"Graka-taaaaa!" (angreh clem intensifies)
Foster Member
STATUS: A roleplay not for the timid: "The quest to restore the abandoned Waffle House" 12 days ago
- Last Seen: 2 hrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Foster
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 4119 (0.91 / day)
- VMs: 33
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- Foster 12 yrs ago
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A roleplay not for the timid: "The quest to restore the abandoned Waffle House"
4
likes
1 mo ago
I do agree with Yandere's sentiment that words not wording workingly do be a problem this time of year.
1 mo ago
Scratch that, place your bets on polymarket.
1 mo ago
Looks like I'll be working on memorial day weekend. And no, this does not mean place any bets on polymarket.
3 mos ago
due to a typo on my part I was nearly convinced I owed the IRS nearly $3000 in excess taxes this year.
5
likes
Bio
-There will be delays in replies. Largely due to working overtime, voluntary obligations; other RPs and online-things may compete for my attention.
'Bout me:
Started RPing (badly) back in '05, mostly doing nation-RPs with an emphasis on technology and strategy, later edging out to character-espionage and military-tactics before doing "less serious" character roleplays that were outside of the 2005-2008 continuity.
That's when I went to Dead-Frontier, and found the RP community there, joined a clan, did some pretty good roleplays and pretty much loosened-up my online-personality. When the clan-leader decided to move her RPs here, most of the clan followed.
Took a course in technical-writing back in '08, so now I may sometimes use the semicolon correctly.
In 2010 I dusted off the old nation-RP continuity I had, doing a few hetelia-esque RP-shenanigans there..
RP-Habbits: I tend to geek-out on little technical-details, and sometimes infer how those details would impact the background of the roleplay. Great for world-building, not so great when you had a perfectly good plotline and I just MacGyver it off the rails (though I usually er to the side of amusement, sometimes it creates very grim side-stories).
'Bout me:
Started RPing (badly) back in '05, mostly doing nation-RPs with an emphasis on technology and strategy, later edging out to character-espionage and military-tactics before doing "less serious" character roleplays that were outside of the 2005-2008 continuity.
That's when I went to Dead-Frontier, and found the RP community there, joined a clan, did some pretty good roleplays and pretty much loosened-up my online-personality. When the clan-leader decided to move her RPs here, most of the clan followed.
Took a course in technical-writing back in '08, so now I may sometimes use the semicolon correctly.
In 2010 I dusted off the old nation-RP continuity I had, doing a few hetelia-esque RP-shenanigans there..
RP-Habbits: I tend to geek-out on little technical-details, and sometimes infer how those details would impact the background of the roleplay. Great for world-building, not so great when you had a perfectly good plotline and I just MacGyver it off the rails (though I usually er to the side of amusement, sometimes it creates very grim side-stories).
Most Recent Posts
Transfered to another wing due to offscreen political power-playing for "that war after the war is over" sounds about right.
Well, since most of the flight-crew appears to have bailed, can the co-pilot passenger take over?
Bees nesting in the stall warning whistle?
That one appears to be set to warn the pilot of an impending stall at the lowest possible angle of attack (high stall speed of, say, a loaded plane). Which is probably going to cause a few premature warnings.
...
This pun just flew over my head, didn't it?
The F4 Phantom's stall warning is more fun, though.
That one appears to be set to warn the pilot of an impending stall at the lowest possible angle of attack (high stall speed of, say, a loaded plane). Which is probably going to cause a few premature warnings.
...
This pun just flew over my head, didn't it?
The F4 Phantom's stall warning is more fun, though.
[Is collab]
Twombly escorted Ylva outside, only to get yanked aside and pulled over to a big black shiny Cadillac, a model 61 with tightly polished chrome that looked like it’d just came off the showroom-floor. Twombly’s jaw dropped, but only slightly. The girl had money, he’d give her that; hopefully not too much sense, as his previous business-venture had nearly left him broke enough to start taking-out jobs for the mob, rather than just petty work fixing the toys they so often broke.
“Get in,” she said as she gently pushed him to the vehicle, “And try not to drool on the interior, I just had her detailed.” The young wolf offered him half a smile before going over to the driver’s side and climbing in, the engine roaring to life before settling in on a soft purr. While Twombly’s assumption on her having money was true, she was a little more smart with it than the Tank buying Panda-dog as she invested a good portion of it, placed some in Savings and the rest was something she would play with. As she was only 18, she figured she would work for a few years, gather a decent amount and then go from there.
Twombly shook-off the bewilderment quickly, as the young dame was getting impatient waiting for directions as the car idled at a soft, feline purr. His instructions went something along the oft-frustrating lines of: “Turn left here, slow down! Head for the docks… now a right, up here.. No, up there.” until they finally reached a repurposed service-station that had clearly fallen upon hard-times before being picked-up by its new owner, and its situation hadn’t improved much since.
Through the garage-door was a 6x6 truck-shaped… thing under a tarp. Some protuberance on top gave the tarp-draped silhouette an odd, duck-like shape, on the ground next to it laid some sort of pillbox-turret with a much-too-large looking dummy-gun. Through the next corner and into the locked garage-bay was the armory, walls of weapons and various machine-tools for cobbling-together crude yet workable replacement parts and other gunsmithing jobs laid in a surprisingly neat and organized manner. Rows of reference books lined a shelf detailing the specifics of nearly every firearm ever made, plus a few that never saw the light of day.
Of course, resting on the wall was a 20mm Hispano cannon, alongside what appeared to be some scoped and sighted rifles, and a stout looking M3//MP40/Sten hybrid submachine-gun cobbled together. It was here at this bench he took a look at Ylva’s Enfield, Sasha. He quickly determined the model and mark of the rifle, dropped the bolt, produced the proper tool for removing the firing-pin, and had the action completely disassembled while at the same time diagnosing such things as firing-pin protrusion (which wouldn’t have hurt to be lengthed a tad), headspace (which was still good), muzzle-crown (pristine), chamber (polished), and firing pin profile (chipped).
He then turned and gave Ylva his diagnosis: “Your firing pin is a little bent, causing it to bind inside your bolt. The pin itself is chipped and eroded, and could use a bit of polishing and lengthening.”
Without asking permission, he took the pin to the drill-press, placed it in the chuck, and started it up as he took a piece of ultra-fine sandpaper and steel wool to it, profiling the hemispherical point with his paw-tips and reducing the shoulder a tiny amount as gauged by a caliper.
He then took it over to the rifle, re-assembled it for her, and handed it back with a smile of pride just visible from the corner of his lip.
“If you’ve got ammunition for it, there’s a range to test out my work in the basement.” He offered, gesturing to a set of stairs down to the repurposed repair-pit.
Twombly escorted Ylva outside, only to get yanked aside and pulled over to a big black shiny Cadillac, a model 61 with tightly polished chrome that looked like it’d just came off the showroom-floor. Twombly’s jaw dropped, but only slightly. The girl had money, he’d give her that; hopefully not too much sense, as his previous business-venture had nearly left him broke enough to start taking-out jobs for the mob, rather than just petty work fixing the toys they so often broke.
“Get in,” she said as she gently pushed him to the vehicle, “And try not to drool on the interior, I just had her detailed.” The young wolf offered him half a smile before going over to the driver’s side and climbing in, the engine roaring to life before settling in on a soft purr. While Twombly’s assumption on her having money was true, she was a little more smart with it than the Tank buying Panda-dog as she invested a good portion of it, placed some in Savings and the rest was something she would play with. As she was only 18, she figured she would work for a few years, gather a decent amount and then go from there.
Twombly shook-off the bewilderment quickly, as the young dame was getting impatient waiting for directions as the car idled at a soft, feline purr. His instructions went something along the oft-frustrating lines of: “Turn left here, slow down! Head for the docks… now a right, up here.. No, up there.” until they finally reached a repurposed service-station that had clearly fallen upon hard-times before being picked-up by its new owner, and its situation hadn’t improved much since.
Through the garage-door was a 6x6 truck-shaped… thing under a tarp. Some protuberance on top gave the tarp-draped silhouette an odd, duck-like shape, on the ground next to it laid some sort of pillbox-turret with a much-too-large looking dummy-gun. Through the next corner and into the locked garage-bay was the armory, walls of weapons and various machine-tools for cobbling-together crude yet workable replacement parts and other gunsmithing jobs laid in a surprisingly neat and organized manner. Rows of reference books lined a shelf detailing the specifics of nearly every firearm ever made, plus a few that never saw the light of day.
Of course, resting on the wall was a 20mm Hispano cannon, alongside what appeared to be some scoped and sighted rifles, and a stout looking M3//MP40/Sten hybrid submachine-gun cobbled together. It was here at this bench he took a look at Ylva’s Enfield, Sasha. He quickly determined the model and mark of the rifle, dropped the bolt, produced the proper tool for removing the firing-pin, and had the action completely disassembled while at the same time diagnosing such things as firing-pin protrusion (which wouldn’t have hurt to be lengthed a tad), headspace (which was still good), muzzle-crown (pristine), chamber (polished), and firing pin profile (chipped).
He then turned and gave Ylva his diagnosis: “Your firing pin is a little bent, causing it to bind inside your bolt. The pin itself is chipped and eroded, and could use a bit of polishing and lengthening.”
Without asking permission, he took the pin to the drill-press, placed it in the chuck, and started it up as he took a piece of ultra-fine sandpaper and steel wool to it, profiling the hemispherical point with his paw-tips and reducing the shoulder a tiny amount as gauged by a caliper.
He then took it over to the rifle, re-assembled it for her, and handed it back with a smile of pride just visible from the corner of his lip.
“If you’ve got ammunition for it, there’s a range to test out my work in the basement.” He offered, gesturing to a set of stairs down to the repurposed repair-pit.
In
RECON: Tactical Military Operations in the 20th Century
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: General Interest Checks
...
Probably interested in the Project DELTA phase of MACV-SOG, the LLDRs in particular.
From the looks of it, we've got plenty of round-eyes signed up for it. Needs more Nung.
Taking orders from a Cpl would be... rather off-putting for an LLDR Sgt. But not unrealistic.
"training concurrent with active operations"
-tempted to see about a double of intel-officers in an LLDR, impersonation/detect rank&unit/dected food&water/Basic English and interrogation/detect-guerrillias/silent movement/detect concealment/Language-basic english
Probably interested in the Project DELTA phase of MACV-SOG, the LLDRs in particular.
From the looks of it, we've got plenty of round-eyes signed up for it. Needs more Nung.
Taking orders from a Cpl would be... rather off-putting for an LLDR Sgt. But not unrealistic.
"training concurrent with active operations"
-tempted to see about a double of intel-officers in an LLDR, impersonation/detect rank&unit/dected food&water/Basic English and interrogation/detect-guerrillias/silent movement/detect concealment/Language-basic english
"Clem" Yuril grunted with a hint of aggitation as he felt his last self-defense missile leaving him under Xi's launch-authority. Thankfully, the kid managed to use it wisely enough to get a solid follow-up hit, and followed it up with a solid from one of the MiG-31's own, more advanced missiles.
He then took a quick survey of the landscape, knowing the F-16 had been sent to perform a run on some unidentified ground-targets to the southeast... but saw nothing indicating a successful run. "Four. Two is blind, get wizard on standby. Rogue; Low angle strafe on creek, coming in from the Northwest." Captain Greggor keyed to inform the rest of the flight and the ground-team as he finished his wingover-turn and began a run before re-engaging full-afterburner. Ground-fire was hard enough to necessitate a series of jinks and lag-rolls as he strained to line-up for a solid run down the dried-up waterway choked into a soft-target rich environment. Now all he had to do was hit it...
He held down a full-unload of his remaining 62,000 40mm long flechettes, punctuated by a few bursts of 23mm cannon-fire against anything that looked substantial enough to resist the anti-personel rockets that served a secondary duty of defoliating the edges of the creek for any follow-up attacks.
However, the MiG-23, despite it multi-role prowess, was not a dedicated mud-hen, and enough directed energy hits managed to slag chunks off Clem's wings, and his plane began to trail vape, likely a combination of hydraulic-fluid and fuel.
"Four, bugging out." Was all he managed to say as the Bulgarian went into a violent lag-roll, pitched and lurched violently as the wings were desprately unfurled for more lift, the pilot struggling to maintain control with an unresponsive stick and full power to the engines as it fell back on itself in a dive only to lurch back into something resembling a badly trimmed level flight to compensate for a large portion of its starboard-wing being gone when the rudder had suddenly gone missing.
"See you at the Dungeo--"
He then took a quick survey of the landscape, knowing the F-16 had been sent to perform a run on some unidentified ground-targets to the southeast... but saw nothing indicating a successful run. "Four. Two is blind, get wizard on standby. Rogue; Low angle strafe on creek, coming in from the Northwest." Captain Greggor keyed to inform the rest of the flight and the ground-team as he finished his wingover-turn and began a run before re-engaging full-afterburner. Ground-fire was hard enough to necessitate a series of jinks and lag-rolls as he strained to line-up for a solid run down the dried-up waterway choked into a soft-target rich environment. Now all he had to do was hit it...
He held down a full-unload of his remaining 62,000 40mm long flechettes, punctuated by a few bursts of 23mm cannon-fire against anything that looked substantial enough to resist the anti-personel rockets that served a secondary duty of defoliating the edges of the creek for any follow-up attacks.
However, the MiG-23, despite it multi-role prowess, was not a dedicated mud-hen, and enough directed energy hits managed to slag chunks off Clem's wings, and his plane began to trail vape, likely a combination of hydraulic-fluid and fuel.
"Four, bugging out." Was all he managed to say as the Bulgarian went into a violent lag-roll, pitched and lurched violently as the wings were desprately unfurled for more lift, the pilot struggling to maintain control with an unresponsive stick and full power to the engines as it fell back on itself in a dive only to lurch back into something resembling a badly trimmed level flight to compensate for a large portion of its starboard-wing being gone when the rudder had suddenly gone missing.
"See you at the Dungeo--"
<Snipped quote by Foster>
That was supposed to imply that yes, they can pull a lot more G's that us, and corner a lot more sharply and unpredictably. I.e., they are dangerous.
So, how do you suggest I show that instead?
Although a bit time-consuming to write, a case-by-case summary of how each of the surviving fighters respond, in order to give emphasis on why they're behaving this way, and what they're trying to do in the process would have painted a clearer picture of what is happening.
-Suitability: Just because they can behave this way, doesn't mean they get a free-pass to do-so whenever. Most people don't Rockford their cars out of the driveway... Although TBH it is frigg'n cool to watch on TV.
Whether this was a clue to their (specific) piloting ability, or some quirk of alien engineering was just an OOC speculation.
I suppose it's even to presume their ground-vehicles are of similar capabilities?
"More graceful than 23,000 tons of flintsteel has any right to be" ~Bolo.
~goes back to double-check how to format a proper 9-line.
(kind used to British Hurricanes vs Daleks types of severe-overmatch, anything less is a welcome surprise)
Since Ranger 2 is down/out, may try and re-introducing a Chinese contingent. Due to the alt-timeline, JF-17s and whatnot aren't available yet. But J-7L and J-7G2s would be. As would the similar Bangladeshi F-7BGI. Would give Xi something to think about.
Nonetheless, the Yerill had not fought Earth's forces and put them on the ropes through idleness. With manoeuvers the were near gravity-defying and certainly beyond the limits of human physiology and engineering, the remaining fighters regrouped with near right-angle turns and surged back in at their attackers, splitting evenly into leading and trailing groups and keeping separation as they closed in, sensors already scouring the skies for the MiGs that had hurt their numbers. Warbling lock-on warnings sounded for Clem, Xi and Lonnie.
Quite a few G's need to be pulled to manage those sorts of manuvers to make ejection-seat sized course-corrections.
-IE: the Yerrill fighters are manuvering less like planes and more like a series of ejection-seats firing in L-shaped doglegs.
An ICBM composed entirely of obsolete ejection-seats, if you would.
Also I want to apologize ahead of time due to my lack of understanding in.... To put it bluntly I guess planes in general. Everyone else seems to know a lot more then I do here. So I will do some more research in hopes I can at least keep up a bit but it may not be great.
Tempting as it is for me to chalk it up to 20+ years of fanboyism on the subject(s), most of what I know came from roughly a dozen books at the local public library and trying to consistantly apply that to roleplays.
-One of which was kind enough to go over how to read a vintage 1950's era radar-scope (and later improvements of the PPI).
-Other supplements were US Army training videos of old (obsolete) technology, like audio-only frequency-modulated ground survaillence radar (stuff currently fielded is significantly better, and automated*)
So far, the only "flaw" I'm seeing in the Yerrill fighter planes is that the controls appear to be a tad... "twerky". Which is no-doubt super-abusive to their pilots.
*Still... SICON ftw.
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