SyrianHamster

Battle of Stalingrad

So at what stage is this set? During the German's attempts to take it? Or during the encirclement and destruction of the 6th Army?

Battle of Stalingrad

I'd be up for it, either a war weary, noble and oldskool Wehrmacht officer caught up in what he see's as a wastful campaign or a very patriotic Russian infantry man with his trusty mosin.

Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)

We've lost Shon, that I know, Bunnita will come through for us I'm sure... and thats it aint it? Oh dear, heh.

Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)

That's absoloutely fine.

Forgive me if I sound too eager, but is this post flow normal? It's been a while since I tried my hand at rping, but I remember posts rolling in quicker than this.

Not that I'm rushing anyone, I'm just trying to work out if its dying or whether everyone lives crazy busy lives.

Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)

Sounds good to me buddy.

Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)

Fartown and Anthastiln would likely use a currency, say for argument's sake, the Federation Dolar (F$). Independence would use a mix of the F$ and bartering, Rockhelm would be bartering based aside from the more upper class districts, and Outpost 29 would be bartering based also.

Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)

Jake Irons pulled his fur jacket close to his skin. This was an exceptionally bitter summer; rain was more frequent than the sun, and the wonderful blue of the sky was obscured by an ever present fleet of clouds. It would work in the Federation's favour, he hoped, because a besieging army was always at odds when the weather turned sour.

"What are we to do if you, and our standing army, fall in battle?" asked Vice Marshal Claire Hinton. She was older than Jake, with long grey hair tied back to reveal a face of scars and wrinkles in equal amount.

"Mobilise. Leave the Federation to its fate. Protect the Outpost- No, abandon the Outpost, if necessary. Our people must live on, this is what matters," replied Jake, throwing a grizzled frown towards the rows of tents, wooden watch towers and training grounds that made up his home.

"We haven't the weapons or food for a mobilisation, you know that as well as I," Clair said, scowling at him.

"We are soldiers, we do what we must and we live on what we must. Make use of this time I will buy you. Victory is not achieved by sitting around and waiting for defeat, you know this as well as I," he shot back.

The two decorated officers, both of them undeniable masters of combat and battlefield strategy, saluted each other. No more words were said, and no more orders or recommendations exchanged. In some ways, Jake felt Claire was better suited to leading the Outpost, and perhaps if she were a man, she'd have been elected to do so instead. Prejudices remained in places within the Outpost's command structure, and these prejudices every Marshal for the last two hundred years had tried to extinguish, but it was as if they were hardwired into people's brains. The Officer's Council had voted for Jake seven to five, and surprise surprise there happened to be seven men on the council at the time, and five women. It sometimes seemed to Jake that mankind's inability to utilise its population to its full potential was a glaring strategic flaw.

“Sir, the platoons are ready to move,” interrupted Lieutenant James Miller.

Jake turned and looked down upon his four platoons. Each platoon was a hundred strong, and every soldier was a multi-purpose killing machine. Long spears were fastened over their shoulders, and each man carried a winch-loading crossbow – capable of killing a man from 200 yards, and accurate up to 75 yards, they were the deadly pride of the Outpost’s army. They all wore olive green shirts and trousers, and heavy leather helmets that were covered in foliage. Jake was used to leading his men into tense skirmishing, where they always trumped; this would be the first time he had used them in a pitched battle of numbers.
Each soldier also carried a heavy backpack, full of food, camp making equipment, water pouches, bolts and sharpening blocks. This versatility always gave the Outpost’s army an edge over its adversaries, as each soldier was able to traverse any kind of terrain for days on end without the need of resupply. Again, Jake figured this would do little to help the Federation in the coming battle.

Jake walked down to the platoons, and joined the thin line of platoon leaders and their command staff. Before he led his men to their deaths beneath the bone maul of a savage, he’d atleast tell them why.

“Thousands of years ago, in a little coastal pass, three hundred crazy sons of bitches withstood the onslaught of fifty thousand barbarians,” he began “and after something like three days, each and every one of those brave sons of bitches were dead.”

The platoons remained silent, rigid and at attention.

“But those dead brave sons of bitches bought time for their respective peoples to organise a decisive response to their enemy; and organise they did. We are those dead brave sons of bitches, and we march to die so that our people may live.”

Jake stopped and smiled despite himself. His men were so well disciplined, he could put on a woman’s dress and dance around for an hour without getting so much as a sideward glance. He felt pride in commanding the world’s finest, the best men and women he would ever know. They would more than likely die together, but at least they would do it with spear and crossbow in hand. With this in mind, Jake nodded at his Signals Master.

“Forward march!” crowed the Signals Master, and at once the four hundred idle bodies became a lively sea.

The journey to Independence was not a long one, and not very dangerous either. Jake knew that he couldn’t wait too long for Fartown and Anthastiln’s militias to join the muster, and hoped that Independence had at least thrown together its customary few hundred. In three days, they would move towards Rockhelm, even if they had under a thousand men. Fartown was likely to send its forces, as the Merchant Council had a great deal of investments in Rockhelm’s modernising economy, but Anthastiln was a nerve shaker.

Last time the Outpost had requested aid to repel the siege at Tears, the River Admiral had sent fifty men. It was an insult aimed at Jake to remind him of the times he had stopped Carlos from taking Independence over. The Marshal hoped that the seriousness of this invasion would sober the twisted and deranged mind of the River Admiral. But then again, Anthastiln’s reluctance to join the battle would give Jake the evidence he needed to throw them out of the Federation, and then conquer them himself. If he survived the coming battle, of course.

Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)

Accepted!

Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)

"A nun? Do you hear that boys? This whore thinks she's a nun!" cackled Carlos, as he carefully inserted a lead ball into the end of his pistol.

"Please Sir, I beg you!" protested Sister Mary; tears streaked down her face, and it was obvious that her trembling stance was the result of more than frayed nerves.

Carlos' entourage burst into uniform laughter. Each one of them a great businessman, each one of them a refined engineer. The River Admiral elected only the most successful into his inner circle. By now, most of them had learned to either laugh or look on passively during his 'entertainment' sessions.

"A whore in a nun's robes, what's the going charge for that crime, Mr. Hepworth?" asked Carlos, struggling to put the question together over his sporadic giggles.

"Death, my Lord," replied a tall and slender old man in a black tailored suit.

"Death it is!" cheered Carlos, as he poked the arming rod down the pistol's ornate barrel.

"Please," sobbed Sister Mary, falling to her knees out of exhaustion from the week's ordeals.

The River Admiral, splendid in his sky-blue, medal laden military uniform, pulled back the pistol's firing hammer with a leather clad thumb and pointed the weapon at the pitiful creature before him. He would be sad, when it was all said and done, for she provided him with one Hell of a wild time - but that was nuns for you. Too much pent up frustration in those ones, he reasoned. In a way he was doing her a favor. No point in wasting your youthful womanly blessings in the depressing grey of a monastery; No! Much better to put those blessings to work and end it all with a bang, literally!

"Mary the Southern Whore," said the River Admiral, his face suddenly stern and his tone solid gravel, "we of Anthastiln's democratic council anno-"

"My lord!"

Carlos spun on the spot and fired. Mary screamed. The blast echoed around the extravagantly decorated chamber, and a large cloud of smoke made its way towards the domed ceiling. At the northern end of the chamber, kneeling between the two giant oaken doors, was a man clutching ferociously at his own throat. A muffled coughing sound made its way towards Carlos and his peers.

"Well don't sit there choking, spit it out man!" called Carlos, already reloading his pistol. His jubilant expression had returned with a vengeance.

The man fell forwards with a sigh and did not stir. A pool of thick blood soon emanated from his neck, and quickly formed a large puddle. Carlos' twisted grin grew more sinister with each passing second. The man was a Rockhelmian messenger, the River Admiral could tell by the ragged clothes he wore and the multiple tattoos that marked his skin. Oh well, another savage no one has to worry about.

Moments later, four men carrying rifles entered the chamber from the same direction as the fallen messenger. Carlos made a mental note to have them all flayed alive for their delay in reacting to the gun shot. For now though, they would prove useful in retrieving the parchment from the blood soaked mess.

"The message, read it!"

One of the armed men reached down to the body and turned it onto its back. After a bit of rummaging around inside the man's bloodied rags, he pulled away with a rolled piece of paper. Opening it, the man cleared his throat and read aloud to his master:

"Tribals on the border. 10,000. General muster. Will not hold for long without help. Ganjar Greymeer the Wise."

Carlos rolled his eyes. This was the reason his justice administering was interrupted?

"Oh very well," Carlos said at last, "assemble the war council. We may need to annex Independence."

Looking at Sister Mary, who had been shocked into traumatic silence, the River Admiral smiled. Perhaps his whore could stay around for another night; his war councils were renowned for generating a great deal of sin, and how better to cleanse his soul than through violating a nun? Made perfect sense in his mind.

"Have her cleaned, fed and dressed. Bring her to me after the council," finished Carlos, dropping his pistol to the floor and walking off towards the War Room at the eastern side of the chamber.

Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)

Marshal Jake Irons threw back another mug of wine, and burped despite his company. Things were going to shit, once again, on the Eastern Frontier. Wildmen were moving, in numbers the Federation had never before seen. If the Rockhelmian scouts were to be believed, the amassed invaders numbered ten thousand strong.

He had dispatched riders immediately to the member towns to warn them of the threat, but figured Rockhelm had already done so. Still, the roads were dangerous, and Jake was not the kind of man to leave such an important message to the chance of a passing bandit.

“What are our orders, Sir?” asked one of the Marshal’s officers.

Jake released a huge groan. His despair was not fitting of a Marshal, especially in front of enlisted men, but he did not care. For years he had toiled, as had his predecessors, to survive in this desolate, maggot infested Hell hole. Joining the Federation twenty years ago seemed like the right thing to do; it offered security, resources – and more importantly, a much needed supply of human reserves. With the Federation’s aid, he led his men and women to victory in over a dozen engagements with the southern tribes of the Old Kingdom. Through spear thrust, crossbow bolts, blood and sweat, his peoples had triumphed. Outpost 29 would survive another thousand years, it seemed, and his place in the history of his peoples was secured…

But now? Now? Cast it all to the fire. Survival be damned. Outpost 29 had survived this long because it chose to evade outsiders, not merge with them. He had made his home a target for the invaders, and he knew that every one of those painted bastard faces would be searching for his men on the battlefield. They wouldn’t be content with just killing his soldiers either, no, they would come to the Outpost and raise it to the ground. He thanked the wisdom of his ancestors for equipping women to fight; at least they would not be the usual bounty these savages had come to expect from fallen towns.

“Sir?” intruded the officer, again.

“Wine, your orders are to get me some more wine,” replied Jake, stumbling over the words with a drunken tongue.

Hastily, a junior NCO rushed over and refilled his mug. Jake drained the thing instantly, and winced at the bitter taste.Fartown Blues was not his favourite drink, for the reason that it tasted like a whore’s innards, but it was strong. This was good, the Marshal needed something to numb the sense of an impending defeat.

Of course, he could muster his peoples and form the largest army the Outpost had ever produced. With five thousand well trained soldiers at his back, he could destroy the invaders without the help of the other towns, and drive the spear of victory into the savage man’s heartlands; he stopped himself there, what he was suggesting was not realistic. Mustering that many troops took time, and it took supplies – supplies that the Outpost just did not have. To organise things would take weeks, and by then, Rockhelm would be nothing but burnt oak and Independence would have no doubt followed.

No, the only hope for the Federation now was a general muster. His allies could field militias quickly, and their peasant soldiers numbered in the thousands. Together they would have a chance, but the savage man was a deadly adversary. His soldiers were a match for them, and then some; this he knew, in this atleast he was confident. The militias? Roll a dice and hope it lands on a high number, because they were one Hell of a bastard gamble.

How many times had Outpost 29 saved Rockhelm? How many times had they saved Independence, and Tears? Always his soldiers, through discipline and bravery, overcame almost impossible odds in the name of the Federation and the Outpost’s neighbours… whilst others watched from the safety of their bloated dining tables.

“Damn you, Carlos, damn you and your worm infested brain!” cursed Jake aloud, throwing his empty mug against the nearest wall and watching it shatter into fragments. His men looked on non-phased by the drama.

Anthastiln had always sat in the shadows, watching and waiting whilst its fellow member settlements struggled against the tide. River Admiral Carlos wanted them that way, he wanted them weak and ripe for the taking. Jake knew this, but there was nothing he could do. The Merchant Council of Fartown, Jake’s defacto masters, quashed his requests to have Anthastiln withdrawn from the Federation on several occasions.

Jake feared the militias, with only a few hundred of his soldiers, would struggle to defeat this threat. He feared for the Federation’s survival, and for the survival of his peoples. Still, he was a soldier foremost, and his objective was to relieve Rockhelm. This last thought sobered him briefly, and the despair lifted if only for a moment.

“Captain,” Jake snapped “gather the platoons, I want them ready to march in three hours. We make for the Independence rallying point.”