La Corona del Precipizio

The Italian table rose, and as a nation united they approached the Queen's throne.

They were stopped by a man with iron eyes. "Monsieurs and Mademoiselles, I 'am afraid zat a royale wedding iz quite out of ze questione," said a French representative. His eyes showed no signs of sympathy, only the sheen of a guillotine blade. "It iz within all of oure best interestes that a Presidente be elected. Ai am afraid zat it iz most impossible for us to accept ze elevatione of anozer King." He spat on the ground to get the taste of the word out of his mouth.

The Italians looked to each other, smiles growing on their lips. It was common for the guilds to bicker, and while the French could give them a run for their money in raids it was clear that tonight was about finding a new ruler, not banging out another system of government.

"We are here to pick a new ruler. Someone to lead with Articuno," said Marchesa Torino. "If you don't have anyone to nominate then go back to your seats."

"Oiu have a president elect 'ere, who will serve us all justly and lead ze virgin perlimente of EUNOVR." A man stepped forward from the crowd of French representatives. He had humble bearing, yet a high chin and strong stance. The name above his head read Candidat à la Présidentielle Jean-Marc-Pierre-Gusteau.

"Who said anything about a president!"

Laughter and jeering from the Russian table drowned out Torino's words. "All of this means nothing if the Princess doesn't choose you!" called a woman with a fur coat and platinum blonde hair. She climbed up onto her seat and tossed her drink to the ground in a shatter of glass. "To say you want or deserve or elect. Is like joke! You need to take!"

Her followers cheered and roared and chanted her name. "Sa-mo-var! Sa-mo-var!" Samovar growled with vigor. She sprinted along the table and with a running start across the roast dishes she leapt off the end of the table and towards the throne.

SamovarSongbird smacked into a wall of psychic energy and landed on the ground with a crunch. The French and Italians gasped, but the Russian table merely laughed and started cheering for the next would-be-Tzar: RomanovLegacy

"We rather fancy one of our own as the next regent, isn't that right chaps?" smarmed a weak-chinned Englishman called Lord Henry XIV. "Unlike you continental riff-raff we've put up rather a good regency for the last few hundred years, don't you think?"

"Only if you squint and ignore that 'alf the time your ruler was French!" said one of the Frenchman, and he shoved Lord Henry. The pair fell into petty violence, and members of both sides eventually pulled them apart in a storm of bilingual swears.

"See? And this is why we most certainly can't have a French parliament," said the Englishman, wiping at his bloodied lip with a silk handkerchief. "Because it's all a matter of having class and sophistication."

"Ahd rahther chop off me left nut than listen ta another werd from yoo, ya daft wee shit!" Boomed a Scotsman who'd just joined the fray: Laird Mad Angus of The Bastard. The Scottish player base was smaller than the French and British, but they were fiercely united, especially in opposition to the British, and Mad Angus' presence was indomitable. "Will be crownin' no blasted king tonight, fellas, an' when I'm dun with ya yull be so 'fisticated that I'll need to rest ma wee knuckles till Christmas!"

"And are we to believe that a Scottish king is a good substitute? The mere idea makes me laugh!"

"Oui agree. A parlimente iz a much better idea in ze long run."

Shouts of derision went up from the united Scottish clans as a group of gamers in the back raised a banner made from a tablecloth that read No Kings, No Rulers, We Won't Be Fooled Again! 

"Oh really. Is this an election of a game of football?"

Someone threw a whole roast chicken, which smacked into one of Lord Henry XIV's retainers, knocking him to the floor, and the Scottish clans exploded in cheers.

The English shouted and screamed about the lack of decorum, the French demanded a chance to speak in a civilized forum, the Italians tried to edge around the growing melee, and the Russians threw themselves again and again at the psychic wall, certain that the greatest among them would rise to the top.

And all around them the dark drew closer, like a slim, night-gloved hand caressing the windpipe of reason.