I'll be shifting my character sheet entirely over to the non-jedi commander of the unit, who will be a Durese veteran.
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DJ Hot Carl
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9 yrs ago
Hot dogs are already cooked. Might as well just sear them to add flavor.
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9 yrs ago
I love it when I catch up on my posting.
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9 yrs ago
If you take college seriously, it opens doors. Harvard and Hopkins makes it easier, but you can do well anywhere.
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9 yrs ago
Prefer to brainstorm on Discord for that reason.
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9 yrs ago
Windows 10 is very much like a German prison camp guard, "Ah, I see you are tryink to escape work fifteen minutes early, Herr Colonel Hogan, here ist an update zat vill stall you!"
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BTW: For ease of notification, let's tag each other on IC posts, since we don't have e-mail notifications and so forth.
That was a loaded question that caused him to hesitate, but then it was also a simple courtesy-question; he decided to answer it truthfully while keeping lots back, but everyone did that. "Well," he told her, as he continued to wipe down the bar, "All things considered, doing okay. Congratulations on the job, seems like lots of people are coming back." It'd been so long that he wasn't sure he wanted to go into the career he had and the way politics cut into it, so he dropped the whole law enforcement career thing entirely. He'd been put into that category of people that left the cities and came back -- Sheriff Mark might was keeping things under control around here, still reasoning with people, but that wasn't always the case in places. Towns like Haye were relatively sane, if fearful, whereas larger cities had much bigger problems that came with the Emergence. Other places, depending on the local government, became downright dangerous for outsiders. It's probably why people were coming back; known faces, vouched for.
Of course, a few Emergents slipped right in, because the reasoning was, "Well, I know that person!" and they couldn't necessarily believe that they were emerging. To just about everyone, the Emergent was a faceless terror, an inhuman force that rampaged maliciously. Other.
"What about you?" Another loaded question, of course. He glanced over the bar just to make sure no one was ordering more drinks, but the way Haye was these days, people seemed to be wrapping it up to get home indoors. It was like a return to 17th century New England of Hawthorne's writing, where the puritans feared the wildness and unpredictability of the forest. Maybe things emerged back then, or perhaps the natives had magic to use and it actually worked, though he couldn't be sure -- there might be studies underway, but what the government and science knew of the emergence was severely limited. Meanwhile, out on main street, which was a charming array of businesses and places to eat, a 'town center' development intended to help Haye create jobs and attract a more upscale sort of home buyer, there was a similar rush everywhere to get to wrap up the day's work and get out of there. These days, the activity was all daytime, and the nightlife severely curtailed.
"Looks like business will be slowing up real good soon; hope you're ready for it, we only have a few people who are willing to brave the dark to drink, and then some cops looking to be fed. Johnny had to cut back the menu to save on food cost." Alcohol, thankfully, wasn't perishable.
@AmazinglyVivid
Of course, a few Emergents slipped right in, because the reasoning was, "Well, I know that person!" and they couldn't necessarily believe that they were emerging. To just about everyone, the Emergent was a faceless terror, an inhuman force that rampaged maliciously. Other.
"What about you?" Another loaded question, of course. He glanced over the bar just to make sure no one was ordering more drinks, but the way Haye was these days, people seemed to be wrapping it up to get home indoors. It was like a return to 17th century New England of Hawthorne's writing, where the puritans feared the wildness and unpredictability of the forest. Maybe things emerged back then, or perhaps the natives had magic to use and it actually worked, though he couldn't be sure -- there might be studies underway, but what the government and science knew of the emergence was severely limited. Meanwhile, out on main street, which was a charming array of businesses and places to eat, a 'town center' development intended to help Haye create jobs and attract a more upscale sort of home buyer, there was a similar rush everywhere to get to wrap up the day's work and get out of there. These days, the activity was all daytime, and the nightlife severely curtailed.
"Looks like business will be slowing up real good soon; hope you're ready for it, we only have a few people who are willing to brave the dark to drink, and then some cops looking to be fed. Johnny had to cut back the menu to save on food cost." Alcohol, thankfully, wasn't perishable.
@AmazinglyVivid
Alright, New Year's happened (Happy New Year!) so I'm going to get on this with character feedback. In order to keep things moving, I'm going to just assume control of the current IRSOG-37 commander, a military guy and generate the orders as an NPC or side-character.
So... You don't want a whole bunch of humans, HeySuess, I get that, but what about an Iyra?
I had an idea for a genetically modified subspecies of Iyra, exiles who modified themselves in order to survive on the harsh and limited land of their home planet. Breaking with the relatively oppressive tentacle-based caste system of their aquatic kin, they are born with four walking and four manipulating tentacles, are smaller and leaner than other Iyra (aiding in locomotion and coordination on land), and aren't nearly as dependent on moisture (though they still prefer humid environments to arid ones). This particular land-dwelling Iyra would have left her very dangerous homeworld with a group of Jedi, discovering her own force sensitivity in the process.
:) Would a land-dwelling radially symmetrical sapient cephalopod Jedi Knight be alien enough?
She would be... an outsider to the conflict, to say the least. Much more focused on the Jedi side of things, she would have joined the Revanchists mainly to help the others survive and minimize conflict as best she can. It'll be interesting to see how she'll respond to the true horrors of war, and how the more humanoid Republic soldiers would respond to seeing her walking around dispensing wisdom and chopping fools in half and such.
Sounds like a plan.
October, 2013
"Washington DC was rocked with another protest by Emergent Rights protesters outnumbered by counter-protesters sponsored by the American Anti-Witchcraft League. Capitol Police were forced to intervene with tear gas. Both sides are blaming the other for starting the violence..."
Brian clicked off the TV behind the bar to something else. Sports was a safe topic in Haye, even these days. John, his brother, was never a big fan, but Brian knew the demographic a little better -- Sports was a cultural calm in the middle of a storm, something all the locals could agree on.
The Water of Life was a bar that tried to be trendy in a blue collar town, a place with furniture that Johnny and friends assembled or otherwise acquired at markets where the going rate was relatively cheap for the quality. It had a fine bar made of refurbished antique brass fittings and an armchair area, mostly useful for the daytime crowd, that allowed people to sit and even read. It had an espresso bar, which neatly converted the place into a coffee house and breakfast place in the morning. It displayed local art, which ran from the pretentious to the postmodern and occasionally to the interesting (though it'd taken a morbid and occult-fascinated turn lately) and generally served as a gathering place for the segment of Haye's population that liked a latte.
But the place had pool tables, TV's and lots of beer. It had a menu of simple things, but occasionally specials that took a stab at the trendy, but the place still produced wings by the basketfull come the happy hour.
Brian was just coming in for the afternoon and evening shift, relieving a harried-looking Jordan, the barista-bartender that covered the morning shift -- he got the shit end of the stick as far as Brian was concerned, because he was dealing with frazzled people buying their coffee drinks, deprived until they finally got it and tapping their toes impatiently until they got it. Brian might have to argue with drunks, but he was good at it. John was there to manage the kitchen, but he calmly handed over more and more authority in the front of the house to his older (middle) brother that knew how to run the front; the service got more consistent, John got to focus on the food and managing inventory and Brian got tips because he worked the bar at night.
Once in a while, the Sheriff even came in, asking surreptitiously for a cappucino on the sly -- Luntz didn't want to get caught drinking the stuff, it wasn't considered proper for a blue collar, steel town sheriff to indulge in it, but it was Brian that got him hooked on espresso -- double shot for the long nights.
Wearing his henley sweater, long-sleeves always and no hair on his head, he preferred a kitchen-style striped apron for slinging the drinks, which got Brian a few jokes from the locals that remembered him from his football days as a Haye Roughneck.
Once he was done counting Jordan out against the receipts in the system, he gave the other bartender a salute, releasing the man from his shift, and then settled in to do the work. One or two customers, no big deal. It'd been a slow spell around the area after a particularly nasty series of unusual lights and sounds at night, and the overwhelming sense that it was getting worse around here -- the Emergence, the attitudes of the locals, you name it. There'd been violence around town, which was why Sheriff Luntz was working later shifts. It was why one of the waitresses quit -- she wanted daytime hours, they all wanted daytime hours, and the only thing the place had was nighttimes. It was a change from the old days when people wanted the most lucrative shift and when the most lucrative shift was nights.
It was hard on Brian's wallet in terms of tips, but he didn't mind it so much. He had a lot to chew on these days. And if there weren't people in the place, he could always wipe down the bar, adjust the bottles, check the glasses and otherwise eat up his time with the minutae of boredom. Others were already doing that, even at 2pm; they were checking their smartphones and relaxing. Johnny expected people to work when there were customers, but once no customers meant a slow shift, where people did whatever they could to make the time pass.
Hockey, at least, gave them something to watch and argue about, safe ground from the local politics. Sheriff Luntz wasn't going to be in office much longer, and it looked like things would heat up -- the new guy was bound to be fervently anti-Emergent, jumping on the most minute things the way the local populace wanted.
It was something to not think about.
@AmazinglyVivid
"Washington DC was rocked with another protest by Emergent Rights protesters outnumbered by counter-protesters sponsored by the American Anti-Witchcraft League. Capitol Police were forced to intervene with tear gas. Both sides are blaming the other for starting the violence..."
Brian clicked off the TV behind the bar to something else. Sports was a safe topic in Haye, even these days. John, his brother, was never a big fan, but Brian knew the demographic a little better -- Sports was a cultural calm in the middle of a storm, something all the locals could agree on.
The Water of Life was a bar that tried to be trendy in a blue collar town, a place with furniture that Johnny and friends assembled or otherwise acquired at markets where the going rate was relatively cheap for the quality. It had a fine bar made of refurbished antique brass fittings and an armchair area, mostly useful for the daytime crowd, that allowed people to sit and even read. It had an espresso bar, which neatly converted the place into a coffee house and breakfast place in the morning. It displayed local art, which ran from the pretentious to the postmodern and occasionally to the interesting (though it'd taken a morbid and occult-fascinated turn lately) and generally served as a gathering place for the segment of Haye's population that liked a latte.
But the place had pool tables, TV's and lots of beer. It had a menu of simple things, but occasionally specials that took a stab at the trendy, but the place still produced wings by the basketfull come the happy hour.
Brian was just coming in for the afternoon and evening shift, relieving a harried-looking Jordan, the barista-bartender that covered the morning shift -- he got the shit end of the stick as far as Brian was concerned, because he was dealing with frazzled people buying their coffee drinks, deprived until they finally got it and tapping their toes impatiently until they got it. Brian might have to argue with drunks, but he was good at it. John was there to manage the kitchen, but he calmly handed over more and more authority in the front of the house to his older (middle) brother that knew how to run the front; the service got more consistent, John got to focus on the food and managing inventory and Brian got tips because he worked the bar at night.
Once in a while, the Sheriff even came in, asking surreptitiously for a cappucino on the sly -- Luntz didn't want to get caught drinking the stuff, it wasn't considered proper for a blue collar, steel town sheriff to indulge in it, but it was Brian that got him hooked on espresso -- double shot for the long nights.
Wearing his henley sweater, long-sleeves always and no hair on his head, he preferred a kitchen-style striped apron for slinging the drinks, which got Brian a few jokes from the locals that remembered him from his football days as a Haye Roughneck.
Once he was done counting Jordan out against the receipts in the system, he gave the other bartender a salute, releasing the man from his shift, and then settled in to do the work. One or two customers, no big deal. It'd been a slow spell around the area after a particularly nasty series of unusual lights and sounds at night, and the overwhelming sense that it was getting worse around here -- the Emergence, the attitudes of the locals, you name it. There'd been violence around town, which was why Sheriff Luntz was working later shifts. It was why one of the waitresses quit -- she wanted daytime hours, they all wanted daytime hours, and the only thing the place had was nighttimes. It was a change from the old days when people wanted the most lucrative shift and when the most lucrative shift was nights.
It was hard on Brian's wallet in terms of tips, but he didn't mind it so much. He had a lot to chew on these days. And if there weren't people in the place, he could always wipe down the bar, adjust the bottles, check the glasses and otherwise eat up his time with the minutae of boredom. Others were already doing that, even at 2pm; they were checking their smartphones and relaxing. Johnny expected people to work when there were customers, but once no customers meant a slow shift, where people did whatever they could to make the time pass.
Hockey, at least, gave them something to watch and argue about, safe ground from the local politics. Sheriff Luntz wasn't going to be in office much longer, and it looked like things would heat up -- the new guy was bound to be fervently anti-Emergent, jumping on the most minute things the way the local populace wanted.
It was something to not think about.
@AmazinglyVivid
OOC here. Whoops, mispost.
Sure, odds are they have an axe to grind with the Mandos no matter what.
French Field Hospital, Hanoi, French Indochina, June, 1949
Doctor Molineaux was one of the best surgeons in Indochina, and like many doctors of his age, a man that had seen far too much trauma surgery in his time. But it was that experience that took a country doctor that was mostly delivering the children of farmwives in Normandy and turned him into a tireless machine of a surgeon, gifted with the deft touch that saved so many lives-- like this one, an all too-young legionnaire who took a pair of shots that were lodged entirely too close to his heart; getting the rounds out had taken every scrap of skill he could muster, but he felt obligated to this legionnaire. His surgical orderly, a man named Marcel, was good enough to substitute for a nurse, and they had a rapport, so they were able to chatter, as other doctors did, over the shattered, maimed bodies of the young men they tried to save. It was a way to keep the enormity of what they did and the odds they faced at bay, the idle chatter to distract the mind while muscle memory worked, while trained skill guided the hand.
The doctor learned, through painful experience, to ideally look at his patients as muscle and organs, as the parts rather than the person, but his sense of detachment was jarred by the sight of a familiar sight on the man's right arm; Bellophoron astride Pegasus. It caused him to look closer; the lad was young, in his 20's still, with brown hair cut brutally short in the Legion's way. Strong features, tanned and a bit lined, a straight nose, with a good jaw and a brow, with deep set eyes. Then he saw the telltale scars; jagged, uneven things from hot metal fragments, on the tanned, wiry muscle of the young man.
"See that tattoo? You'd expect to see a damned SS lightning bolt tattoo on most of these boys, but this one..." The doctor glanced down to indicate where to look, while working under the harsh light of the surgical lamp.
"I hadn't noticed it. What's so different about this one?" The orderly had seen a number of military tattoos in his time, many of them German. It was hard to track them all.
"Not German. British Para. Clamp," he broke the conversation for a moment to communicate the needs of the operation, before returning to the idle chatter, "I've seen it before, in St. Lo, they..."
"Funny, because when we were stripping him down for the operation, we had to take a star of David off with his dogtags. He doesn't really look like one a Jew, does he? I thought they all had dark hair and big noses, hein? Funny that a Jew would be in among all these Boche killers. But this one, he is up for the Croix de Guerre, they say. Tough one. His convoy came under ambush on Rt. Coloniale 4, and it was his assault on a communist machinegun that allowed the men that escaped to escape. Fucking slants."
"Brave man. Strange coincidence," The doctor reflected, even as he finished the operation, and indicated for an actual nurse to close the man up, getting ready to move to the next patient, "I'm not sure what brought him to the Legion of all places, but this is one I can be proud of saving. Legionnaire..." he checked the chart for a name, "Fabian," he mused; it was obviously a nom de guerre, the false identities that most legionnaires had these days. Well, it was a strange place, the Legion, they all had their reasons to hide in France's expendable army.
"Well," the doctor ordered, snapping back to business, "Make sure he's ready for transportation to Bach Mai in Hanoi, antibiotics and rest. They'll need to watch him for a post-op infection."
Bach Mai, days later
The escape from Poland in a false compartment of a truck bed...Chelsea barracks, the walnut of his rifle's stock cool against his cheek as he lined up his shot...the shock of the parachute opening over Sicily...Wally dying in his arms in the night in Oosterbeek...the emaciated skeletons of Belsen...the first site of the shores of Palestine from Haifa...Sidi bel Abbes...
He'd never been put under before, but when he could clear his head enough to figure out where and when he was, he knew that his condition was serious by the dull throb of pain that radiated in his abdomen and torso, along with the feeling of binding from the bandages. His own perception was blurry as he came awake to consciousness bit by bit, the entire world fuzzed around him; he didn't realize he was speaking aloud, but in Polish interlaced with Yiddish, though as his head cleared, he realized that he was using profanity and buttoned it up; no one around here would likely recognize the words in Polska, though they might well note the language.
It came back to him, of course, how he'd arrived here. He could remember the crackle of a Soviet-made submachinegun and the explosion of pain ripping through him; he remembered the smell of the burning gasoline from the convoy truck that'd been blown up and caught on fire, and the smell of the blood and singed flesh and hair of the machinegun crew he'd just managed to kill with a grenade, an attempt to save his comrades. It wasn't that he'd done it out of a sense of heroism or glory as much as that those men would have probably died under the fire of that weapon and he'd had the opportunity to kill the men trying to kill his kameraden. It was ironic, he realized, that he thought of them in the German term. In the legion of 1949, German thinking prevailed. German terms were used in the ranks and German songs, like "Ich hatte einen Kameraden" were sung over the graves of the fallen.
He had no relatives left to sit shiva over his corpse if he went here. He'd just have a Boche military funeral song sung over his grave by some of the men that tried to exterminate his entire people. And in a strange way, it was fitting; Legio Patria Nostra; they were all countrymen in the Legion.
Laying on his bed in a strange room that he found himself alone in, a thing of whitewashed walls and a whining ceiling fan, with a shuttered window letting in some of the sunlight, he tried to call out for someone, anyone, but the sound that issued from the throat was in no way words; it was a rasp, but it wasn't hard to figure out that he probably was calling out for the morphine...
@DotCom
Doctor Molineaux was one of the best surgeons in Indochina, and like many doctors of his age, a man that had seen far too much trauma surgery in his time. But it was that experience that took a country doctor that was mostly delivering the children of farmwives in Normandy and turned him into a tireless machine of a surgeon, gifted with the deft touch that saved so many lives-- like this one, an all too-young legionnaire who took a pair of shots that were lodged entirely too close to his heart; getting the rounds out had taken every scrap of skill he could muster, but he felt obligated to this legionnaire. His surgical orderly, a man named Marcel, was good enough to substitute for a nurse, and they had a rapport, so they were able to chatter, as other doctors did, over the shattered, maimed bodies of the young men they tried to save. It was a way to keep the enormity of what they did and the odds they faced at bay, the idle chatter to distract the mind while muscle memory worked, while trained skill guided the hand.
The doctor learned, through painful experience, to ideally look at his patients as muscle and organs, as the parts rather than the person, but his sense of detachment was jarred by the sight of a familiar sight on the man's right arm; Bellophoron astride Pegasus. It caused him to look closer; the lad was young, in his 20's still, with brown hair cut brutally short in the Legion's way. Strong features, tanned and a bit lined, a straight nose, with a good jaw and a brow, with deep set eyes. Then he saw the telltale scars; jagged, uneven things from hot metal fragments, on the tanned, wiry muscle of the young man.
"See that tattoo? You'd expect to see a damned SS lightning bolt tattoo on most of these boys, but this one..." The doctor glanced down to indicate where to look, while working under the harsh light of the surgical lamp.
"I hadn't noticed it. What's so different about this one?" The orderly had seen a number of military tattoos in his time, many of them German. It was hard to track them all.
"Not German. British Para. Clamp," he broke the conversation for a moment to communicate the needs of the operation, before returning to the idle chatter, "I've seen it before, in St. Lo, they..."
"Funny, because when we were stripping him down for the operation, we had to take a star of David off with his dogtags. He doesn't really look like one a Jew, does he? I thought they all had dark hair and big noses, hein? Funny that a Jew would be in among all these Boche killers. But this one, he is up for the Croix de Guerre, they say. Tough one. His convoy came under ambush on Rt. Coloniale 4, and it was his assault on a communist machinegun that allowed the men that escaped to escape. Fucking slants."
"Brave man. Strange coincidence," The doctor reflected, even as he finished the operation, and indicated for an actual nurse to close the man up, getting ready to move to the next patient, "I'm not sure what brought him to the Legion of all places, but this is one I can be proud of saving. Legionnaire..." he checked the chart for a name, "Fabian," he mused; it was obviously a nom de guerre, the false identities that most legionnaires had these days. Well, it was a strange place, the Legion, they all had their reasons to hide in France's expendable army.
"Well," the doctor ordered, snapping back to business, "Make sure he's ready for transportation to Bach Mai in Hanoi, antibiotics and rest. They'll need to watch him for a post-op infection."
Bach Mai, days later
The escape from Poland in a false compartment of a truck bed...Chelsea barracks, the walnut of his rifle's stock cool against his cheek as he lined up his shot...the shock of the parachute opening over Sicily...Wally dying in his arms in the night in Oosterbeek...the emaciated skeletons of Belsen...the first site of the shores of Palestine from Haifa...Sidi bel Abbes...
He'd never been put under before, but when he could clear his head enough to figure out where and when he was, he knew that his condition was serious by the dull throb of pain that radiated in his abdomen and torso, along with the feeling of binding from the bandages. His own perception was blurry as he came awake to consciousness bit by bit, the entire world fuzzed around him; he didn't realize he was speaking aloud, but in Polish interlaced with Yiddish, though as his head cleared, he realized that he was using profanity and buttoned it up; no one around here would likely recognize the words in Polska, though they might well note the language.
It came back to him, of course, how he'd arrived here. He could remember the crackle of a Soviet-made submachinegun and the explosion of pain ripping through him; he remembered the smell of the burning gasoline from the convoy truck that'd been blown up and caught on fire, and the smell of the blood and singed flesh and hair of the machinegun crew he'd just managed to kill with a grenade, an attempt to save his comrades. It wasn't that he'd done it out of a sense of heroism or glory as much as that those men would have probably died under the fire of that weapon and he'd had the opportunity to kill the men trying to kill his kameraden. It was ironic, he realized, that he thought of them in the German term. In the legion of 1949, German thinking prevailed. German terms were used in the ranks and German songs, like "Ich hatte einen Kameraden" were sung over the graves of the fallen.
He had no relatives left to sit shiva over his corpse if he went here. He'd just have a Boche military funeral song sung over his grave by some of the men that tried to exterminate his entire people. And in a strange way, it was fitting; Legio Patria Nostra; they were all countrymen in the Legion.
Laying on his bed in a strange room that he found himself alone in, a thing of whitewashed walls and a whining ceiling fan, with a shuttered window letting in some of the sunlight, he tried to call out for someone, anyone, but the sound that issued from the throat was in no way words; it was a rasp, but it wasn't hard to figure out that he probably was calling out for the morphine...
@DotCom
@Hillan 20 years ago was the war with Exar Kun, the Great Sith War. I'd be more comfortable with this 'child of a famous dark sider' if you could work that narrative into that, as the Great Sith War is the reason the Masters are holding out on the Mandalorian Wars.
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