NES2 V - The Great Game.
- Thread starter das
- Start date
- Status
Reno
The Studio Ghibli Fanatic
*Starts to get annoyed by the constant UU advertising*
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
So Reno whats the plan now? you going to take a rebel group and spread republicanism to all corners of the globe? 
das
Regeneration In Process
Well, maybe. I'd preffer it if NK sends me a general line to follow here, though...
Are you sure that you want to anger... THE UU?!
Btw, from Thlayli's previous diplomacy:
Reno
The Studio Ghibli Fanatic
Wait and see, it might be quiet for a while. But i'll still be here.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
NOOO! *immediately erases all signs of republicanism*
Sorry, UU advertisement was part of the alliance deal.
At any rate, working on that story now.
Sorry, UU advertisement was part of the alliance deal.
At any rate, working on that story now.
Reno
The Studio Ghibli Fanatic
The dead quiet night time streets of Faetano, San Marino, not a single soul out on the streets at that time, save for a lonely man dressed in quite shabby clothes, who looked as if he was running from someone. His face was covered with soaking sweat, and he was constantly looking all around himself. Although seemingly harmless, on closer look, the farmer looked very much out of place on that street.
"I wonder if they are still looking...?" - The man thought to himself as he ran further looking for a safe place to hide from his pursuers.
He thought that he saw some people down the street coming his way, and quickly swop into a nearby alley. There he though was met by someone else, who was looking for him, at first he thought them to have been French but that feeling soon passed. Two strange looking men, the other strange man he recognized as an Italian officer serving aboard the battleship Raffaello Sanzio, the other man, who was about a head taller then the naval officer, he had never seen.
"Umberto, good to see your still doing well for yourself." - The officer said in a cold tone
"You have got to help me, the French are after me!" - Umberto gasped
"Yet you are still alive. By the way, where have you hidden the last page of the document? - The officer replied.
"I've got them with me. Now, will you help me get out of country?" - Umberto was still looking around in case of the French army or his brothers forces. And reluctantly handed over a sealed envelope over to the officer. Having checked the envelope's contents, the officer put the envelope inside his coat, and pulled out a gun.
"We've got what we came for. Sadly knowing what you know, you cannot be left alive"
A single shot broke the silence of San Marino.
"What now, sir?" - the bigger man asked the officer
"Let's head back to the coast and report back to the ship" - the officer replied as they walked away.
"I wonder if they are still looking...?" - The man thought to himself as he ran further looking for a safe place to hide from his pursuers.
He thought that he saw some people down the street coming his way, and quickly swop into a nearby alley. There he though was met by someone else, who was looking for him, at first he thought them to have been French but that feeling soon passed. Two strange looking men, the other strange man he recognized as an Italian officer serving aboard the battleship Raffaello Sanzio, the other man, who was about a head taller then the naval officer, he had never seen.
"Umberto, good to see your still doing well for yourself." - The officer said in a cold tone
"You have got to help me, the French are after me!" - Umberto gasped
"Yet you are still alive. By the way, where have you hidden the last page of the document? - The officer replied.
"I've got them with me. Now, will you help me get out of country?" - Umberto was still looking around in case of the French army or his brothers forces. And reluctantly handed over a sealed envelope over to the officer. Having checked the envelope's contents, the officer put the envelope inside his coat, and pulled out a gun.
"We've got what we came for. Sadly knowing what you know, you cannot be left alive"
A single shot broke the silence of San Marino.
"What now, sir?" - the bigger man asked the officer
"Let's head back to the coast and report back to the ship" - the officer replied as they walked away.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
From: Persia
To: Polarbearum
We regret to inform you that, despite our best efforts, Tarunist efforts to infiltrate into this NES have been successful. We are attempting to post a story in order to repair the rift in the fabric of reality.
Bandar-e 'Abbas. The Persian port city was temporary home to the surviving government officials, army officers, and Gray Turbans. Ardashir, who personally commanded the forces at the Shah’s Citadel, was at loath to leave his capitol, but several of the Islamic Council members imparted the need for him to get to a more defensible location. Shiraz was severely damaged, and if the Shah died…Persia would be nothing. The seven surviving members of the Islamic Council gathered in the Provincial Assembly, formerly a Federate governmental building.
Ardashir sat in the corner of the room. He had a small bandage around his left arm. An aide addressed him timidly.
“My lord, we are ready to begin.”
Turning his eyes to the great windows, the Shah of Persia looked at the long rows of Federate ships in the harbor. Their masts were numerous, and dock workers or marines unloaded cargo from the ships. A tear ran down the man’s cheek, as he thought of Dost Babrak, General Mustafa, and all the others that had died. There had been so much death. The great ships, sails all furled, sat at anchor. Soon they would go, to India or Britain. “They look like a forest of dead trees,” he thought. Seeing that the aide was still waiting for his response, he slowly nodded.
“Very well gentlemen. Ibrahim, it is good to see you alive. I never knew you were an excellent rider and swordsman.”
The bookish bureaucrat smiled sheepishly. “Keeping the nation’s finances intact isn’t my only talent, sire. I DID fight in the earlier Turkmen wars, once.”
“Ibrahim Al-Cartier, (the man’s name reflected his mixed French and Persian heritage) I hereby declare you head of the Ministry of Finance.”
“But Qalim, my lord?”
“Dead. For all his hatred of the Sunnis, he died defending the ethnic quarters in Isfahan. His sacrifice will be remembered.”
“What do we know of Quoyunlu, sire?”
“I am sorry, Ibrahim. He was sent to work on the agricultural reforms in Kalat.”
“Merciful Allah! He must have died on the border. He said it was always his wish to work with trees again. My lord…oh…” At this point the new Minister of Finance burst into tears.
General Malik, former teacher (now promoted) of the Cyrus and Darius Military Academy, stood, placing his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder.
“He was like a father to us all. His hands were the ones that placed the crown on Ardashir’s head. He would not have died without taking many Turkmeni scum with him. I am sure that he is now planting trees in Allah’s gardens.”
Ardashir spoke. “These times are trying for us all.”
“Especially you, Malik. Your family is Turkmeni.”
“I know where my loyalties lie. It was the greatest pain of my life to see my cadets slaughtered in front of my eyes. But grant me one thing, my Shah, let me swing the axe that cleaves through that devil spawn Karamurad’s neck!”
“Request granted. You shall kill him, Malik. But you’ll have to get a permit from the Torture Department.” As the muted chuckling of the clerics informed the befuddled general that there was no Torture Department, the oaken doors of the chamber crashed open, putting a dent in the expensive mahogany paneling installed by the Federates.
An incredibly bloody, tired, and quite disheveled General Mustafa walked into the room, gasping for breath.
“General Osman Mustafa, Supreme Commander of the Islamic Army Of Persia, reporting to serve the Shah!”
Ibrahim gasped. “They said you had died! That you were the last man to fall in Teheran! How could this be?”
Mustafa smiled. “I have some Kurdish friends, and they smuggled me through the lines. Yes, the same ones that sold the poisoned biscuits to the Turkmenis. I owe them my life. But I must submit my resignation, for absolutely failing the Shah in the line of duty.”
“Resignation not accepted, you are the best general in my army.”
“While technically I am the only general in your army, I accept. Allow me to redeem my failures in the Caspian by destroying the infidel!”
“Of course. What of Jeshua?”
“My lord, he died in my stead. The man led the garrison in Teheran University to the very end.”
“I am truly sorry. Many have died, thanks to the actions of the tyrant Karamurad. But never again. Today is the day when the advance begins. Today is the last day of retreats and repositioning. Today we start to crush that barbarian, once and for all. That man will suffer a thousand deaths in hell for what he has done to Persia. But in order to bring him to justice, Persia is in need of you all.”
The voices of the council were in unison. “AYE!”
Seeing Malik sitting at the table, Mustafa groaned. “By Mohammed’s ghost, if you made this idiot a general Persia really is in need.”
The men sat at the table well into the night, drafting plans and writing orders. By the time they were done, Persia had hope again.
To: Polarbearum
We regret to inform you that, despite our best efforts, Tarunist efforts to infiltrate into this NES have been successful. We are attempting to post a story in order to repair the rift in the fabric of reality.
Bandar-e 'Abbas. The Persian port city was temporary home to the surviving government officials, army officers, and Gray Turbans. Ardashir, who personally commanded the forces at the Shah’s Citadel, was at loath to leave his capitol, but several of the Islamic Council members imparted the need for him to get to a more defensible location. Shiraz was severely damaged, and if the Shah died…Persia would be nothing. The seven surviving members of the Islamic Council gathered in the Provincial Assembly, formerly a Federate governmental building.
Ardashir sat in the corner of the room. He had a small bandage around his left arm. An aide addressed him timidly.
“My lord, we are ready to begin.”
Turning his eyes to the great windows, the Shah of Persia looked at the long rows of Federate ships in the harbor. Their masts were numerous, and dock workers or marines unloaded cargo from the ships. A tear ran down the man’s cheek, as he thought of Dost Babrak, General Mustafa, and all the others that had died. There had been so much death. The great ships, sails all furled, sat at anchor. Soon they would go, to India or Britain. “They look like a forest of dead trees,” he thought. Seeing that the aide was still waiting for his response, he slowly nodded.
“Very well gentlemen. Ibrahim, it is good to see you alive. I never knew you were an excellent rider and swordsman.”
The bookish bureaucrat smiled sheepishly. “Keeping the nation’s finances intact isn’t my only talent, sire. I DID fight in the earlier Turkmen wars, once.”
“Ibrahim Al-Cartier, (the man’s name reflected his mixed French and Persian heritage) I hereby declare you head of the Ministry of Finance.”
“But Qalim, my lord?”
“Dead. For all his hatred of the Sunnis, he died defending the ethnic quarters in Isfahan. His sacrifice will be remembered.”
“What do we know of Quoyunlu, sire?”
“I am sorry, Ibrahim. He was sent to work on the agricultural reforms in Kalat.”
“Merciful Allah! He must have died on the border. He said it was always his wish to work with trees again. My lord…oh…” At this point the new Minister of Finance burst into tears.
General Malik, former teacher (now promoted) of the Cyrus and Darius Military Academy, stood, placing his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder.
“He was like a father to us all. His hands were the ones that placed the crown on Ardashir’s head. He would not have died without taking many Turkmeni scum with him. I am sure that he is now planting trees in Allah’s gardens.”
Ardashir spoke. “These times are trying for us all.”
“Especially you, Malik. Your family is Turkmeni.”
“I know where my loyalties lie. It was the greatest pain of my life to see my cadets slaughtered in front of my eyes. But grant me one thing, my Shah, let me swing the axe that cleaves through that devil spawn Karamurad’s neck!”
“Request granted. You shall kill him, Malik. But you’ll have to get a permit from the Torture Department.” As the muted chuckling of the clerics informed the befuddled general that there was no Torture Department, the oaken doors of the chamber crashed open, putting a dent in the expensive mahogany paneling installed by the Federates.
An incredibly bloody, tired, and quite disheveled General Mustafa walked into the room, gasping for breath.
“General Osman Mustafa, Supreme Commander of the Islamic Army Of Persia, reporting to serve the Shah!”
Ibrahim gasped. “They said you had died! That you were the last man to fall in Teheran! How could this be?”
Mustafa smiled. “I have some Kurdish friends, and they smuggled me through the lines. Yes, the same ones that sold the poisoned biscuits to the Turkmenis. I owe them my life. But I must submit my resignation, for absolutely failing the Shah in the line of duty.”
“Resignation not accepted, you are the best general in my army.”
“While technically I am the only general in your army, I accept. Allow me to redeem my failures in the Caspian by destroying the infidel!”
“Of course. What of Jeshua?”
“My lord, he died in my stead. The man led the garrison in Teheran University to the very end.”
“I am truly sorry. Many have died, thanks to the actions of the tyrant Karamurad. But never again. Today is the day when the advance begins. Today is the last day of retreats and repositioning. Today we start to crush that barbarian, once and for all. That man will suffer a thousand deaths in hell for what he has done to Persia. But in order to bring him to justice, Persia is in need of you all.”
The voices of the council were in unison. “AYE!”
Seeing Malik sitting at the table, Mustafa groaned. “By Mohammed’s ghost, if you made this idiot a general Persia really is in need.”
The men sat at the table well into the night, drafting plans and writing orders. By the time they were done, Persia had hope again.
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
OOC: What to do with Japan.... I have almost a million men *thoughtful look* I told you you had a guilty conscience sheep
The Meiji Emperor an incompetant fool???? GRRRRR
To Persia
From Qing China
While we do not oppose the execution of Turkmenistan's Khan, perhaps a exile would do better? Such as an island named St. Helena tending sheep?p) I am told by my advisors that the Muslim and Christian Faith view simple living as good for the soul.
To Cities, Provinces and etc still under Turkmen control
From Qing China
Surrender and peace and stability shall be maintained. Resist and you shall meet the fate of Wu Sangui! (not that they know...
)
To Japanese Rebels
From Qing China
Lay down your arms and you shall all be given the mercy of the Emperor of China. Resist, and you shall meet the fate of the Coxinga's descendents.
The Meiji Emperor an incompetant fool???? GRRRRR
To Persia
From Qing China
While we do not oppose the execution of Turkmenistan's Khan, perhaps a exile would do better? Such as an island named St. Helena tending sheep?
p) I am told by my advisors that the Muslim and Christian Faith view simple living as good for the soul. To Cities, Provinces and etc still under Turkmen control
From Qing China
Surrender and peace and stability shall be maintained. Resist and you shall meet the fate of Wu Sangui! (not that they know...
)To Japanese Rebels
From Qing China
Lay down your arms and you shall all be given the mercy of the Emperor of China. Resist, and you shall meet the fate of the Coxinga's descendents.
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
OOC: I hate doing posts two times in a roll but...
@das, my "secret" project wasn't continued as ordered.
To World
From Qing China
Any individuals attempting to smuggle supplies, weapons and etc into Japan will be summarily executed without trial. You have all been warned.
@das, my "secret" project wasn't continued as ordered.
To World
From Qing China
Any individuals attempting to smuggle supplies, weapons and etc into Japan will be summarily executed without trial. You have all been warned.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
To: Qing China
From: Persia
Karamurad has slaughtered many Persian citizens, and ransacked our capital. We would prefer if he stood trial for these crimes, (perhaps with 3 judges, one from each country) and was made to pay the punishment for them.
*secret*
We're also worried that he's going to destroy a lot of our cities before he is captured.
*secret*
From: Persia
Karamurad has slaughtered many Persian citizens, and ransacked our capital. We would prefer if he stood trial for these crimes, (perhaps with 3 judges, one from each country) and was made to pay the punishment for them.
*secret*
We're also worried that he's going to destroy a lot of our cities before he is captured.
*secret*
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Since the Federated Kingdoms is, in all fairness, a little too busy to do this, Persia would be honored if China drew up what it believes is a suitable map of partition for the area formerly known as Turkmenistan.
Reno
The Studio Ghibli Fanatic
OOC: Tarunist Atlanteans are a reaccuring theme of mine, you'd need more then a story to stop them.
Insane_Panda
Deity
A Curious Predicament
The army moved slowly, as if, quite literally it was on it's stomach. The mass of men, their faces and clothes worn from weeks of battle, shifted lethargically along the ancient Roman roads. Faces were no longer distinguishable, and instead came to vision a mass of blue and white, with the occasional smudge of red. Standards bearing the fleur-de-lys superimposed on the chest of a eagle waved slanted in the air, their carriers lacking the strength or will to hoist them up into their proper position. The sight was somewhat disenchanting, yet understandibly, the men were tired - and had recently finished several weeks of campaigning. The officers, lead by Generale Patrice MacMahon, a frenchman of irish descent, marched at the head of the column, flanked by numerous aids.
"Congradulations, Général." intoned M. Percival de Villipen, Imperial aide-de-camp to the Second Army, the Armée de l'italie. "You have achieved a victory, perhaps not stunning, but a victory it was, and you managed not to bankrupt us at the same time. His Imperial Majesty will be most pleased."
His tone was as haughty as ever as he complimented MacMahon in his usual manner of sarcastic understatement.
MacMahon, almost as tired as his men, though he would not admit it, replied rather in a rather unenthusiastic "Indeed". This was contrary to his nature. Usually the General would jokingly combat Percival's sardonic wit.
The aid, noticing the Général's less than happy mood, left the conversation at that, and adjusted his glasses, returning to an almost laughable pose atop his horse.
Meanwhile, MacMahon went over the past several weeks in his mind. So many deaths, he thought to himself. So many lives wasted. He had seen combat before, no doubt, but most of it had been in the colonies. They, he stated confidently in his mind, were savages, and needed proper punishment before they could be civilized by the grace of France. There was nothing wrong with civilizing a peoples, yet his recent actions in Europe had left a considerable mark on his psyche. What did he fight for, he wondered. Why did men think it neccessary to send thousands to their deaths for titles and land? Why were good Europeans destroying themselves as the world burned around them? He thought on these issues for quite some time, staring aimlessly at the road ahead. However, fearing his own train of thought, he quickly brought his attention to more urgent matters. Such questions were not for soldiers to ask.
Things seemed rather quiet along the road. The silence made him nervous.
"Louis, how much longer until nightfall."
Louis, a rather young officer of the Garde, replied "Some hours until then, Monsieur, we should reach camp before that time."
"Verywell." MacMahon replied.
The army continued on its path for quite some time afterwards as an endless rumble against the soft earth. The sun stood in a usual midday position, and its heat emphasised the tiredness of the soldiers.
"Le message pour le Général!Le message pour le Général!" cried a scout, rearing his horse in next to those of the officers.
He was quite filthy, his face and trousers splattered with mud, yet behind the mask of dirt one could see that he was quite young. Perhaps no older than 17.
"Umbertoist forces have been most stunningly defeated. All of France praises you.." His voice listed out the usual laudatory praise which MacMahon found himself constantly assaulted by.
"Enough, Enough" declared Louis, waving his hand in the air. "Get to the point, boy."
"Yes, sir." He paused.
"Umbertoists, though defeated, have raised one final force in an attempt to destroy his majesty's Grande Armée. That force lies just some distance over the hill. The Chasseurs, to which I belong, were attacked by a force of Italian cavalry. Our numbers were small, and so we fled. I wish to inform you of this threat, as they are headed in our direction, intent on capturing Turin."
Louis and Percival laughed together. "A rag tag force of Italians defeating us?" Louis jibed.
"We are not mere cavalry scouts, this is the Grande Armée, boy. Not get going before you are killed." He waved his hand arrogantly oncemore.
Percival, noting with pleasure the situation, was about to say something, yet was interupted by a sound which was at the same time familiar and horrifying.
The ground infront of them erupted in a pillar of smoke and dust. The unmistakeable hum of an artillery shell and the following explosion silenced them all. The standards stood perpendicular to the ground.
"Men at the ready! Form a line! Form a line!" Barked the Général. A signifier played his horn.
The men assembled quickly, the noise of combat quickly shaking them from their near inebriated state. This was the result of years of drilling, and weeks of combat. Pride filled the Général's heart before being eclisped with greater concerns.
The artillery fire stopped. Now was the time.
"Marchon!" He declared, his saber waving in the air.
And now the men, lead by MacMahon, surged forward, a wave of bodies and bayonets which consumed whatever lay infront of it. Quickly they overcame a small hill coming into full view of the Umbertoist forces. What they saw though, was not what they expected. Instead of finding angered Italians, what they found was both angered Italians and Germans fighting amongst each other. The Grey coats of the Holy Roman Empire's men stood out clearly against the green of Umberto's forces.
The war, it seemed, had not yet ended. Instead, it had only got more confusing.
The sons of France, determined, confident, and unaffected, charged forwards.
The army moved slowly, as if, quite literally it was on it's stomach. The mass of men, their faces and clothes worn from weeks of battle, shifted lethargically along the ancient Roman roads. Faces were no longer distinguishable, and instead came to vision a mass of blue and white, with the occasional smudge of red. Standards bearing the fleur-de-lys superimposed on the chest of a eagle waved slanted in the air, their carriers lacking the strength or will to hoist them up into their proper position. The sight was somewhat disenchanting, yet understandibly, the men were tired - and had recently finished several weeks of campaigning. The officers, lead by Generale Patrice MacMahon, a frenchman of irish descent, marched at the head of the column, flanked by numerous aids.
"Congradulations, Général." intoned M. Percival de Villipen, Imperial aide-de-camp to the Second Army, the Armée de l'italie. "You have achieved a victory, perhaps not stunning, but a victory it was, and you managed not to bankrupt us at the same time. His Imperial Majesty will be most pleased."
His tone was as haughty as ever as he complimented MacMahon in his usual manner of sarcastic understatement.
MacMahon, almost as tired as his men, though he would not admit it, replied rather in a rather unenthusiastic "Indeed". This was contrary to his nature. Usually the General would jokingly combat Percival's sardonic wit.
The aid, noticing the Général's less than happy mood, left the conversation at that, and adjusted his glasses, returning to an almost laughable pose atop his horse.
Meanwhile, MacMahon went over the past several weeks in his mind. So many deaths, he thought to himself. So many lives wasted. He had seen combat before, no doubt, but most of it had been in the colonies. They, he stated confidently in his mind, were savages, and needed proper punishment before they could be civilized by the grace of France. There was nothing wrong with civilizing a peoples, yet his recent actions in Europe had left a considerable mark on his psyche. What did he fight for, he wondered. Why did men think it neccessary to send thousands to their deaths for titles and land? Why were good Europeans destroying themselves as the world burned around them? He thought on these issues for quite some time, staring aimlessly at the road ahead. However, fearing his own train of thought, he quickly brought his attention to more urgent matters. Such questions were not for soldiers to ask.
Things seemed rather quiet along the road. The silence made him nervous.
"Louis, how much longer until nightfall."
Louis, a rather young officer of the Garde, replied "Some hours until then, Monsieur, we should reach camp before that time."
"Verywell." MacMahon replied.
The army continued on its path for quite some time afterwards as an endless rumble against the soft earth. The sun stood in a usual midday position, and its heat emphasised the tiredness of the soldiers.
"Le message pour le Général!Le message pour le Général!" cried a scout, rearing his horse in next to those of the officers.
He was quite filthy, his face and trousers splattered with mud, yet behind the mask of dirt one could see that he was quite young. Perhaps no older than 17.
"Umbertoist forces have been most stunningly defeated. All of France praises you.." His voice listed out the usual laudatory praise which MacMahon found himself constantly assaulted by.
"Enough, Enough" declared Louis, waving his hand in the air. "Get to the point, boy."
"Yes, sir." He paused.
"Umbertoists, though defeated, have raised one final force in an attempt to destroy his majesty's Grande Armée. That force lies just some distance over the hill. The Chasseurs, to which I belong, were attacked by a force of Italian cavalry. Our numbers were small, and so we fled. I wish to inform you of this threat, as they are headed in our direction, intent on capturing Turin."
Louis and Percival laughed together. "A rag tag force of Italians defeating us?" Louis jibed.
"We are not mere cavalry scouts, this is the Grande Armée, boy. Not get going before you are killed." He waved his hand arrogantly oncemore.
Percival, noting with pleasure the situation, was about to say something, yet was interupted by a sound which was at the same time familiar and horrifying.
The ground infront of them erupted in a pillar of smoke and dust. The unmistakeable hum of an artillery shell and the following explosion silenced them all. The standards stood perpendicular to the ground.
"Men at the ready! Form a line! Form a line!" Barked the Général. A signifier played his horn.
The men assembled quickly, the noise of combat quickly shaking them from their near inebriated state. This was the result of years of drilling, and weeks of combat. Pride filled the Général's heart before being eclisped with greater concerns.
The artillery fire stopped. Now was the time.
"Marchon!" He declared, his saber waving in the air.
And now the men, lead by MacMahon, surged forward, a wave of bodies and bayonets which consumed whatever lay infront of it. Quickly they overcame a small hill coming into full view of the Umbertoist forces. What they saw though, was not what they expected. Instead of finding angered Italians, what they found was both angered Italians and Germans fighting amongst each other. The Grey coats of the Holy Roman Empire's men stood out clearly against the green of Umberto's forces.
The war, it seemed, had not yet ended. Instead, it had only got more confusing.
The sons of France, determined, confident, and unaffected, charged forwards.
das
Regeneration In Process
OOC:
Sometimes I regret modding NES2 II...
IC:
From: Turkmen Cities
To: Qing China
Wa-what?
From: Andorra
To: Qing China
This is outrageous! We declare war!
Sometimes I regret modding NES2 II...
IC:
From: Turkmen Cities
To: Qing China
Wa-what?
From: Andorra
To: Qing China
This is outrageous! We declare war!
das
Regeneration In Process
That's what the Andorrans are counting on. Cunning people, they.
Reno
The Studio Ghibli Fanatic
Ouch, that seriously hurt.
But, it won't stop me from playing as the Tarunists anyway.
silver 2039
Deity
- Joined
- Jul 26, 2003
- Messages
- 16,208
To Persia
From Turkemistan
We surrender. Praise be to Jesus.
From Turkemistan
We surrender. Praise be to Jesus.
- Status
