Julian84
2013-03-24, 11:45 AM
All:
GRMM (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbWaZtD0Op8&list=PLC65C07C35396F6C9)
Dull chatter echoes around the dimly lit command and control room, officers presiding over their subordinates at their stations, going about their tasks with machine-like efficiency. Clad in the blue and red uniforms of the EU, many hail from different regions around the world, some from France, others from Germany, even a few from the long-conquered territory of South Africa, lost in the first great war with the Britannian Empire.
The atmosphere is charged, tense. One young officer, Felix, pulls at his collar nervously, simultaneously overheated and chilled, glancing at the red-haired Scot who had assumed command of the entire military of the EU, standing imperiously over the entire affair whilst glancing at maps and charts.
Edmund Dirge had risen to power less than a year before, rising on the recommendation of the generals and admirals of High Command and a popular vote from parliament, appointing him to the duty once held by his now-deceased predecessor, Lupe del Rio.
The newcomer was a bit of a mystery, having risen through the ranks with startling speed, causing some to suspect him of corruption, or the product of nepotism. His home, a small town in the occupied state of Uganda, was leveled by the Britannians, his parents and younger brothers killed in the fighting. The boy was taken back to his ancestral homeland to be raised by his uncle, Robert. He excelled in his studies and graduated with top honors, immediately joining the military and becoming a commissioned officer. He would later deploy to the contested territory of North Africa, where tensions with the Brits remained high. At the age of 32 he earned his promotion to Staff General, and four years later he was promoted to the highest rank possible. His unprecedented and meteoric rise was not the results of political machinations, it seemed, for he was a truly brilliant commander.
Felix made his rounds through his small unit, a grouping of technicians who kept track of radar and sonar buoys in the North Sea. It was a tedious position, but there was little he could do to improve his lot. The hour was late, his shift long and interminable. He sighed and looked at his watch for the thirteenth time that hour when he heard a small ping, followed by a gasp from his subordinate manning the station.
“…Sir?” Margot quietly breathed as more pings began to sound. “You need to see this.”
Frowning in confusion, Felix bent down to inspect the source of the noise, a foggy recollection telling him it was the computer registering a large body on the radar. His eyes widened in fear and confusion as the large white mass passed over the Fitz-Howard Line from Britannia into EU waters, bypassing Greenland and heading straight for the British Isles.
“… I’ll alert high command.” He replied shakily, walking over to the small red phone in the corner of his booth as his four other subordinates stared at Margot’s screen. He picked up the phone, glancing up at the Supreme Commander, who had heard the ringing on his corresponding phone and reached to grab it.
“Yes?” The crisp voice spoke, completely devoid of his natural accent.
“Sir… Radar matches have been confirmed. It’s the Britannians.”
NM0:
Ocean spray showered the hull of the HMS Cataphract, a formidable cruiser in the 2nd Atlantic Armada, as it knifed through the black waters on its course to the British Isles.
Down below in the hold, Major Lloyd Asplund, Earl of Whitehaven, stared serenely up at the frame of his prototype knightmare, the Eowyn, as mechanics and technicians dressed in the orange jumpsuits of the engineering corps made adjustments and fine tuned the knightmare’s systems under the direction of his younger assistant, Reggie, a lad born and raised in the technological city Dallas back in the homeland. He was short, with hair buzzed down to the scalp and dressed in an orange engineering corps uniform with the symbol of the Camelot division emblazoned on his shoulder, the winged sword thrust through the center of a golden gear. Lloyd wore his own uniform, a trim officer’s coat in the colors of House Asplund, silver, white, and teal, after the rare genetic trait that was passed down the family line. His coat had a simple Camelot pin on the collar, and he wore black boots and black dress slacks. He idly brushed his grey hair out of the lenses of his glasses, noting with satisfaction that all was in order.
Except for the fact that he was missing one key, critical component, he mused to himself in distaste. The unknown quality, a good pilot. In a perfect world, he’d have been content with the skills of the impressive Marianne the Flash, but she had sadly passed away six or seven years previously. He remembered the funeral. It was dreadfully boring.
A whirring sound behind him interrupted his reverie as an elevator came to a quiet halt. The Cataphract was state of the art, a massive vessel with every feature and amenity the Imperial Navy could think of. Still, it was nothing compared to the prince’s flagship, the L’éclair, a massive supercarrier designed to provide the maximum killing power.
He turned to see who had come to pay him a visit, pleased to note that the second prince himself had come to call. Schneizel el Britannia stepped off of the lift, dressed in all the finery one would expect of a prince. Accompanying him was his ever-present aide, Earl Kanon Maldini, dressed in the green uniform of Schneizel’s service, and the brigadier general Charles Anaheim II. The general was a broad, stocky fellow, his blond curls slowly fading to gray and receding back like a dry, desiccated forest. He wore the ostentatious uniform of a general, grey fabric with red lining, double-buttoned with gold epaulets, a short cape trailing along in his wake. His provisional unit was covert black ops, some of the deadliest soldiers and assassins in the empire… Or so he claimed. The son of a former knight of one, Anaheim was often one to boast of his own accomplishments in order to differentiate himself from his father’s legacy.
“I trust everything is in order, Earl Asplund.” Schneizel commented in his rich tone, standing beside the major with his hands clasped behind his back. “Our search for a suitable pilot continues, but I would like the Eowyn to be ready when we arrive at our destination.”
Anaheim cleared his throat. “My team is scrutinizing the files of the best pilots in the armada, so we shall hopefully have a fit candidate when we arrive.”
The prince glanced in the general’s direction. “I have seen your team’s potential recruits. I was not impressed, and have begun conducting my own search.” He rested a hand lightly on the railing. “And you’re sure it will do well against the EU’s new Panzer-Hummels?”
OOC: I leave it to you to describe the Eowyn’s physical appearance.
DC9, Bladehunter:
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
The incessant ticking of the clock was one of the few sounds in the small Oxford flat, the three men living within providing their own small additions to the horrific cacophony. Marcus quietly cleaned and serviced his pistol, inspecting every inch for signs of wear and tear, oiling the mechanisms inside and cleaning every nook and crevice, the minute squeaking of screws being removed and the scrub scrub of cloth saturated with oil being his offering to the symphony. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered what it would be like to drown in oil.
Gaz sat in a dark corner, his laptop open and operating at peak efficiency, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he did his normal routine, the click click click of keys adding to the drowning noise.
Finally, Silas sits in his armchair against the wall, between the two small windows the afforded the living room bare hints of light from the outside streetlamps, a small reading light illuminating his copy of Poets of the 1700’s, a book he read cover to cover religiously, though if you ever asked him to quote a single poem within he’d just stare at you blankly. Along with his unusual ritual, he was dressed in his military uniform, impeccably pressed and polished. He also chewed on an unlit pipe, though he never smoked tobacco he apparently like the feel of the ebony tip clenched between his teeth. While his two compatriots surely owned uniforms provided by the military, they were not ones to advertise their forced submission to the power of the EU. Silas, on the other hand, besides being completely and utterly bonkers, was a military man at heart, which he showed aptly by manually removing the cardiac centers of his comrades and rearranging them on the floor.
Silas let out a small sigh and closed the book for, if conservatively estimated, the 679th time.
His offering to the noise was usually less than Gaz’s and Marcus’s.
Shadon:
Below decks on the HMS Xerxes, a young woman hones her skills in the martial arts, consistently and routinely delivering powerful kicks into a punching bag held steady by her partner, his occasional grunt at the force of her blows being the only communication between them.
She finishes her training with one last formidable blow to the punching bag, the dull impact echoing through the quiet gymnasium. Not very many people exercised or practiced at this late hour, which was exactly how the soldier liked it. Her partner peeked around the punching bag, smiling ruefully. “Finishing early? Normally you go for five more minutes,” He says, tapping his watch.
Born and raised the fifth son in a branch of the Zweig barony, Arlen had no hope of ever inheriting the power and prestige afforded to his family. Even being of noble blood, he had access only to a few privileges and rights of the peerage, a fact he was keenly and painfully aware of. His entry into the Royal Panzer Infantry divisions was his small, desperate attempt to set himself apart. The silver and ebony watch on his wrist was the only distinguishing factor, his small mark of nobility.
“Perhaps we should have a sparring match, eh?” He teased, his grin widening as he took a boxing stance. It faded, though, as he looked over her shoulder, his tight stance slackening as he took a step back.
Curious, she followed his gaze to find a young woman in a tight forest green uniform, her lavender hair tied back into a severe bun, her heels clicking on the ground in a tight metronome. Under her arm she carried several files and envelopes, along with a thick stack of paperwork.
“Warrant Officer Bobbi Faulkner?” She asked, her voice light and lilting, belying her austere appearance. “I am Dame Ulrica Finch, in the service of his highness Prince Schneizel el Britannia,” She pulled a file out and handed it to Bobbi. “You are hereby being reassigned until further notice.”
The file was an odd orange color, the standard hue of the Engineering Corps. Inside, she found a white title sheet with an odd symbol, a winged sword thrust through a golden gear. Behind it was a thick black title, “Irregular Division: Camelot”.
GRMM (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbWaZtD0Op8&list=PLC65C07C35396F6C9)
Dull chatter echoes around the dimly lit command and control room, officers presiding over their subordinates at their stations, going about their tasks with machine-like efficiency. Clad in the blue and red uniforms of the EU, many hail from different regions around the world, some from France, others from Germany, even a few from the long-conquered territory of South Africa, lost in the first great war with the Britannian Empire.
The atmosphere is charged, tense. One young officer, Felix, pulls at his collar nervously, simultaneously overheated and chilled, glancing at the red-haired Scot who had assumed command of the entire military of the EU, standing imperiously over the entire affair whilst glancing at maps and charts.
Edmund Dirge had risen to power less than a year before, rising on the recommendation of the generals and admirals of High Command and a popular vote from parliament, appointing him to the duty once held by his now-deceased predecessor, Lupe del Rio.
The newcomer was a bit of a mystery, having risen through the ranks with startling speed, causing some to suspect him of corruption, or the product of nepotism. His home, a small town in the occupied state of Uganda, was leveled by the Britannians, his parents and younger brothers killed in the fighting. The boy was taken back to his ancestral homeland to be raised by his uncle, Robert. He excelled in his studies and graduated with top honors, immediately joining the military and becoming a commissioned officer. He would later deploy to the contested territory of North Africa, where tensions with the Brits remained high. At the age of 32 he earned his promotion to Staff General, and four years later he was promoted to the highest rank possible. His unprecedented and meteoric rise was not the results of political machinations, it seemed, for he was a truly brilliant commander.
Felix made his rounds through his small unit, a grouping of technicians who kept track of radar and sonar buoys in the North Sea. It was a tedious position, but there was little he could do to improve his lot. The hour was late, his shift long and interminable. He sighed and looked at his watch for the thirteenth time that hour when he heard a small ping, followed by a gasp from his subordinate manning the station.
“…Sir?” Margot quietly breathed as more pings began to sound. “You need to see this.”
Frowning in confusion, Felix bent down to inspect the source of the noise, a foggy recollection telling him it was the computer registering a large body on the radar. His eyes widened in fear and confusion as the large white mass passed over the Fitz-Howard Line from Britannia into EU waters, bypassing Greenland and heading straight for the British Isles.
“… I’ll alert high command.” He replied shakily, walking over to the small red phone in the corner of his booth as his four other subordinates stared at Margot’s screen. He picked up the phone, glancing up at the Supreme Commander, who had heard the ringing on his corresponding phone and reached to grab it.
“Yes?” The crisp voice spoke, completely devoid of his natural accent.
“Sir… Radar matches have been confirmed. It’s the Britannians.”
NM0:
Ocean spray showered the hull of the HMS Cataphract, a formidable cruiser in the 2nd Atlantic Armada, as it knifed through the black waters on its course to the British Isles.
Down below in the hold, Major Lloyd Asplund, Earl of Whitehaven, stared serenely up at the frame of his prototype knightmare, the Eowyn, as mechanics and technicians dressed in the orange jumpsuits of the engineering corps made adjustments and fine tuned the knightmare’s systems under the direction of his younger assistant, Reggie, a lad born and raised in the technological city Dallas back in the homeland. He was short, with hair buzzed down to the scalp and dressed in an orange engineering corps uniform with the symbol of the Camelot division emblazoned on his shoulder, the winged sword thrust through the center of a golden gear. Lloyd wore his own uniform, a trim officer’s coat in the colors of House Asplund, silver, white, and teal, after the rare genetic trait that was passed down the family line. His coat had a simple Camelot pin on the collar, and he wore black boots and black dress slacks. He idly brushed his grey hair out of the lenses of his glasses, noting with satisfaction that all was in order.
Except for the fact that he was missing one key, critical component, he mused to himself in distaste. The unknown quality, a good pilot. In a perfect world, he’d have been content with the skills of the impressive Marianne the Flash, but she had sadly passed away six or seven years previously. He remembered the funeral. It was dreadfully boring.
A whirring sound behind him interrupted his reverie as an elevator came to a quiet halt. The Cataphract was state of the art, a massive vessel with every feature and amenity the Imperial Navy could think of. Still, it was nothing compared to the prince’s flagship, the L’éclair, a massive supercarrier designed to provide the maximum killing power.
He turned to see who had come to pay him a visit, pleased to note that the second prince himself had come to call. Schneizel el Britannia stepped off of the lift, dressed in all the finery one would expect of a prince. Accompanying him was his ever-present aide, Earl Kanon Maldini, dressed in the green uniform of Schneizel’s service, and the brigadier general Charles Anaheim II. The general was a broad, stocky fellow, his blond curls slowly fading to gray and receding back like a dry, desiccated forest. He wore the ostentatious uniform of a general, grey fabric with red lining, double-buttoned with gold epaulets, a short cape trailing along in his wake. His provisional unit was covert black ops, some of the deadliest soldiers and assassins in the empire… Or so he claimed. The son of a former knight of one, Anaheim was often one to boast of his own accomplishments in order to differentiate himself from his father’s legacy.
“I trust everything is in order, Earl Asplund.” Schneizel commented in his rich tone, standing beside the major with his hands clasped behind his back. “Our search for a suitable pilot continues, but I would like the Eowyn to be ready when we arrive at our destination.”
Anaheim cleared his throat. “My team is scrutinizing the files of the best pilots in the armada, so we shall hopefully have a fit candidate when we arrive.”
The prince glanced in the general’s direction. “I have seen your team’s potential recruits. I was not impressed, and have begun conducting my own search.” He rested a hand lightly on the railing. “And you’re sure it will do well against the EU’s new Panzer-Hummels?”
OOC: I leave it to you to describe the Eowyn’s physical appearance.
DC9, Bladehunter:
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
The incessant ticking of the clock was one of the few sounds in the small Oxford flat, the three men living within providing their own small additions to the horrific cacophony. Marcus quietly cleaned and serviced his pistol, inspecting every inch for signs of wear and tear, oiling the mechanisms inside and cleaning every nook and crevice, the minute squeaking of screws being removed and the scrub scrub of cloth saturated with oil being his offering to the symphony. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered what it would be like to drown in oil.
Gaz sat in a dark corner, his laptop open and operating at peak efficiency, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he did his normal routine, the click click click of keys adding to the drowning noise.
Finally, Silas sits in his armchair against the wall, between the two small windows the afforded the living room bare hints of light from the outside streetlamps, a small reading light illuminating his copy of Poets of the 1700’s, a book he read cover to cover religiously, though if you ever asked him to quote a single poem within he’d just stare at you blankly. Along with his unusual ritual, he was dressed in his military uniform, impeccably pressed and polished. He also chewed on an unlit pipe, though he never smoked tobacco he apparently like the feel of the ebony tip clenched between his teeth. While his two compatriots surely owned uniforms provided by the military, they were not ones to advertise their forced submission to the power of the EU. Silas, on the other hand, besides being completely and utterly bonkers, was a military man at heart, which he showed aptly by manually removing the cardiac centers of his comrades and rearranging them on the floor.
Silas let out a small sigh and closed the book for, if conservatively estimated, the 679th time.
His offering to the noise was usually less than Gaz’s and Marcus’s.
Shadon:
Below decks on the HMS Xerxes, a young woman hones her skills in the martial arts, consistently and routinely delivering powerful kicks into a punching bag held steady by her partner, his occasional grunt at the force of her blows being the only communication between them.
She finishes her training with one last formidable blow to the punching bag, the dull impact echoing through the quiet gymnasium. Not very many people exercised or practiced at this late hour, which was exactly how the soldier liked it. Her partner peeked around the punching bag, smiling ruefully. “Finishing early? Normally you go for five more minutes,” He says, tapping his watch.
Born and raised the fifth son in a branch of the Zweig barony, Arlen had no hope of ever inheriting the power and prestige afforded to his family. Even being of noble blood, he had access only to a few privileges and rights of the peerage, a fact he was keenly and painfully aware of. His entry into the Royal Panzer Infantry divisions was his small, desperate attempt to set himself apart. The silver and ebony watch on his wrist was the only distinguishing factor, his small mark of nobility.
“Perhaps we should have a sparring match, eh?” He teased, his grin widening as he took a boxing stance. It faded, though, as he looked over her shoulder, his tight stance slackening as he took a step back.
Curious, she followed his gaze to find a young woman in a tight forest green uniform, her lavender hair tied back into a severe bun, her heels clicking on the ground in a tight metronome. Under her arm she carried several files and envelopes, along with a thick stack of paperwork.
“Warrant Officer Bobbi Faulkner?” She asked, her voice light and lilting, belying her austere appearance. “I am Dame Ulrica Finch, in the service of his highness Prince Schneizel el Britannia,” She pulled a file out and handed it to Bobbi. “You are hereby being reassigned until further notice.”
The file was an odd orange color, the standard hue of the Engineering Corps. Inside, she found a white title sheet with an odd symbol, a winged sword thrust through a golden gear. Behind it was a thick black title, “Irregular Division: Camelot”.