Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Jeep Wrangler
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Jeep Wrangler VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

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Corporal Isiah Neskrivich


Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by Gunther
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Gunther Captain, Infantry (Retired)

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Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by GrimmReconz
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GrimmReconz Unruly American

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Private Anatoli Vasilyev


Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by User
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Name
Charles Richardson

Gender
Male

Age
28

Birthplace by Nationality
Gersa Coalition - Hollai - Chorlton (Small Industrial Town)

Rank
Lance Corporal

Role
Armoured Crew

Equipment
Model 100 "Reissend"
Dark green, steel, Tankers Helmet with his serial number stencilled on
Brown Aviator Goggles
Brown Coal Mask (Gas Mask)
Two Spare Filters for the Gas Mask
Entrenching Tool
2x Three-Quarters Quats Canteen
Black Leather Steel Caped boots, scuffed and Worn.
Leather Bound Chainlink Glove
Dark Grey Overcoat, Silver and Tin Buttons going down the front.
Leather Satchel with some tools to fix minor problems, it also holds the Following:
- Two Pairs of Brown Socks
- Three Pairs of Pants
- His Identification
- Pair of Spectacles
- Some assorted foot Stuff
- 60 Rounds for his Revolver
He also has his grey Tankers Trousers that match his Overcoat, of which has on it:
- A Lance Corporal Epaulet on his right Shoulder
- 29th Veterans Badge on his right Collor
- 67th Trooper Badge on his Left Collor

Appearance

A decent 6'3. He is thin and hollowed cheeks. He wears his black Armoured Infantry coat and Gas Mask when he is stoking the engines. He has buttons of tin down his jacket along with two pouches, one for ammo, the other for repair supplies. In terms of him without his Mask on, he looks like so: with the normal armoured infantry Hat:

Personality
Richardson is a strange sort of man. A different type of crazy. He does have a soul and he isn't heartless, but he was a soldier before the war even kicked off. When it started he saw some shit, some things that made him question his life and his morals. In civilian life, he was an upbeat, cheery chap. With a love of machines and a connection to his girl Drudgery. He is VERY superstitious about battles, he believes that everything is luck and chance. That if he can get lucky, just once he can see the war until the end. he is brutal in war, he will fight till he can no longer stand and will fight when he is on the ground, he knows the war, he doesn't need to be told his duty. he has seen combat, the tough, brutal mess of the front lines, the dug in deep men and later women, fighting for their lives.


History
Richardson was born unto a Mundae family. His family was a group of hard working civilians at the weapons factory. His mother worked the assembly line, putting bullets together and checking over the shells. His father worked in the control centre and ran the machines. And his brother, well, he worked on the Armoured Vehicles. They were not the large vehicles that were seen on propaganda posters or paraded around, he worked on the Perseus' that came through and occasionally the Krumpnicks when they were needed. As a child, working in the motors and gears of the factory, Charles was fascinated by them. How they worked and how they operated. He had a happy life in his early years, fixing the blockages and cleaning gears when they got stuck. As he grew into a teen, he outgrew the narrow work spaces of the machines and moved onto the factory floor.

His new job in the factory was to oversee the guns loaded onto the vehicles. For this job, he had a ball. he would often sit in the Commander's seat and play around, radioing into the other children on the rigs. This did serve a purpose, however, as he soon learnt how to best use each radio and what radiofrequency worked best for what rigs and radios. As the years went by he kept at work at the factory. Grinding on, until he was put into a job making his own Rig at the age of 21. As soon as the parts came in, he was at home. As the parts for his Perseus, he built it up from the ground, from the legs to the chassis. He had the guns swung in and fitted and had a specially tuned radio inserted that would display a clearer, crisper sound. During the weapons test, he was put in charge of driving the rig, as he powered up the motor. He could feel the kick, the life in each leg. The pulse of the engine under his hand, he felt like the rig was speaking to him as if it had chosen him. He knew he didn't want to leave her, didn't want to leave her to some soldiers who wouldn't treat her right. She handled like a dream came to life and had her own personality. It was at that moment, in the pale green light. he decided he didn't ever want to leave her. Didn't ever want to see her go, like a Boy Bonds with a Dog, Richardson bonded with his Perseus.

Richardson, finding his new lot in life. Enlisted in the Army under the Armoured Division. He was lumped in with the 67th where he ran patrols along the border and trained on the guns. He was, luckily, assigned to his Perseus that he called Drudgery. Down to the fact that it was a slow, drudging machine and in many instances just threw rounds. When they went through training, he would work the guns. Hitting many of the targets, he would get used to the gun. Be that the anti-tank shell or the Machine gun. He wanted action, but at the time, there wasn't anyone to fight aside from the occasion ruffians holding up coaches. It wasn't a fun time in those years on the leadup to the war that he didn't know would happen. But he was happy, he was with his Old Girl and it felt like home. Of course, he got lots of stick for his connection to the piece of metal, but he was happy that he said something he could trust in.

Then it happened. The first patrol of the new month. The vehicle was trudging through a forest. Past a mountain cave that was a favourite hiding spot for border guards to sneak off and have a cigarette or smoke. The explosions dropped. The sound was deafening as it rumbled down the cave, the rig was put quickly into the drive as they hurtled out the cave looking up, streaks of tracers of bombs covered the sky. Black flat disks wich make loud buzzing noises filled the skies and dropped their fiery payload. Dropped it all around, along with the border. In the towns and provinces, even down the ravines. It was pandemonium among the border ranks and stationed troops, what were they to do? They were being attacked by weapons they didn't know about and were unable to defend against them, they were not equipped to handle such machines. So as the machines buzzed overhead, the men that were supposed to defend from ANY invaders sat and watch, unable to intervene and stop the butchery.

After the smoke had cleared and the attack was finished, the war was declared. As one of the few surviving rigs left near the border, he was sent to the front. Sent ahead to assist the 29th Infantry Brigade as a support platform. They had dug in hard into a meadow just a few miles over the border and they needed assistance. They were being attacked daily and the mortar support was firing too close or ontop of them. Richardsons Drudgery was sent into assist, as where the rig went. Richardson followed, locked in the mud and the rain, dug in so deep behind the tranch they built. He provided fire support and knocked out enemy armour and infantry when the time arrived. He set there, firing a gun at enemies that were neverending and undying. He sat there in his girl, watching men dying at the hands of faceless wonders, people who he never met but seemed almost godlike in skill. As the battles raged, soon he was just sitting in a crater, in front of lines of trenches devoid of life, trenches that stretched beyond the eyes range and that were within spitting distance of the hostiles. Yet, throughout all of this, the rig was never knocked out. It sat there, dirty, burnt and scarred. But alive and working.

When the 65th Spearhead Divison was made he volunteered his rig. He volunteered himself to the plan, the transfer. He knew he was unlikely to make it out alive. But he doubted his own death, he had his girl, she wouldn't let anything happen to him, no. She was the guardian angel. And he was gonna be A-Okay.

(I am sorry if by his volunteering breaks the plan. But I wrote the bio non-stop. And I do like the story. It's not the best. But it works)

Family
Thomas Richardson - Older Brother - Alive - Serving in the 21st Engineering Corp. Still on the production line of the Rigs
John Richardson - Father - MIA - Went Missing in the Bombings
Jayne Richardson - Mother - KIA - Died in Bombings
Rita Richardson - Grandmother - Alive - Living at the care home.

Theme Song
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emaTh9QnZwE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbw1pGUhG7Q
Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Legatus Bellum
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Legatus Bellum The Bellator / The Lazy General

Member Seen 6 yrs ago





History
Michael was born to a Disas family. His mother was a religious person, and his father was an officer in the military. At an early age, he became very sick with various diseases, giving him his yellowish complexion, as well as resulting in his thin body he hasn’t fully recovered from. This made his mother very overprotective about him while his father, when off-duty, was ordering him to do chores around the house.

At school, he wasn’t really faring well. He used to be weak-minded, enjoying unimportant and childish things, but he eventually grew out of them. Instead of pursuing the things his classmates liked doing, he enjoyed staying at home, simply reading various theories at a young age. He became very interested in history, as well. It was also at this point that he was filled with the nationalistic spirit of his father, but alas, he was still too physically weak. Instead, he wanted to pursue a political career.

Eventually, however, the Wrea Federation attacked his homeland, and immediately, he wanted to answer the call to arms. He was seventeen at the time, so when he one day escaped from home, he applied for the army. They believed his initial lie of being eighteen, but they didn’t accept him because of his physical weakness. He snuck back home, and despite his hatred of physical activity and despite his laziness, he began to exercise and eat more and more. In a year, when he was eighteen, nearly nineteen, he was fit enough by military standards.

However, the final nail in the coffin that made him pursue a military career was the death of his parents in one day. Her mother, while out in town, was killed in a bombing raid. His father, while in a jeep en route to the battlefield to be with his troops, was killed in a strafing run by a Wrea Federation plane. His hatred grew, and he saw his world crumble right in front of him. He saw the destruction that Wrea had brought to his nation. He joined the military a day after their funerals, giving the rights to their family home to his brothers.

Eventually, Michael was accepted due to a short supply of men. In the same day, earlier, an order was issued: all men and women capable enough were to be drafted, no matter who they were, whatever their history may be, or whatever their jobs were; they were all to be drafted. They took Michael, saying he was ‘good enough,’ and was given a two-month training course. Being a fan of high-power, high-velocity guns, he wanted to have a bolt-action rifle in hand, but they saw that Michael did not have steady hands. Instead, he was handed a submachine gun. He excelled in training, and he saw his own potential with an SMG. He would definitely be a stormtrooper. The thought of death consumed him, and that kept him awake. However, he soon concluded that all men die, and to die gloriously on the battlefield is better than dying sickly in a bed. He would die for his country, and he would not back down. He would protect his nation, and more importantly, he would protect his only family left: his brother and sister.

He saw the horrors of war once he was deployed with a single order: “Not one step back.” He cursed when he saw this fate he was given, rushing into a volley of machine gun fire. He charged, indeed, but his entire unit was wiped out. That was when he saw the reality of their situation: they were so desperate that their leaders were sending them in droves to die. He watched as his first friends were all annihilated right in front of his eyes, and his heart broke. But, there was no time for tears in war. Honestly, he was disappointed with this tactic of charging into enemy lines, but what could he do? An order was an order. If the nation lost this war, it would be the fault of the generals. For the first time in his life, Michael felt hopeless. On his nineteenth birthday, his present was imprisonment. He was captured while hiding in an urban battlefield by Wrea forces, and imprisoned.

He was kept in the nearest POW camp, and to his surprise only a week after, Gersan forces liberated the destroyed town, the Wrea lines of retreat cut off after a surprisingly brilliant manoeuvre to the enemy’s rear, crushing them and forcing them to surrender. Michael was impressed. He was liberated soon enough, and the first thing he asked for was his gun.

Michael was sent back to be reassigned to a new unit, and he was reassigned to the 7th Platoon of the 65th Spearhead Division. At first, he didn’t know what they were supposed to do, but when he was sent behind enemy lines, he knew immediately that they were going to distract enemy forces. It was the only reason why they were being dropped off in the area miles behind the enemy. Majority of those in the platoon were way older than him, and he tried to know about them. Only a man, a corporal, by the name of Isaiah Nekrivich was the only one who asked first, and Michael wasn’t able to ask back. The two established a good connection immediately, but Michael was continuously thinking: was this one a journalist? His questions sounded like questions a journalist would ask. However, the only question he asked before being deployed on the ground was: “How long are they going to stay distracted?”

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