Two nations will agree to make military and civil assets available for the defense of the Fatherland as defined by current territories of NGF and Austro Bavaria
2. In case of an armed aggression against a member state, the other shall devote all available military and civil asset for the defense of the Fatherland.
3. The two nations will hereby agree to adopt a common foreign policy against the aggressor if the aggressor attempts armed invasion of the Fatherland.
Signed, Chancellor Rosenburg of the North German Federation.
Signed, Foreign Councillor Count Franz Anton von Thun und Hohenstein
I'd like to remind all Decembrists that all non-military orders (including declarations of war or peace) are due in 3 days.
I'll be still accepting non-military orders after that point for another week, but with debuffs on action efficiency.
I'll be still accepting non-military orders after that point for another week, but with debuffs on action efficiency.
Hey Decembrists!
I've got a bit of a mess at work, so I grant everyone an extension for non-military orders till 8/15 10 pm CST. I won't have time to take a look at them before that.
Stragglers! It's your chance to catch up. Some of the people who forgot to submit their orders so far (off the top of my head): @J.K. Stockholme , @Terran Empress , @Masada , @SouthernKing , @Zappericus , @christopher_sni
I've got a bit of a mess at work, so I grant everyone an extension for non-military orders till 8/15 10 pm CST. I won't have time to take a look at them before that.
Stragglers! It's your chance to catch up. Some of the people who forgot to submit their orders so far (off the top of my head): @J.K. Stockholme , @Terran Empress , @Masada , @SouthernKing , @Zappericus , @christopher_sni
Hey fellow Decembrists!
I started the "mini"-game of heroic adventure in the DW setting here.
Since some of you may be tempted to join it this turn (and we're past the deadline for non-military orders), I'm giving everyone a right to make an addendum to their orders by dedicating 1 mission to joining an existing player-controlled organization (the Serpent's Garden) or 4 missions to creating your own.
Have fun!
I started the "mini"-game of heroic adventure in the DW setting here.
Since some of you may be tempted to join it this turn (and we're past the deadline for non-military orders), I'm giving everyone a right to make an addendum to their orders by dedicating 1 mission to joining an existing player-controlled organization (the Serpent's Garden) or 4 missions to creating your own.
Have fun!
JohannaK
Heroically Clueless
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Declassified Communique
Released to newspapers world wide.
Before the escalation of the Atlantic War to include Porto Brazil, Ambassador of the Free Boer Republic intercepted Foreign Minister Abeken of the Federation to make further demands of our promise of neutrality in their affairs in exchange for their promise to not meddle in North German shipping.
Noting our existing state of neutrality, the Foreign Minister thereupon refused to entreat the ambassador any further. The ambassador was dismissed and the Minister have made it clear that no further communication is forthcoming.
-Chancellor Rosenberg.
Released to newspapers world wide.
Before the escalation of the Atlantic War to include Porto Brazil, Ambassador of the Free Boer Republic intercepted Foreign Minister Abeken of the Federation to make further demands of our promise of neutrality in their affairs in exchange for their promise to not meddle in North German shipping.
Noting our existing state of neutrality, the Foreign Minister thereupon refused to entreat the ambassador any further. The ambassador was dismissed and the Minister have made it clear that no further communication is forthcoming.
-Chancellor Rosenberg.
- Joined
- Apr 4, 2010
- Messages
- 8,873
Joining as Britain. Please be patient with me as I learn the rules and the geopolitical situation!
JohannaK
Heroically Clueless
Ego te absolvo in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.
