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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    Everything I write is ethnically motivated on some level.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on Landfall OOC/Sign Up thread
    Did I drown? I drowned. RIP Evan.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    Quote from HugTheZombies

    I am running from PoW until my brain finishes up flushing out all the crap Tempest got me into.


    Or we all forget about it as a collective.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    Quote from vilageidiotx




    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    Quote from vilageidiotx




    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on Precipice of War OOC - Stickies are Tools to be Used!
    Like my erections.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    Quote from KaBling




    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on Official RP Player Index (Nuked as of 9/14/13 and with another build going on)
    Quote from Sketch

    You got it ma'am.


    I'm a sir though.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on Official RP Player Index (Nuked as of 9/14/13 and with another build going on)
    If you give me enough dram, I might consider redoing the thread.

    Basically I'm a crooked cop. Give me money.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on Precipice of War OOC - Stickies are Tools to be Used!
    Has this thread really been silent for a month? Dayum.

    Well, Precipice is immortal. Never dead.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    I've decided that I'm gonna listen to moosik and fall asleep instead of posting.

    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    Quote from coolcat702

    Why does everyone go to high-school/arena RPs? It's really annoying.


    Because they don't need effort.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    I return.
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on Precipice of War - And like a Gypsy Band we move
    Rize, Armenia

    Freezing rain pattered against blue tarps set up against charred facades. A row of Armenian jeeps crouched down in the streets, headlights killed as the day became lighter. Thick, grey clouds - indicators of a wave of precipitation sweeping the region in the following week or two - blotted out the sun and put a damper on the general mood. A week of fighting, culminating with an amphibious assault pressing through the main highway with elements of the Army's blitzkrieg, had driven the Ottomans towards the western hills. Gunfire could still be heard echoing throughout the forests near the city. For now, only the reservists and militias remained to secure the city from the instability that followed. Turkish nationals suspected of involvement against the Armenian invasion were rounded up and forced westward by the often ultranationalist militiamen. The port city was strangely empty for Captain Vartanesian of the Breadwinner of Rize as he surveyed the misty streets below.

    He had arrived in the city that morning after the city had been deemed secure by the passing Army. His ship had been put together as part of the withdrawal effort from Poti after returning from Yalta, and had been loaded down with military equipment of all shapes and sizes. Coming in after the Armenian Navy had blazed a path through Ottoman antiship guns on the shore, these civilian merchant mariners were expected to unload on the city's docks. Now, Vartanesian was overseeing the hurried unloading of armor, weapons, and crates upon crates of supplies. Stevedores moved urgently on the quay below, cranes moving back and forth on their railroad tracks to hoist pallets of equipment out of the cargo bay and onto the quay. Army troopers, standing idly by underneath makeshift roofs made from tent-halves and tarps, waited alongside fuel trucks to refuel the newly-arrived vehicles. Someone else would drive them off to the front while NCOs would check them off of the cargo manifest. "Strategic resupply and reinforcement" was the official name of this rapidfire operation.

    Nearby Boris Vukovich and Janus Tsevelian sipped on mugs of ration coffee that they had bought from the Army with a pornographic magazine. They, too, eyed the dockworkers and their operations. All three of them had their steely, experienced eyes focused for any signs of trouble. The military had enough priority in the area that they could easily just outright deny claims for government insurance if something happened, like if a tank's pallet buckled and sent the thing crashing down into the cargo bay below. They needed all the money they could get, and had the unwritten authority to prioritize government funds in a time of crisis. Such political decisions frustrated Captain Vartanesian and his crew, but they couldn't do much about it until the war was over and the interim government was disbanded. In the meantime, they anticipated any signs of trouble with their seaman's intuition. Clumsy dockworkers were nothing new to them: their bow had been ruined many years earlier when a shipping container swung low and crumpled the thing like an accordion. It had been fixed, barely, but still bore signs of abuse. This time, they couldn't afford clumsiness.

    The dockworkers, it had seemed, were also anxious to not drop anything. Their work was directly attached to the war effort. If they ruined a tank on the wharf of Rize, their wages - paid for by subsidies provided by Assanian's National Recovery Administration - would drop like a stone. Multiple times, Vartanesian watched a supervisor in a bright orange "firefly" safety vest shout at his stevedores to slow down and take it easy. "Find that balance!" he repeated, referring most likely to a balance between quick and safe. Warnings, however, were not heeded. Vukovich and Tsevelian had been talking about a film they had been wanting to see for a while - a movie about the Russian cossacks as produced by Poland and dubbed over by Armenians - and were trading different brands of cigarettes to pass the time. Vartanesian, meanwhile, talked about sailing with an Army Lieutenant from the logistics company. Their conversations were cut short by a terrible crunching noise.

    A shipping container's rope had snapped. Gravity took hold of the situation before anyone could react: the crate swung down, accelerating as it went, slammed into the side of a warehouse nearby. The crane's boom bucked under the sudden force, twisting downwards violently. Metal groaned and snapped, but in seconds it was over. The container was now hanging by a thread, dangling over the wharf after rebounding off of the warehouse. Troops and stevedores were rushing out to search through the wreckage and try to recover people who had been hurt. Vartanesian watched impassively as more Army reservists arrived in airport tenders from the local airfield - they had heard that there was a fire and had taken the crash trucks in lieu of proper fire trucks. Within minutes, the scene had crowded with soldiers and sailors trying to take control of the disaster. The Army thought its martial law and the docks' relation to the war effort had enabled their control, while the company was convinced that it was a company matter. Local government officials had also stepped in, although nobody really knew why.

    A gaggle of emergency vehicles had crowded the docks and hundreds of people milled about trying their best to help. All had good intentions, but they were slowing the response to a standstill. Nobody had any sense of direction anymore. Sirens drowned out any words, and Vartanesian watched failures of communication cause sweeping second-magnitude effects. The crew of the Breadwinner watched the accident turn into a massive calamity that was only solved when the Army's military policemen arrived with batons and tear gas to literally fight the company workers and local police away from the scene. Command and control was conspicuously absent. For a few hours, the Breadwinner sat idly, moored to the quay amidst the commotion. By the time the sun rose the next morning, they were already several hours behind schedule and falling faster every minute.

    Erzurum, Ottoman-Occupied Armenia

    Smoke billowed from the city in thick, acrid plumes. Abbasian had wrapped a thick shemagh around his throat to protect from the particles in the air, and had bartered a pair of tank goggles for some sweets in his MREs. The armored vehicles inched closer to the combat zone as the 47th moved in to exploit critical weaknesses. The airfield was the scene of an intense battle, and the mortar company could see the casualties as they edged closer to box in the Turks. Vehicles hit by anti-tank autocannons littered the flat outskirts of the city. Their scorched and warped frames sometimes had charred soldiers reaching out of the hatches. Crewmen who had been killed by 12.7mm guns as they sprinted from their ruined APCs laid sprawled out in the sand. A cold wind from the north gently toyed with the clothes on the mutilated bodies, the torn canvas bags on the sides of the wrecks, and the ripped and burnt flags hanging limply from turrets. Abbasian could see all of the grisly details from his perch on top of the APC.

    Another stop, halting the vehicles just three hundred meters from the airfield's perimeter. The smell of burnt flesh could be distinguished from the odors of gunpowder, gasoline, smoke, and fire. That was something the veterans had gotten right. Nobody forgot the smell of warfare. Nobody ever got used to it either. A visceral, haunting smell that no words could ever describe. Bodies burnt like pieces of meat - the acrid smell of scorched hair to accompany. Sweet, yet also revolting beyond anything Abbasian could ever conceive. Yet he could never escape. He simply accepted it and moved along, hoping for the mortars to fire again and distract him. Another fire mission meant another set of explosions. They were danger close now. The airfield was less than half a kilometer away. The 47th had fought to the western portions of the base, driving the Turks away to the mountains to the west. The armored surge through the city center had faced heavy resistance as well, and now Armenian infantry was being dispersed to assist. The mortars would need to be called off soon.

    That order came around midday, almost six hours after the battle began. Infantry had pierced through a killzone to the east of the city and were now inside the urban areas. The 47th had mostly secured the airfield, while the Turks withdrew into the city to stall the Armenian advance. Their harassment fire pinned down the troops who had entered into the administration section of the airfield: a heavily reinforced complex of office buildings that was partially collapsed by a stray artillery shell. Abbasian sat on the front of the mortar carrier and surveyed the town with binoculars, listening to the radio shout garbled transmissions. The platoon had stopped in an orderly line just east of the airfield, waiting for the rest of the company to return from their firing positions. They arrived over the course of the following hour, mud-splashed and scratched, but otherwise untouched. Lieutenant Odjakian came around the platoon to make sure everything was good to go, before the command vehicle arrived from behind.

    Captain Manetas - a Pontic Greek refugee who had defected from the Turkish Army in 1977 to the Pontic military and later to the Armenian one - poked out of the foremost hatch on the APC as it whipped around craters and husks. The antenna farm on the back swayed as it turned, whipping across like branches on a tree. The rest of it was surrounded by what looked like a giant cage - Abbasian would later learn that it was newly-issued slat armor that was designed to be a protective measure against rocket attacks. A Persian response to the more expensive reactive armor designed to do the same. Captain Manetas almost tripped over it in his clumsy hurry to address the company on its move into the city. He stumbled to the dirt and tried to play it off with a combat roll, but this only earned him several hushed laughs from his men. There were reason they called him "Captain Retarded", and his name's coincidental rhyming was only one of them.

    Manetas wore a conspicuously large revolver in a chest holster slung over his flak jacket. A psalm was carved into the barrel, apparently handwritten. His helmet bore a large Orthodox cross on the front instead of the typical painted rank. He could have passed off as a chaplain if he weren't carrying his K19 rifle by the sling, letting it slam around his feet. In his right hand was a bullhorn, painted green like the rest of his equipment. He brought it to his face, hidden by sunglasses, and clicked it on: "Afternoon, able company!" he said cheerfully. "I know today has been a busy day but I've just received orders from Madame... The 47th wants us to reinforce the third battalion at the airfield that's suffered heavy casualties from their assault. They have no more need for artillery support at this time, since we're minimizing collateral damage in the city. Besides, the brutes over at the 7th Armored are probably going to be wrecking their fair share of buildings with their tanks.

    I know this is a change of plans, but the Turks aren't turning tail like they thought we would. They're holing up in the city like a bunch of bitches and waiting for relief. Unfortunately, we need to go in and cut them off. Elements are moving in to cut the link that Highway 1 offers, and they're predicted to trap the Turks inside the city. The 47th is going to push in from the south to the northwest quadrant of the city and link with the other friendly units in a close-in. Mechanized units to the west, armor to the east. It's going to be a compress: heavy urban fighting. I've transferred macro command to Madame 1, meaning that we are under his direct control. We're expected to reinforce the gap within the hour. Speed is of the essence. Let's go, company!"

    There were no cheers, only silence as the men scowled at him and at the orders. They turned their eyes to the smoky airfield - still alive with gunfire and explosions and signs that it wasn't totally secure. Then they looked back at their mortar carriers. Ill-equipped to fight an urban fight, the platoon leaders gathered together to make a decision. Fifteen minutes later, Manetas ordered the mortars dumped. Huge piles of ordinance was tossed into the desert sands, piling up around the vehicles. Someone would be along to collect them later, the officers said. A smoke grenade was tossed nearby to mark it for rear echelon units. Abbasian stared almost forlornly at the equipment they were wasting. It was totally unorthodox. Would there even be recovery? War was chaos - they could forget. Of course, it couldn't be taken with them. There was no space for it. Zokarski eventually convinced the Private to let it go, even if he shared the same sentiments. "We're mechanized now," he observed quietly as the engines rumbled to life. An explosion rumbled in the distance.

    "Am I going to die?" asked a teenager from the shadows of the vehicle, roof now closed.

    "No," Zokarski answered. "I'll get everyone out."
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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    posted a message on General RP Discussion and Information Thread
    And he drove around looking to sell catnip to the furries or something. Or was it cat food, like the District 9 aliens?
    Posted in: Forum Roleplaying
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