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[Burnt Pies]

I don't think I'm in for this one. My lack of money usable on the internet has somewhat scuppered my game purchasing plans.

[Il Palazzo]

I see. Some other time, maybe.

Well, then. What do we do? Do we stick to the map at hand(~20ish provinces per player now), or do we use the one slMagnvox proposed earlier?

[Lorak]

I like a tight map, but I know a lot of people don't, so I'm cool either way.

[Il Palazzo]

I'm ok with both as well. The Six Lands map has ~15 provinces per player, so it's not a big difference, while being a wraparound, which is nicely conductive to backstabbity coexistence.
Middle Earth, on the other hand, is full of chokepoints, and fluff-enabled.

[Kebooo]

I'd prefer Middle Earth.

[slMagnvox]

Pretender sent

[E. Albright]

Pretender sent. The longer all'y'all take tho', the more and more likely I'll send another, and another, and another...

(Stop me, before I waffle again!)

[Il Palazzo]

We can start as soon as Lorak is ready.

I've been reading about Marverni a bit. The druids look scary.

[Lorak]

Sorry I took so long.  Pretender sent.  Just hope that was the right one.  <_<

[Il Palazzo]

O.K., it has begun!

Check if everything is fine with your choices, so that we can quickly restart the whole thing if needed be.

I think I'll set the hosting period to 48h, so that there's enough time to leisurely write down some fluff every now and then.(and be sure to introduce your pretender!)

(damn, I was hoping I'd start in Shire)

[Ignus]

There is something abroad.

Mothers hold their children close. Young maids are led to distraction and shame at the stirring in their loins. The men folk have started to spend longer away from home, better pleased amongst the forests and the hills chasing game. None speak of the music echoing through the valleys, caught in snatches of fiddle and drum on a breeze heavy with sex and cinnamon. Around the midnight fires those set to watch to the mountains talk. They say: The years of summer are at a close, the lords of Caer Hafod are restless. The Horned Prince is returned, and with him the age of revelry has begun. Gods spare us.


[Lock up your daughters, Pangaea has submitted its turn! Everything seems ok here, and 48 hours sounds good for turns.]

[E. Albright]

Conn mac Cumhaill gazed down from the narrow window of his council room at the market bustling in the bailey below. Behind him, he could hear the crackle of the the druids' fire, and their faint whispers. He did not know what they were talking about, nor did he care. They claimed the fires told of change. Of glory. When he replied that he was old, and care little for glory, the druids claimed they spoke too of danger, and death. War without end. The Lord of Near and Far had spoken, they said, and the High King must heed him or the tribes of Marverni would be scattered and enslaved.

Conn glanced back at the huddled druids, then down to his subjects below him. They were not a warlike people, and had not been since his grandfather's time. The old warrior had united first the clans of the Marverni, and then brought the other four major tribes under their rule. Where there had once been fierce warriors there were now mostly craftsmen. But if the Lord had spoken, they must reclaim their savage ancestry. Torcmór could not be denied. The High King might rule the craftsmen, the warriors, the bards, and even the shifty druids, but he was a pious man and would not defy the Master of Carnutes. If Torcmór ordered the forges of his people to forge swords and axes, they would. Conn would not defy a god.

Troubled as he was by what these conniving priests told him must be done, the High King knew he was only stalling. He turned from the window, and strode back to the circle around the fire. Catching the gaze of the youngest of the druids, the one they had chosen as their spokesman, he spoke strong and clearly. "Your augury has shown the Lord's will. The tribes will prepare for war. I shall call for my sons, and they will march forth before the moon next waxes, druid." The tall figure gazed back with the dull gray eyes of a purebred Eponi, and responded in a soft, sibilant voice. "No need for all your heirs to risk their lives, my liege. Send forth the youngest, and I shall personally guard him from all harm. Let the others stay and prepare the land for war." When his sons later asked him why only Roc would be leading the tribesmen to war, Conn could never quite remember what had convinced him to accept the archdruid's counsel...

[Lorak]

I feel like I made the wrong choice in my pretender design. 

Oh well, working on my turn, will try to get some fluff in.

[Il Palazzo]

I feel like I made the wrong choice in my pretender design. 

The game hasn't really started yet, so we can easily roll back to the pretender submission part.

[Kebooo]

The candles danced back and forth in the dimly lit cellar.  Here, gathered in secret, were The First, as they called themselves.  The first to dare to summon PalazzoDiesThisTime.

"The hour is not yet upon us." hissed Ophis toward the others. 

"Soon, brother, our patience will be rewarded.  Do not fret." replied Nurbis.  A sickening, malevolent grin spread across his charred face.

And from the fiery depths of a place long forgotten, the object of their worship began to move for the first time since the beginning of all things.