Chapatrap

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

You know its srs bsns when IC insults come into it. dirty fucking armenians

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Someone art-y should make Precipice ball.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Also seven people viewing the thread now. What the fuck is with this explosion all the sudden. I say god damn. Let it be known on this day and on this hour over half of the NRP forum was viewing this thread.

@Dinh AaronMk

After 11 long, hard, gruelling months of inactive occasional posting, we now have 15+ players.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

[Has not into Civ since 2] rip in peace live acting advisers.

@Dinh AaronMk

Best Elvis ever.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Posted. Might be the last IC post for a few days, I'm afraid. London awaits.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Beria Street, Batumi As the sun disappeared behind the horizon, weary Georgians dragged themselves home to avoid Polats patrols after curfew. The common power cuts plunged entire neighbourhoods into darkness, making a birds eye view of the troubled city state a patchwork of light and darkness. This also made the city twice as dangerous at night. Beria Street was a hub of activity compared to the timid suburbs. At the end of the street, a makeshift blockade had been hastily erected, consisting of parked jeeps packed together with sheets of metal thrown on the sides. Groups of Polats men crouched behind their street-wide barricade, each clutching a rifle and staring at the oncoming crowd of Georgians in steely silence. At the opposite side of the street, the marchers moved at a steady, well aware of the dangers Polats men possessed but showing no fear. At the front of the crowd, forming a thin human shield for the unarmed protesters, a vanguard of armed Georgian Guards had formed. In typical Guard fashion, they clutched every kind of weapon in their hands, from handguns to assault rifles. "That's close enough" growled a Turk over a megaphone, clearly leading the force who sat behind . Some marchers slowed and fell silent, unsure whether to continue but their comrades marched onwards, screaming profanities at their oppressors. A group of communists began a chant of "UNITE! UNITE!" which was eagerly copied by the rest of the march. "Go home, citizens! This protest is illegal and all of you will be prosecuted under the Illegal Gatherings Act! It is passed curfew. Return to your homes" called the Turkish major from behind his barricade. Despite talking into a megaphone, the Turks words were drowned out by the roar of "Unite! Unite!" from the protestors. A large Georgian broke out from the crowd and ran towards the barricade, a flaming bottle in his hands. With an audible grunt, he swung his arm back and then threw it as hard as he could towards the barricade. The bottle sailed through the air in a wide arc before falling short of a metal barricade, exploding into a mess of petrol, alcohol and glass across the road. A small fire formed where the bottle had smashed before sputtering out in moments. "Shit" said the Georgian, jogging back towards the safety of the marchers. Where his projectile failed, others did not. Encouraged by the mans balls, soon pieces of rock, bottles and even a piece of furniture were being thrown at the barricade. Some hit their targets, most did not but they kept throwing at the encouragement of Davit, who had flung a rock through the window of jeep from halfway down the street. "We are warning you for the final time, citizens" crackled the Turkish major over his megaphone. "Return to your homes or face immediate arrest". The marchers kept walking, chanting "Unite! Unite!" and profanities at the Turk. A rock flew dangerously close to the Turkish majors head, to which he gave a yelp of surprise. "Right, fuck this" shouted the Turk, throwing his megaphone onto the ground. It shattered into pieces of plastic across the ground. "Sir?" asked an officer. "Fire at will. Polat will have my bollocks if we let this scum into Freedom Square" growled the Turkish major, angrily dismissing the officer with a wave of his hand. The officer bit his lip. It was against his better judgement to follow such a rash order. Provoking these protesters could potentially turn them into rioters. But, he was still only an officer. It wasn't his job to question orders. "Yes, sir" he nodded bitterly before turning to his men. "FIRE AT WILL." Outskirts of Batumi The seargent gulped on the cannister greedily. "Jesus Christ, I needed that" he panted, wiping a stray drop of water from chin with his sleeve. He handed the water back to Adamia, who took it with a bemused grin on his face. There were 20 rifles, 10 men, a large dog and a crate of ammunition all crowded in the jeep, which moved slowly down the road. "Seargent Mamuka, correct?" asked the driver, who was also presumably the leader. "Yes...sir? And who are you?" replied Seargent Mamuka. "General Sabuari of the Georgian Guard. These are my men. Perhaps you've heard of our adventures in the countryside?" Everyone in the Guard had heard tales of Sabuari and his cell of guerilla fighters in the countryside surrounding Batumi. They attacked isolated Adjarian barracks, stole from convoys and were rumoured to have more weapons than they knew what to do with, all stolen from dead Turks. Sabuari himself had earned a reputation for being a shaggy tactical genius, as well as being a staunch Georgian nationalist, a devout Orthodox Christian and a radical republican. Seargent Mamuka gulped slightly. "Yes, sir" he said, slightly shocked that Sabuari had even thought about coming to Batumi. "What are you doing in Batumi, sir?" asked Seargent Mamuka, composing himself. "We're helping you lot with your assault on the barracks" shrugged Sabuari, slowly turning a corner in the jeep and peering into the darkness. "B-but that's a secret mission! We weren't told you'd be here, sir" replied Mamuka, confused. "Change of plans" replied the General shortly. The guerillas all chuckled at the confused look on his face. "So how'd you five get caught by Turks?" asked Seargent Janjigava, one of the guerillas, from the front seat. "They jumped us on our way to the barracks, sir" grunted a soldier from the back. "Brown bastards" spat Janjigava. Seargent Mamuka sat back and glanced out the window behind. Five men and the large dog, who only seemed to listen to Sabuari, were sat in open air back. One private gave him a grimace as the large dog licked him across the face and Mamuka could only grin. "So, sir, what's the plan?" asked Mamuka. "Full assault on the front gates of the barracks. When we're in, you and your lads make a beeline for the weapons cache and my lads will cover you" answered Sabuari. "You what, mate?" snorted Mamuka, wondering if he was joking. Perhaps Sabuari wasn't the tactical genius everyone made him out to be. "First of all, Seargent, you will refer to me as 'sir', as I am highest ranking officer on this fucking mission" snarled Sabuari, pushing down on the brakes of the jeep sharply and glaring back at him. "Secondly, according to the information given to me by your fucking higher ups, the barracks will be half empty as every other soldier is out in the streets suppressing Georgians protesting. If you don't want my help, Seargent, I can kick you all out and drive back into the countryside. Is that clear, Seargent Mamuka?". "Yes, sir" replied Mamuka, pouting slightly. "Good" grinned Sabuari, speeding the jeep up slightly. "Now prepare yourselves. It's going to be a long night".

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

Motivated, war, fun.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Hell yeah it does!Fuk u duck. Throw an edited sheet up, Pizza. I love it that everyone is coming back and posting. It motivates me so much and reminds me of the old days. Thanks, everyone who's returned in the last week and I hope you all stick around for the future habbenings.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Posted a greasy donor kebab of post. Looked all right when writing it but regretted it the morning after.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Aziziye Square, Batumi, Adzhara Republic, Georgia The sky was stained a light purple as the sun slowly dipped under the horizon. Not a single cloud had appeared in the sky in the last few days and Polat had already called on a water restriction to conserve water, to the anger of the lower classes. A slight cooling breeze wandered through the square, gently flapping the Batumi Republic Flags and Ottoman standards that hung from buildings and flag polls. It cooled the face of the lone guardsman, an Azeri seated at the feet of the grand statue of Suleiman III. His gun was abandoned on the floor beside him in favour of a cheap, Oriental style fan that he held in both hands. The fan was flapping furiously but only provided temporary relief to the wet heat that had covered the town. The Azeri glanced around the square from his seat lazily, noting the five streets that led into the square. Technically, he should of been on his feet, walking in circles around the square, checking each road for a few minutes before moving on but that had quickly grown tedious and uncomfortable. He had realised that it would be far easier to sit with his back to the statue and watch each street from there, occasionally standing up and looking busy if he saw fellow members of his squad coming. He had not once had to stop anyone coming into square past curfew because nobody bothered anymore. Even in the day, the square was relatively empty save for Muslims rushing in and out of the Mosque on Fridays. 'You! Boy! On your feet, now!' came a bark from one of the road. The guardsman jumped to his feet, swearing under his breath as his Turkish officer jogged over. 'What are you doing, Private?' he snarled, slapping him across the face. 'I'll have you on shit shovelling for sleeping on the job!' The guard murmured an apology before looking the officer in the face. This wasn't the face of an angry man. The officers cheeks were flushed, as if he had been running and his eyes had a worried glint to them. 'Listen, boy, never mind the shit shovelling for now. We've got a problem down the street a bit. Some kind of nationalist-trade union march are forming a few miles away and they might try get into the square' he said, gulping slightly. The guards eyes widened in surprise. 'But...sir, there's a curfew. People aren't allowed around here at night. Can't we just tell them to go home?' 'You try telling 200 angry people to go home' said the officer. 'I've got the rest of the lads down there keeping an eye on them but I don't think we can hold back that many people for long. Go meet with them. I'm going to go call for reinforcements. Seggan is in charge. Go!' The officer then turned heel and ran in the opposite direction as fast his cowardly Turkish legs would take him. The guardsman shook his head in annoyance and began a trek down the dark road to meet the rest of his unit. The March The main street had become a sea of bodies as people from groups across the city marched through slowly. At the front, the Guard marched clumsily, clutching large Georgian standards and rifles. The amateurism of the miltia's men stood out as some walked out of step or let their weapons drop. Behind the Guard came the communists, backed up by the local trade unions who had declared an illegal strike. They clutched Georgian flags, large signs with anti-Polat messages (''Fuck you, Polat'' was a common one) and even a few Chinese inspired Georgian flags. Bringing up the rear were the citizens, who were by far the largest and loudest group. The groups often blurred together to the point it was no longer distinguishable who was who but it no longer mattered - all were citizens of Georgia and they were to make their message known. Davit lead the march at the front in full uniform, surrounded on all sides by his friends and colleagues. The idea of a band had quickly been abandoned when it became clear no one in the Guard knew how to play brass instruments and instead they marched to the shouts of anger and protest from a 200-strong group of Batumi citizens. From street corners and atop buildings, bemused yet heavily armed patrols of Polats men watched. The marchers were weary of the patrols and often gave them a wide berth. "Davit, sir!" panted a young Guard scout, speeding up to keep up with Pataravas longer strides. "Yes, my boy?" answered the leader of the Guard, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the shouts. "Up ahead, sir! Polats men have set up a roadblock on Beria Street, stopping anyone getting into the square" said the scout, almost tripping over his own feet. Davit frowned before waving the scout on. 'Go tell Elchin. He's up ahead a bit. Tell him from me that he can handle it anyway he says fit". The scout nodded before running on, weaving through groups of communists and women with children at their breasts. Elchin wore a heavy fur coat yet showed no signs of overheating as he shouted and mingled with his comrades in the Guard. "Elchin, sir! A group of Polat's men have set up a roadblock with their jeeps on Beria Street, right before the square!" said the exasperated scout. A huge smile creased the Azeri's face as he lifted his gun up and casually rested it on his shoulder, not breaking his stride. "How many?" he answered, a little too cheerfully for the scouts tastes. "I-I don't know, sir. Maybe...20?" winced the scout. Elchin scratched his beard for a few moments before continuing. "What did Davit say?" "He said you should deal with it how you see fit". "Good man" grinned the Azeri. "You go down the back. Things might get messy up here". The scout nodded and weaved between the marchers, soon disappearing from view. The Azeri took a deep breath before beginning his tyrade. "Right, you lot! All armed units take the vanguard! We're jumping in the deep end here, lads!" There was a quick shuffle as the armed units made their way to the front of the march, some shivering from anticipation, others shaking with fear. Their officers began shouting orders and the men, armed with shotguns, handguns and the occasional rifle, unlocked their guns. "Keep it tight, lads! Beria Street might be dangerous!" shouted Elchin, pushing his way out front. He unhitched his Armenian rifle from around his back, held it with one hand and shot it wildly in the air, wooping as he did. Outskirts of Batumi The Turks held the five men against the wall while the Officer, a Dagistani, went through their possessions. "Rifles?" he tutted, touching one with his toe. "And what are you doing past curfew with rifles, gentlemen? Are you looking to rob someone, ah?" he growled. His men, of Turkish stock, held guns against the Georgians backs, who were on their knees with their hands of their heads. "You can get in a lot of trouble with these" sneered the Dagistani, staring at the shaved head of one of the Georgians. "Who are you anyway? Communists? Nationalists? Or just common criminal scum?" he spat. The Georgian's didn't answer. They didn't wear a uniform and were a rather rag-tag group of men, the oldest in his forties and the youngest barely 21. "Not talking? Okay. Well, when I see a Turk jeep coming next, we might just have to hop aboard and take you to a police station". Jeeps were a feared symbol of Polat's regime - a jeep outside your house usually meant a trip to a 'police station' to get a night of beatings and abuse at the hands of Polat's men. "In fact, I hear one now. Hear it, boys? It might be the last thing you ever hear if I give the order to these Turks. And let me remind you, these Turkish men are itching to kill a few Georgians, aren't you boys?" sneered the officer, looking at each one of his men. The patrol gave a loud laugh at the thought. In the fading light at the end of the empty street, a pair of headlights slowly rolled down. "Here they are now!" cackled the Dagistani, squinting at the car in the fading light of evening. The jeep slowly rolled to a stop and the door swung open. "Hey! Turkish or Azeri?" called the Dagistani, switching languages and starting to walk towards the jeep. A heavily bearded man looked him in the eye. "Georgian" he growled, pulling the trigger on his handgun and shooting the Dagistani square in the head. The gunshot echoed down the empty street. The Turkish men looked around, startled at the sound of a gunshot but soon fell to the ground as a flash of rifle of fire tore down the street and entered their bodies. Out of the jeep jumped several more men, each wearing heavy coats with a Georgian flag sewed into the arms. A large dog of mixed origins jumped from the back and tore down the street after the single remaining Turk, who had dropped his weapon and fled. A long whistle from the bearded Georgian drew it's attention and it made a U-Turn, returning to it's owners and jumping into the front seat of the jeep, which sat with it's engine on and it's headlights "Shalikash and Gelovani, clear the bodies off the streets. Adamia and Inauri, grab those weapons. Janjigava, with me" barked the bearded Georgian. His men nodded at their orders and made off. Janjigava and the beared Georgian made their way slowly to the captured Georgians, who had fallen to the ground with their hands covering their heads. "You are Guardsmen?" he asked, looking at each of the five captured with suspicion. One man nodded quickly. "Ea-East Batumi Division Unit 1" he murmured. The bearded Georgian smiled. "Then you are who I am looking for. Quickly, all of you, into the jeep. Get your weaponry and don't pet the dog.