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TheEvanCat male Member

Your Cool Alcoholic Uncle

STATUS: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 3 mos ago
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3 mos ago
Current AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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1 yr ago
Dude, it's called method acting. If Daniel Day Lewis can do it, so can you. Idiot
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3 yrs ago
"I HAVE NO BAN AND I MUST CRINGE." Rest in peace to the last of the good men in this world. I will shed a thousand tears and pour a hundred 40s of Olde English.
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Bio

Armenia - Precipice of War 2017



France - New Earth Oracle



Korea - Our World in Turmoil



Mexico - Precipice of War 2020



New York City - Fallout: War Never Changes III



Persia - The Ghost of Napoleon

Most Recent Posts

In N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle → 3 yrs ago Forum: Nation Roleplay








In Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot → 3 yrs ago Forum: Nation Roleplay
Mexico City, Distrito Federal
June 1955

The Palacio Nacional was a flurry of activity the next morning, with no fewer than four motorcades lined up in front of the grand complex of lavish buildings. A traffic policeman hurriedly waved his hands and blew his whistle to stop civilian traffic on José María Pino Suárez Street as a dozen black staff cars crowded the sidewalk edge. Most of them bore flags and placards of Mexican government ministries, except for a curious set of vehicles in the back waving small flags depicting the rising sun of Japan. From those vehicles, two men emerged: Ambassador Saburo Ito, with a dark suit and a serious look upon his face, took the lead over a man in a tan double-breasted military uniform topped with yellow shoulderboards adorned by shining silver stars. Both of them shaded their faces from the public with brimmed hats; a fedora and a round service cap.

The Japanese officials disappeared into the Palacio Nacional along with the other parties, before two stern Mexican troopers carrying rifles closed a set of wooden doors behind them. The group passed through a sally-port to emerge in a cobblestone-floored courtyard boxed in by arched windows. A solitary fountain trickled peacefully in the center. To the president, who was waiting in the center flanked by his aides and guards, the courtyard had always reminded him of Rome and classical Italy. Herrera stood beside Álvarez: the two men could almost be mistaken for brothers, with their tall, skinny frames and light skin. While Álvarez remained clean shaven and impeccably groomed to the latest fashion, Herrera allowed himself a mustache and longer hair that bordered on unruly. A movie star next to a politician from a history book.

The Mexicans shook hands with the Japanese. Ambassador Ito went through the line of seniority, introducing himself first to Admiral Aguilar before moving on to the next man. The Japanese general came next, with a rigid personality befitting the notorious Imperial Japanese Army’s strict seriousness. The short and stocky naval officer shook the pair’s hands and nodded at the Japanese general officer, surveying the shin guntō sword affixed to the man’s hip. Aguilar was famed in nautical circles for his interest in blades as a hobby. He had made his own officer’s uniform sword at a self-made forge in his hacienda near the navy base at Veracruz, a fact that he bragged about to every foreign officer he met. In return, the Japanese general gave only a slight nod to acknowledge the presence of a fellow warrior.

“Welcome, Mr. Ito,” greeted the next man in the line with a firm handshake. Minister Gabriel Torres was yet another retired general in service with the Mexican government, a longstanding tradition since the Revolution of the 1910s. He was not one for small talk, and quickly passed the Japanese ambassador onto the president standing next to him. He did the same for the general, before clasping his hands in front of his waist and waiting for Álvarez to finish the introductions.

“Thank you for meeting me with such short notice,” Ambassador Ito said to Álvarez in accented Spanish. His words were measured and deliberate, much like his actions.

“This is nothing, Mr. Ito. I appreciate your outreach to us,” coolly replied the president with a smile. “The fact that you trusted me with such a sensitive request means our nations’ friendship is unshakable.”

“I agree. We have to remain close now that there are uncertain times ahead. Allies are few and far between. I feel we are the precipice of war, or at least something close to it,” the Japanese ambassador said, a hint of sagely wisdom creeping into his voice. President Álvarez didn’t know if he was misinterpreting a Japanese saying or not, but the message came across clearly nonetheless.

“Well then, let us continue.”

The party finished their introductions, with the Japanese ambassador walking alongside the Mexican president as they went into the government palace. The military officials trailed behinds, their aides now catching up to them carrying satchels of documents. Torres nodded to Álvarez and slipped past the group, catching up to a Colonel in his more drab service uniform as opposed to the more ceremonial dress of Aguilar: a black leather briefcase was handcuffed to his hand, containing nothing but a notebook with the combination of the lock to what had become known as the “war room.” Behind a steel door in a reinforced concrete room built just recently, the room had been constructed at the behest of the War Ministry in anticipation of a future global conflict.

The door opened to reveal a humble vestibule with only two sets of wooden chairs lining either wall of the passageway. The Mexican and Japanese delegation crowded uncomfortably inside as Torres escorted the Colonel to unlock a second hefty metal door with another combination lock. With a metallic click, the door opened much like a ship’s hatch, squeaking as it revealed the main section of the war room. A world map appeared dramatically at the other end of the room with placards and strings depicting the great powers’ military forces arrayed as closely as Mexican intelligence could analyze. Two other blow-up maps were on similarly sized boards angled to the left and right of the world map, one depicting the US-Mexico border in its entirety, and the other one revealing the detailed locations of ships and military units scattered across the Caribbean.

Álvarez invited the delegation to sit at one end of the table where another map had been laid out. Two officers emerged from the staff sections at either wing of the war room with briefing aids and files marked “ULTRA SECRETO.” One laid out copies to each of the Japanese and Mexican officials while the other, a Major who looked like he had just risen to the rank, prepared some icons and symbols to pin on the map of the Caribbean to their side.

“We received a telegram from your Army Minister, Masami Hojo, last night,” Herrera said. Torres and Álvarez nodded in agreement. “We understand what the Japanese government wishes. Luckily, there needs to be no preparation of planning and only discussions of how we’ll execute.”

Herrera deferred to Torres, who took charge of the conversation in his authoritative tone. He had given many such briefings before, to soldiers and diplomats and politicians alike. His voice was sternly confident, a sure commander who followed a simple rule to always at least appear to know what he was doing. “If you open the secret documents in front of you, this is our war plan for a fight against the British in the Caribbean. It was developed many years ago and has been continuously refined as you yourselves have gone to war. Don’t think we didn’t suspect this day would happen.”

The War Minister shot a grin to Ambassador Ito, who merely nodded with a serious look on his face. President Álvarez cocked an eyebrow at the exchange, silently musing about the strictly businesslike nature of the Japanese men with their dark suits and round glasses. It was good to have these warriors on their side, at least, even if they didn’t know how to throw a party or crack a joke.

“On a large scale,” continued Torres, “our first step would be to identify and track down British forces capable of transport or rapid attack against our own fleet.”

He pointed to the Major manning the map of the Caribbean, who withdrew a pointer stick and began tapping red ship icons in the ocean. “The British don’t have a lot here, currently,” interrupted Aguilar. “They’ve withdrawn a lot of their ships, ironically to fight you.”

“This, we know,” stated the Japanese general plainly. All of the Mexicans turned to look at him, surprised after he shattered their assumption that he would not speak unless spoken to by a superior. “We came to you to keep them divided from us.”

Aguilar paused a second, allowing for the War Minister to take back over. “Correct. Our plan will simultaneously consist of patrolling and blockading strategic targets in an order of precedence while we prepare our land invasions. British garrisons in the Caribbean are run down, underfunded, and regiments have been withdrawn to handle their crises at home and in the Pacific. We are the perfect opportunity to launch an attack against critical components of their imperial pride and resource export.”

Torres called the Major to begin his movement of Mexican military symbols from bases across the south of Mexico the British colony in Belize. “Most of these targets will be symbolic to British prestige at home,” explained Torres. “Belizeans are a bunch of banana and sugar farmers, with some rich pinche Británicos going on holiday there.”

The Admiral continued, offering his military perspective. “We have drilled the staff exercises to accomplish an attack on these Caribbean possessions in two weeks. A month if they put up stiff resistance, which is unlikely considering the British drawdowns. But our goal is the Belize City garrison alongside its government house. With that taken, the country will be ours. We don’t have to worry about a militant population, and in fact it is highly likely the local Belizeans will take our side on the matter.”

“That is a bold assumption to make,” challenged the Japanese general again, leading forward to the table.

“You are used to your vicious wars with enemy empires,” Aguilar countered, the point of his argument having instantly materialized in his head. His knowledge of history matched his fascination with swordmaking. “Years of war with Russia where your presence has been as an invader, and a foreign one at that. So foreign, in fact, that nobody could have ever thought an Oriental power could challenge a European in years prior. You are the yellow Japanese against white Russians! Of course there will be partisans to sabotage you behind enemy lines. We are liberators to Belize.”

The Japanese general scowled at Admiral Aguilar, who suddenly realized how continental he had sounded with his comments. Immediately, the Mexican added: “We commend your country for its fight. You are an inspiration to us who seek glory outside of the European continent. But you must understand how our wars are not the same.”

Placated for now, the Japanese man offered a grunt of acknowledgement and leaned back into his chair. Ambassador Ito watched the scene and offered his input. “What kind of pressure will this put onto the British? I wish to develop a full report to the Army Ministry on how they can expect your contributions will change this war.”

“A naval task force, at least. Most likely initially drawn from colonial fleets like South Africa or other possessions, since they would want to send a response but our theater would be less important than yours,” Torres replied in an officially commanding manner, rapidly quenching the heated discussion between the two military men that threatened to become a counterproductive match of bickering debate. “Royal Marines from the British Isles proper would also need to be deployed to retake these possessions, as the British do not have amphibious capabilities even from their most fortified base in Bermuda.”

The Japanese ambassador nodded. Torres flipped through the next few pages of the file. “There is a sequential plan after that consisting of an amphibious attack on the Cayman Islands. Again, another holiday destination for the British. There is a local police station there that will surrender or be quickly dispatched by the marinas. We have two more targets on the list after Belize that should prove more difficult, but serve to expand the theater to draw in more British to our Caribbean killzone.”

The Major at the wall pushed two separate task force icons from Mexico to islands in the sea. The largest one went to Jamaica, while another cruised south until it assembled by a island labeled in small print as Trinidad and Tobago.

“Our campaign on the British West Indies concludes with attacks on Jamaica and Trinidad. These are identified as the two largest remaining garrisons of British troops and are important for different reasons. Jamaica is the ‘crown jewel’ of British Caribbean assets, while Trinidad and Tobago is inherently important to the oil exports from the area.”

Both Ito and the Japanese general perked up at the mention of petroleum, a key topic of discussion In Japanese military circles. The basis of their imperial conquests could be boiled down to the search to acquire oil, rubber, and other industrial materials. The Japanese, long reliant on imports much like the British themselves, were in a unique position to understand how disrupting even a small part of the sensitive oil import system could yield important operational results. Trinidadian oil, even if it made up a small percentage of British imports, could make the difference between a fleet or army movement that a skilled Japanese leader could deftly exploit.

“Again, these are lightly defended compared to their value as targets. Kingston in Jamaica maintains the largest British garrison outside of Bermuda, but we have a numerical advantage with our amphibious infantry and naval assets. Trinidad and Tobago has most of their targeting focused on oil refineries and the industrial areas there.”

The next steps of the briefing consisted of a reconsolidation of Mexican forces to secure their gains. They would prepare for a British counterattack towards the islands, with a Royal Navy task force being drawn from diverse colonies. The Major demonstrated on the board as the British forces assembled and steamed towards the Caribbean, where they were quickly entrapped by Mexican naval forces in a series of hit-and-run attacks. British amphibious forces that survived would be outmatched by the defensive positions on the islands. To the Mexicans, it was a simple problem of geography that could be solved quickly and violently. It took cues from the Japanese strategy of island-hopping, a point that was not lost on the Japanese attaché in the meeting.

“The strategy is sound then,” Ito stated, closing his notebook after taking down several pertinent notes in Japanese. The Mexican war plans were never allowed to leave the room, so he was transcribing as much general information as he could: in the background, another officer had been standing silently behind the Japanese men with his hands clasped in front of his waist. A fluent speaker of Japanese, his job was solely to monitor the ambassador as he took down classified notes. Ito, a veteran of foreign service, recognized the unwritten rules in place here, and respectfully kept his notebook free of specifics outside of what was considered acceptable by diplomatic etiquette. “Our concern comes to politics, then.”

President Álvarez leaned forward to the table and locked eyes with Ambassador Ito. “Don’t worry about that, my friend,” he said. “I’ll work with Congress. We have our avenues to do this, and the warhawks are more than happy for an opportunity to show off.”

Álvarez was, as Ito suspected, talking about the Americans. A fight with the British, a quick and easy demonstration of Mexican capabilities, was worth more than every parade and exercise from the past decade combined. The British and Americans had similar doctrines, forces, and structure. A quick conflict in the Caribbean would certainly light some fires underneath American military planners and change the calculus.

Ambassador Ito leaned back into his chair and made a humming noise. The Japanese were on relatively good terms with the Americans, so the Mexicans would just be looking for trouble on their own. That was their problem. “Then I trust you can make the necessary diplomatic arrangements,” the Japanese diplomat said simply.

“I will let you know when we start our campaign, if the newspapers don’t tell you already,” Álvarez replied with a nod. With an elegant motion, practiced in countless meetings during his time in politics, the president waved his hand and stood from his seat at the table. “Well, I think we have a plan going forward. Let’s retire to work our own ends.”

The Japanese delegation and the Mexican military men all rose behind him, nodding and gathering their documents. Aides rushed to secure them in satchels and briefcases before standing obediently beside their superior officers. The Mexican staff officers in the war room began to erase their notes and remove their icons from the map boards, sanitizing the briefing so that they could resume their daily operations later. Álvarez and his officials escorted the Japanese from the room, passing through the security partition again before heading up from the basement of the palace. In the courtyard where they had met just a short time before, they engaged with the niceties of diplomatic conduct and bid their farewells.

After the Japanese and Mexicans shook hands, the Ambassador and his attaché were escorted to the waiting motorcade on José María Pino Suárez Street. The gates of the Palacio Nacional closed shut behind them, and soldiers in ceremonial dress took their places flanking the wrought-iron metalwork. With little fanfare, the Japanese boarded their black diplomatic cars and drove away, leaving the seat of Mexican power to assess their own situation at the embassy. As the Japanese returned to their embassy, situated alongside the plain and unadorned Glorieta de la Palma roundabout just fifteen minutes from the palace, the Mexicans returned to work to make the necessary preparations.
In Star Wars - Jedi Exile → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
I can try and get in a post now that I'm off for the weekend and holiday. What's a good plan to get folks working and meeting up in this bar?
In Star Wars - Jedi Exile → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@The Wyrmi be rollin into yo bar
In Star Wars - Jedi Exile → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
A team of four was looking for something, probing sensors at the trash piles that crept up along the sides of the dilapidated tenement’s walls. Another set had gone inside to investigate further, but the ones on the outside were close to reaching their prize: a hidden repulsorlift station, once a part of a section mass transit system that connected to a series of trains and people-movers underground. It was now a quick and easy way to get to Terry’s territory in the underground. He had planned on escaping through the station, but the clones in his way were proving quite the issue. Hidden a block away under his veil, Terry pondered the options.

The clones drew closer to the lift station, when Terry noticed the shape of a hitherto unremarkable abandoned speeder. Colored bright yellow and bearing the markings of the Lower Coruscant City maintenance department, it carried a large flatbed where rusted crates had obviously been pilfered and left to sit among the elements. It lay, abandoned and unused for many years, in a similar pile of debris and detritus. It also gave Terry an idea.

The clones were directly in front of the station now, but could also be seen from where the speeder was parked. It was a straight line from the parking spot to them: Terry confirmed this as he crouched in the shadows and slowly walked to the vehicle, careful to avoid wrappers or paper or anything else that could make a crunch or a snap to give away his position. He knew he only had one shot at this. Terry reached the door of the yellow speeder and peered inside to the cockpit, its windows having long since been broken by hooligans. The control panel dimly glowed, indicating at least some functionality. With an eye on the clones, Terry found himself a plasteel block that lay shattered on the ground and weighed it in his hand. It would do.

With a swift sleight of hand, he punched the start-up button in the cockpit. The speeder suddenly roared to life, groaning and straining as its ageing parts spun back to life. The clones leapt towards the source of the noise, yelling and raising their weapons. At the same time, Terry tossed the brick inside towards the pedal and it found purchase. The speeder whined as it accelerated to full power, the crates rattling and falling off the back as their rotted straps broke under the sudden force. It happened in seconds: the clones began firing, expertly aiming their shots for the speeder’s cabin. Unfortunately for them, there was no driver to kill in the cockpit.

Three clones knelt almost shoulder to shoulder, firing their blasters before they realized what was happening. One yelped at the others to take cover, but the speeder was too fast. All three of them impacted on the hood of the cockpit, with one being viciously impaled by the pointed tip of a repulsor pod. Another rolled under the speeder, his armor singed and burned as he was caught by the hot antigravity wash of the speeder’s propulsion system. The third was flipped across the top, a ragdoll in the air as he cartwheeled down the alley. Terry followed the speeder at a brisk walk and waited for the clone to hit the ground with a thud. His helmet’s facepiece had been broken and cracked, with a trickle of blood coming out towards his cheek.

The clone reached for a weapon but found none: his blaster was several meters away. Terry didn’t wait for him to develop a secondary plan before he delivered a blaster shot duly to the back of the clone’s head. A fourth clone sprinted into the alley, having dropped his sensor package to unholster a pistol on his hip. Terry shot him too, in the chest and the face, watching the clone drop to the ground. The other two were obviously out of commission and the speeder had crashed into the wall and was now on fire. Terry moved quickly to the station before any backup could be called. Before he descended down the stairs, he withdrew a grenade from his pocket. It was set to proximity explosive mode, and he tossed it into one of the many piles of trash next to the entrance. A surprise for the tracking party.

The dirty lift still worked, maintained by the various people who came in and out of the undercity. One of them with a particular sense of humor had replaced the elevator music speaker with a consistent loop of cantina jazz. Terry found himself tapping his foot to the beat as he dropped into the depths of the undercity. A rare moment of respite allowed him to think: The Repub- no, it’s the Empire now. Shit. They’ve all gone crazy.

Through the grime-smeared window he could see he was finally ending the journey. This lift dropped him straight into the cantina district underneath the Temple. An irony he much appreciated when he came here to relax in anonymity. He had a safehouse here too, one that he had taken after he shot a dealer in a territory dispute over whose gang owned a notoriously profitable deathstick dealing corner. Terry had fished the man’s apartment keys right off the charred body after two of his colleagues had done a speeder drive-by of a café where he liked to hang out. Whatever, he continued to think: They’re still trying to kill me, so I’ll still try to kill them.

The alley he landed in was long since blacked-out and nobody had bothered to fix the lights. What Terry noticed first was the familiar smell of the underworld: an industrial, stale smell that reminded him of a starship. That, combined with the artificial lights hung on scaffolding below the “real” city above, made him feel like he was back on a Techno Union freighter again. It was oddly comforting. Terry made for a blue-and-red-lighted bar that he knew to be one of the hubs for his informants and connections. While he had heard the announcements above, he still needed someone to get him the bigger picture.

Edit: I guess @The Wyrm @Sep @Odin too...
In Star Wars - Jedi Exile → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@TheEvanCat - Didn't want people posting yet but okay :P.

In interesting topic, this is not a rule just my personal preference (and I'm interested to hear other peoples). I don't like Swearing in Star Wars. I feel like there are plenty of 'in universe' swears that work in replacement of the F-Bomb. Again it's not a rule, it personally draws me out of it as it feels... real, and like us. Y'know? Interested to hear what other people think.


I'm kind of on the opposite boat, it feels kind of out of place when sci-fi writers try to replace everything with fake words.

Like the cantina band from Episode 6 with the goofy blue elephant dude apparently plays "jizz" and not jazz. Like come on, jizz? Really? It's just goofy.

Plus I am kind of going for a bit of a Republic Commando/old 1313 vibe with what this character does. I personally think it's more interesting to explore stuff in a way that makes sense with the shitty circumstances something like Order 66 is.
In Star Wars - Jedi Exile → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
The familiar sound of gunship engines rattled the glass and blinds in the high-rise apartment where Terry sat on his couch, watching the datastream news on his screen. The maneuvers of Republic ships weren’t unusual in the heightened security in the aftermath of the Separatist invasion of the planet, but Terry knew something was wrong. These gunships were roaring on full power towards the Jedi Temple, a notoriously strict restricted airspace area even for routine police and military operations. Instead of a pair of gunships loitering lazily over neighborhoods to provide overwatch to clone patrols in the streets below, there were more than Terry could count. He leapt up to the window and raised the blinds, revealing squadrons of gunships and fighter escorts racing towards the Temple. Seconds later, blaster fire echoed through the cityscape from the sounds below. Shots rang out, heavy repeating blasters following the rifles.

Flashes of light erupted from the mystical home of the Jedi as proton torpedoes struck guard posts and landing pads. A shockwave shook the building seconds later, a familiar rumbling in his core reminding him of the explosions from clone artillery blanketing the landing zones at Geonosis. He frantically looked around for other signs of fighting: were the Separatists back? They didn’t give him any advance warning. There must have been an assault on the Jedi Temple, maybe special forces dropped in from stealthy ships in orbit to decapitate the Republic’s Jedi leadership. He quickly closed the blinds and rushed to his bedroom closet, where a safe under the floor had been specifically installed for sensitive equipment. His datapad, connected to the public network, was displaying a “signal lost” message along with the viewscreen. Communications had probably been cut.

The Separatist spy rummaged through and withdrew a set of concealed plasteel body armor, tossing it aside. His pistol belt and holster came next, along with a heavy hooded cloak to conceal his features. At the bottom of the safe were his communicators on the illegal datasteam that he had become all too familiar with during his tenure on the planet. He withdrew one, a simple disk with a button on the front and activated it: a holographic panel illuminated the room, where he scrolled to his contacts. Terry activated a secure line to his liaison with the CIS loyalist militia operating in the area, the closest thing to friendly forces he had without relying on the gangs and criminal networks in the undercity. “What is going on?” Terry demanded immediately as the blurry hologram of a bearded human appeared on the screen.

“I don’t know,” hurriedly answered the militiaman. “The clones are out shooting in the streets, at what I’m not sure. We haven’t made any movements in a week!”

“They’re fighting over here, too,” said Terry, looking out the window. More gunships zipped overhead, appearing to shuttle troops to a singular landing zone at the front of the Jedi Temple. “They’re dropping off clones at the Jedi Temple.”

“The where?!” asked the militiaman, a look of shock on his face. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, man. I’m gonna try and figure this shit out. We might need to rally and get a move on soon,” Terry answered. “Be ready for a call, get your shit in a row. Out.”

The man quickly threw the body armor over his shirt, tightening the straps to his torso. It felt awkward on his body, too restricting after being used to operating without any protection. He clipped the pistol belt to his leg and immediately felt the weight of his drop holster dragging on his right thigh. Terry finished by donning his black, hooded robe. The agent left his room, making sure to lock his safe and door before he bolted to the end of his hallway. A small window was there, looking out across to another residential building: a drop of hundreds of meters was in between, but Terry had no time to worry about that. He climbed out the window and dropped down onto a metal fire escape by him.

He had always felt fire escapes were fairly useless, with a climb of hundreds of meters down to floor level. Even floor level was a misnomer on Coruscant: the “street” was itself hundreds of meters above the true floor of the undercity. But Terry wasn’t climbing down, he was climbing up: a much shorter vertical distance to the roof of this building. Despite this, it took ten minutes of sprinting up the bolted metal stairs and ladders before he clambered over the top onto the roof of the structure. Night concealed his movements as he quickly crossed industrial and climate control machinery to find a vantage point. The Separatist dropped quickly into the prone beside a humming air conditioner, retrieving a monocular scope from his pocket. The Jedi Temple was too far away for him to see what was going on, but the scope zoomed in significantly: CIS research and development had produced some interesting toys besides battle droids.

There was only one phrase Terry could utter as he saw where the gunships had been landing: a clone army had marched through the entrance and now was fighting violently across the Temple. Flashes of light from blasters and lightsabers illuminated windows and balconies. He steadied the monocular sight on the scene as another explosion somewhere else in the city rocked him.

“What the fuck is going on?” he mouthed, face frozen in confused fear.
In Star Wars - Jedi Exile → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Alright, I'm working on my intro post... tldr the separatists are *very* confused why the clones are shooting the jedi temple up...
In Star Wars - Jedi Exile → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Alright, all set up in the characters tab.
In Star Wars - Jedi Exile → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
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