gorgenmast

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

It's high time to get off my booty and post.

EDIT: I thought I'd share something interesting I found earlier. See the radius of your nuclear bombs and see the fatalities: http://nuclearsecrecy.com/nukemap/

As a totally random example, I decided to see what happened if the Soviet Union had dropped the largest nuclear weapon ever created on Northern Ireland. I'd live an hour outside of the radiation zone, so I'm game if Putin gets crazy:

@Chapatrap

People using the Tsar Bomba for the Nukemap really triggers me. The largest Russian missile yield might be 5 megatons - a typical yield is 400-800 kilotons. No one is going to bother to fly a modified Tu-95 to drop a 50 megaton potato-baker on Ireland.

Do The Eagles Circle the Mountains?

Sign me up

Can someone tell me?

How long it takes the earth to evolve around the sun? How did humans revolve from monkeys?

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

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

((A collaborative post between myself and Dinh AaronMk))

Off the Coast of Somalia

The jet wing glode through the air, their engines whining softly as they sped along. In the sky, their pattern resembling that like an arrow head of cranes soaring through the sky. Their shining bodies aglow with the high African sun. “No ID on any hostile aircraft, over.” Song Yu said, “Are we sure they're out here?” he asked, voice cracking over the radios.

“This was the bearing they headed out at.” Han Wen said, “But keep a look out for something.

“On the water too, in case they went down.” he added, a lump choking up on his throat. Though nothing of sadness for the cargo plane and more of the distress of failure.

“I copy that comrade.”

All three kept on, sailing high over the waters as they searched for the Ethiopian airplane, and the unidentified hostile that was to pursue it. But above them was only open sky. And below clean waters, no sight of debris drifting among the waves. A ways off, visible as a brown stain in the deep blue of the ocean lay an island of sandy bronze.

“Comrade!” Chen Wu declared on the radio, his voice cracking as much as the static. “Potential target on our right! I see a glint.”

The sudden deceleration made Wen jump in his seat. His grip tightened on the joy stick controls, his heart thumped loudly in his chest as he turned his head. Against the waves there was something. A shining blinking dart rising up into the air. Below them, but headed towards them.

“Is that our plane to escort?” asked a tense Wu. His breathing was tense. The heavy sawing of his rattling exhales clear in the radio static. He sounded as tense as he was inside. Wen watched the distant boggy climb in altitude, keeping a steady pace.

“I don't think so.” he said with a faint breath, gently turning his plane around, the others following suit, “It's moving far too fast.”

He kept his attention on the mystery airplane. Watching as the light of the sun blinked off of it. Watching as it phased between a silver beacon and a dark shadow silhouetted against the distant sky.

He held his eyes on it in raptured awe as it leveled off at their own altitude, flying straight into them as they did to it. “Comrade?” the intercoms buzzed as the distance was closed. Perhaps it was a mistake, a miscalculation. He wondered at last minute if by chance this was a dream, if the Spanish were more than they were, or the Ethiopians.

The thought buzzed, like a constant thread against the sureness of their own capabilities being their own, and not on others. Its humming intensified as they drew closer. Then with a break it exploded all at once. In a flash bright yellow streaks swept the air about them and the radios exploded with cries for orders. Metal sheered and rippled as a line of gun fire swept the wings and body of Wen's jets. Bright sparks exploded off the wings of his partners as bullets ricocheted across the metal skins. With a high-pitched tear a long line was drawn through the cockpit glass.

“Break formation! Engage!” Wen cried as he dove violently downward, swerving into a plunge towards the ocean. His head slammed back against the backseat and he clenched his teeth as the blood drained backwards, his vision blurred just as he looked up at the course they were on. Time slowed for long enough he could see the underside of their competition. Confirming for once they were not alone with jets.

His heron rattled as the exhaust of the Spanish craft brushed against his own. The other two jets under his command had arched off to the side, making a wide sweep. Alarms blared in his cockpit.
__________________________________________________

In twitching pulses, the needle on the ammunition counter dipped slightly downward as red-hot tracers streamed out from the Fantasma's nose guns. A metallic blur whipped across in front of the Spanish pilot, prompting him to pull down hard on the joystick in pursuit. The Spanish fighter jerked hard to the right as the plane banked. The gyroscope crosshairs fishtailed to and fro as the pilot brought the Fantasma about, falling in the general vicinity of the foreign jet fighter.

To his knowledge, there had never been a actual engagement between jet-propelled fighters until now. The Fantasma's pilot had never trained with this airplane with dogfighting in mind. The Spanish built the Fantasma to subjugate the skies - to trounce the slower and less-agile propeller-bound aerial forces of their neighbors and allow bomb-laden Gargolas to decimate enemy cities unmolested. Fantasmas were not built for an even fight. And he was outnumbered three to one.

A string of gunfire passed over his right shoulder and then swept down toward him like a long, diffuse whip. The Fantasma rattled as bullets embedded themselves somewhere in the fuselage behind the seat. He retaliated by firing a pulse of gunfire at the plane he had tried to hone his sights on. A second-long squeeze on the joystick trigger sent his retort off before he banked down toward the sea to shake the plane behind him.

These Chinese jets were more robust planes; their twin engine nacelles made them sturdier, and likely faster too. They probably carried more ammunition and fuel than a Fantasma. But already, it was apparent that the Chinese jets could not approach the Fantasma in terms of maneuverability. They were galleons to his frigate, there was an opportunity here yet to shame the Chinese and demonstrate western superiority. He cut back on the throttle and allowed the plane to bank down hard toward the ocean.

The plane pursuing the Fantasma banked down after the Spanish jet, surrendering his pursuit position and falling in the sky ahead of the Spanish fighter. The Chinese had taken the bait; he punched the throttle and spun about as fast as he could without loosing consciousness. The Spanish fighter leveled out with the Chinese jet right before him. The Chinese pilot, realizing what had happened, gunned the throttle to escape the closing Fantasma. Twin cones of flame shot out from behind the enemy craft, sending it rocketing away from the Spaniard's crosshair, but the Fantasma loosed a hellacious volley of tracerfire upon the jet before it escaped.

It was now the Spaniard's turn to be victimized. The third Chinese plane had since closed in and came upon the Fantasma. Tracers sped by and fell into the ocean before him, generating miniscule plumes of vaporized seawater in the distance. He reacted with an evasive bank, hoping to miss the arc of lead coming toward him. The plane jerked to the left, but Chinese lead connected with the Spanish plane regardless.

A sharp burst of pain accompanied the sound of metal clashing behind the pilot's ears. He flinched when fragments of a Chinese round found its mark on his right shoulderblade, screaming a raspy "coño!" as he squirmed from the pain. A brief glance behind his shoulder confirmed a a matting of blood on his fatigues, and tufts of disturbed upholstry from his backrest. But he did not seem to be bleeding profusely. It was a superficial wound. Even so, the pilot's fury had been stoked. The Chinese would pay tenfold for the blood they had spilled.
__________________________________________________

Alarm buzzers screamed over the roar of the engines and the whistling of the wind. Cracks spider-webbed across the cockpit shield. The shield against the elements was broken, and with it had opened to madness gushing into the chamber with a wail and a buzz. Han Wen grabbed the throttle between tightly clutched fingers as he settled back into the air. Sharp pin pricks of pain dotted his face. He could feel the slow welling of blood across his cheeks as the wounds open by shards of glass began to bleed open. His goggles were frosted over in a dusting of scratches and glass shards. The wet, warm air that gusted in made things no better.

The first stage of the engagement had been fast. And no one could have estimated the speed of the Spanish fighter. Though they were faster, the Spaniard was nimbler. And he had scored hits. Wen knew that none of it would be fatal to him, but as he climbed he watched with horrified disbelief as the fuel gauge flapped and wailed back and forth maddeningly alongside the steadier climb of the altimeter. "Shit, shit. Fuck." he grumbled, his breath shaking. His head was a flurry of thoughts and a storm of excitement. He could hear his heart thrumming like a bass drum above the noise of the cockpit. It was as frightening as it was exhilarating. But the fuel gauge was rapidly dampening the mood.

Frantically he banged and flipped switches across the cockpit dashboard. Many of the buzzing alarms died off, but a low drawn constant remained. Red lights continued to blink and flash inside the dials. "Come on, there's a reserve somewhere." he sneered diving up and turning over. He watched as his fellow two fighters swept the sky in arcs, fighting to outflank the Spanish fighter. Golden bolts of light streaked the sky from where the tracers swept.

He gritted his teeth, grinding them in irritation. He'd been hit, and he was afraid he was leaking fuel. He spun the plane around and leveled it, flying towards the coast, "Han Wen, as much as I hate to admit it I got to pull out." he admitted, "I got a hit to the fuel reserves. I'm leaking gas and I don't know how long I can stay air born. I'm pulling out. See you in Addis." he promised.

"Did you tr-" Yu screamed over the radios, the bellow of guns beckoned in the background.

"I already did." Wen interrupted with a heavy tone, "There's nothing I can do here. I got to get out. You two can do it. Drive him out of the skies!" he demanded.

Song Yu nodded, glancing out over the waves as the Spaniard dipped away from his sights. The shinning dart of his CO's jet was trailing behind an unhealthy streak of smoke. "I'll see you back at the nest." he said.

"You and Wu know what to do." the officer responded.
__________________________________________________

A duo of Chinese jets traded turns launching barrages of burning lead at the Spanish fighter. The Fantasma bobbed and swerved in front of the pursuing Chinese, too busy making itself a difficult target for its attackers to realize that one of the three adversaries was now fleeing for the nearest patch of solid ground. The air around the craft quivered and trembled as a torrent of rounds tore past. Occasionally one would nick the wings, adding yet another bullethole ringed with fresh, exposed aluminum to the numerous pockmarks and craters marring the aircraft. In spite of the damage it had received, the Fantasma proved itself a nimble and savage fighter.

The Fantasma's master stole a glance at his pursuers before drawing back on the throttle and yanking the joystick down into his lap. The fighter's response was rapid, jerking the pilot against the seat and pressing in on the wet spot gradually forming on his back. The plane suddenly spun skyward, going into something resembling a controlled stall. The Chinese shot past with a pair of whistling roars, immediately banking onto their sides and turning about once they realized that the pursued had suddenly become the pursuer. The Fantasma dipped down out of its upward dive and gave chase to the closer of the communist bogies.

The enemy plane had turned about to face the Spaniard, throttling its twin engines to close and engage. The Fantasma rocketed ahead, speeding ahead and tearing through wispy contrails of exhaust left by the one of the planes. Like jousting knights in another century, the planes screamed across the sky to destroy one another. The glint of the sun reflecting on the Chinese cockpit guided the Spanish pilot on; the gyroscope sights settled squarely on the object dead ahead. No doubt, his counterpart was readying himself. To break too soon from this head-on course would allow the enemy plane to easily aim and fire upon the Fantasma. The Chinese pilot surely understood this as well. Seconds lingered on before the the moment to break. The Chinese jet drew rapidly closer, it's profile in the sights growing larger and larger.

His index finger constricted itself against the joystick trigger; the Fantasma pumped the air full of lead and fire. No sooner than he did, the muzzles on the Chinese jet flashed with fire. A stream of bullets flew head on into the Spanish jet, and the Chinese jet banked and barrel rolled away at the final second - only barely avoiding a collision.

The cockpit windshield erupted in a network of spiderwebbing cracks. A bullet embedded itself into headrest behind the pilot's head - missing his helmet by mere inches and releasing a puff of pulverized stuffing fiber. Another round smashed through the plexiglass, ushering in a violent torrent of humid air before crashing into the pilot's shoulder. A mist of airborne blood swirled through the turbulent cockpit air, spattering the instrumentation and the pilot's helmet in a fine spray of bright red fluid. Immediately, he could feel the warmth of his own blood pooling against his fatigue and dripping down onto his breast and armpit. This injury would be far more grave than the previous.

The pilot stole a glance to the air behind him. He could only see two of the enemy jets, and they were not coming around to engage. In a loose wing they were flying back to the South - presumably due to low fuel. It was intensely tempting for the Spaniard to turn around and chase them, shooting them from the sky now that they only had enough fuel to return home. But the Chinese aircraft were faster than his Fantasma - pursuing them would not pay off. And the wounds he had received needed immediate attention. As the pilot's adrenaline drained away, his attention turned to the seeping bullet wound on his left shoulder.

Without turning back to face the Chinese again, the Fantasma screamed northward toward its carrier in the Red Sea. There he would go to lick his wounds and report to his superiors of the engagement. For decades, the Spanish and the Chinese existed in a state of peaceful animosity, but today first blood had been drawn.

The life I want

I'll hold your dirty load

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

Just to be clear, my intention was to show the average frequency at which people post, rather than how many posts people have contributed.

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

<Snipped quote by Shyri>

On a scale of Aaron to Hugs though...

@Vilageidiotx

Table 1.1, Diagram of frequency of In-Character posting of PoW regulars. Regulars are here defined as those persons with more than three posts in the RPG thread.

Post What type of Government you hate the mosat.

Platonic friendship

Colonial

Name: Chiskowtay/Christopher
Age: 27
Craft/Profession: Soldier, interpreter
Bio: Chiskowtay was born in a settlement on what is today known as Aen's Head, the spit of land on the southern shore of Miller's Bay, to a clan of indigenous people that inhabited the area. In the tongue of his people, the name most closely meant "Catcher of the Sea's Bounty". His was but one of the innumerable tribes and peoples of indigenous race that inhabited the Land of Six Turtles. His was a primitive race, a people with a reverent respect for the natural world they chose to inhabit. While Antoinne and Tirna-Sorset conquered the forests and meadows of their realms and built cities and farms upon their ruins, the people of the Six Turtles lived in communion with the natural world amongst the ancient oaks and maples. On the teeming shores of this lush and virgin land, Chiskowtay learned the art of harvesting the bounty of the woods and seas in a sustainable fashion, just as his forefathers had for countless generations before him.

In the the spring following his 14th winter, his tribe experienced its fateful first meeting with the white-skinned men from beyond the Sunrise Waters. A caravel flying the flag of Antoinne above its sails dropped anchor off the coast of the settlement. Three parties of white men, the first Chiskowtay and his kin had ever seen before, rowed ashore and tried to speak with the elders. Though the elders and the white men could not communicate effectively, the elders demonstrated to the foreigners that they were welcome to stay the night in their lodge. During the night, an altercation broke out between the white men and Chiskowtay's kin. In the midst of the fighting, one of the foreigners barged into Chiskowtay's hut and spirited him away. He and several other boys and girls of the village were taken aboard the rowboats with the intent of ransoming them for loot. The Antoinnese were forced to abandon their plan when the furious villagers pursued them in canoes, and so after fending the natives off with muskets and pistols, the white men retreated under moonlight to their anchored ship. The Antoinnese raised anchor and sailed off into the East that night

After four moons on the open sea, during which Chiskowtay was pressed into assisting the deckhands with their chores, he and his kidnapped companions arrived at the Antoinnese harbor of Tou Lumere. Chiskowtay was bewildered upon seeing the Old Country for the first time. He was perhaps even frightened by the lack of trees and the abundance of strange lodges made from planks of wood and stone blocks. The teeming population too unnerved young Chiskowtay. At any given moment, the native boy could see in the harbor city more humanity than he had ever witnessed in his entire life in the Land of Six Turtles. His desire to resist against his captors was overridden by the fear of this strange and exotic world into which he had been thrust.

From Tou Lumere, Chiskowtay and his fellows were taken to Antoinne's grand capital. They were taken to the Palace by the captain who had captured them and there they were presented before Antoinne's grand king. The king regarded them as "delightful curiousities", especially the girls, as he expressed a fondness for their tan, ruddy skin. Upon inspecting Chiskowtay, the king found him to be a "strapping and virile specimen" and made a passing comment that he would be a compliment to the royal army. Immediately after the presentation before the King, Chiskowtay found himself before a quartermaster for the Royal Army, who issued the native boy his tricorne, breeches, and boots. Chiskowtay gave the quartermaster a bewildered stare when the officer demanded his signiture for enlistment. When asked his name, and providing his given name, the quartermaster simply shook his head and informed the boy that he would henceforth be named 'Christophe' - a proper Antoinnese name.

Despite his limited grasp on the Antoinnese tongue, Christophe learned how to load and fire a musket easily enough. He and his fellow soldiers practiced running straw-stuffed dummies through with their bayonets. He learned to march in tandem with the rhythm of the drum and all the commands associated with each of the distinct blasts of the bugle. It did not take long for young Christophe to learn the ways of battle in this strange land. This was a fortunate thing for the Kingdom of Antoinne, for many soldiers were needed for the war against Tirna-Sorset. During Christophe's 15th birth-moon, his company was dispatched to for battle.

Christophe saw his first battle at the hamlet of Anjoux, near the border of Bruge. His company of green recruits faced off against a seasoned regiment seeking to pass through the town. Christophe and his Antoinnese compatriots loosed an ineffectual volley against the soldiers Tirna-Sorset, who held their fire until they were within 60 yards. The enemy salvo was much more effective, and the Antoinnese line broke. When the soldiers of Tirna-Sorset fell upon the routing Antoinnese, Christophe simply dropped his musket and raised his hands above his head - not out of fear, but only because his peers had all done so.

When an Antoinnese-speaking interpreter for the Army of Tirna-Sorset questioned Christophe, he was thought to be an idiot when he could not understand many basic sentences. Based upon his apparent lack of intellect, the Chief of Staff found no issue in impressing the boy into the Army of Tirna-Sorset. His new compatriots took to calling him Christopher - a more sensible name for a man fighting for the glory of the Two Realms.

During his duty in the Army of Tirna-Sorset, Christopher saw action at two of the greatest battle of the war. He fought at Rouge and watched his newly-adopted King die from his own cannon. Soon thereafter, he saw the conclusion of the conflict at the River Tirus. He joined in the celebration of his compatriots that followed soon thereafter, completely unaware of what this conflict was all about but glad to be done with the fighting nonetheless. In the years following the conclusion of the war, Christopher attempted to spend his meager earnings from the war to buy passage back to his homeland. After discovering that no ship in Tirna-Sorset made the passage across the Ocean of Aelaminus, he returned to Antoinne and tried his luck at Tou Lumere. When he could find no vessel that would travel West across the Sea, he followed the suggestions of the Antoinnese and traveled to Libiria, who the shiphands at Tou Lumere claimed had many ships that sailed across the great ocean. At the great trading port of Carana, Christopher found a Libirian ship at last that would grant him passage West to his homeland. After six long years, Christopher relished his long-overdue homecoming.

And so his confusion and disappointment were very great when his ship arrived at a fortress harbor built upon an island thick with palm jungle. Having spent the last of his stipend mistakenly buying passage to a miserable, mosquito-infested island, Christopher had no choice but to save enough money to return to the Old Country and devise a new way to return home. He petitioned the Marquis of the island for work soldiering for the Libirian colonial administration, making clear his prior experience in battle. The Marquis granted Christopher duty with the riding patrols that set out deep into the jungle with the intent of clearing out the indigenous savages to make way for sugar plantations. For two years, Christopher rode out into the jungles alongside the Libirians, scattering the so-called savages, a people that bore a terrible resemblance to his own people from the Land of Six Turtles. Many times Christopher wondered if he had simply traded places with the Antoinnese that had ruined his life so many years before. Suffice to say, Christopher bought passage back to Tirna-Sorset as soon as he had saved the requisite sum.

For the next four years, Christopher made a meager living doing odd jobs servicing outgoing and incoming ships. The foreigner from the West, with his understanding of many languages, garnered a reputation among the deckhands. On several occasions, Christopher was sought out to interpret on behalf of Antoinnese or Libirians. It was not long after King Aenda announced the drive for colonization that one Harrigen Berkswell sought Christopher's skills in interpretation for a tongue he had not used in many years: that of his birth. This eccentric merchant offered adventure and riches to Christopher and those others who possessed talents that would be of service in an ambitious business venture in the remote wilderness of the New Country; but only if they agreed to leave at once. Christopher, at last presented with the opportunity to return to his homeland could scarcely say no.

And so Christopher now finds himself aboard the Wensleydale, an overloaded and leaky cog bound across the Ocean of Aelaminus for the the newfound settlement of Upponhill. It is his desperate hope that he can at last reunite with the friends and kin he was stolen from so many years before.