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9 days ago
Current I will one day finish my guide to GMing Nation RPs. Just probably not today.
14 days ago
I think you mistakenly assume that everyone who works in pharmaceuticals has to be competent at their job.
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14 days ago
I work at a pharmacy. They sent some guy down from corporate HQ to do inspections on the logistics software. Dude sat in reception and played Genshin Impact on the company iPad for 2 hours and dipped.
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20 days ago
RAM RANCH - VALENTINE'S DAY RODEO RP: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
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21 days ago
Can we get an anime adaptation of Tommy Wiseau's "The Room"?
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June 22, 1955
Ай Кармела



Pykiv, Western Ukraine

Arseny fumbled through his war-torn jacket pockets, busting about for the keys to the partisan's shed. He dug through what felt like oceans of lint and empty clips, twanging and tinging while his fingers made their search for the keyring he felt so stubbornly even through his soaking jacket. Every second he spent out here entrenched a lingering dread in the back of his mind, like a sniper was waiting around in the back woods all day for them to come out from their position. The fact that he felt the mud nearly seep into his boots every second he stood didn't help.

Clutching the rusty bronze key between his fingers while the rest of his assortment clanged in the pattering rain, the partisan produced forward his key, jamming the oxidized key into the contraption. He grunted, pushing his shoulder into the door as the grooves of the key stuck along the corroded slot, its tarnished chippings jamming back along his arm for every millimeter he pushed in, until eventually the lock gave way and turned with an audible chunk! The man sighed in relief, the heaving of his heavy breaths puffing mist like a steam train as he shoved aside the heavy oakwood door. Arseny cursed himself for volunteering for this damned mission; His profanity-lined expressions as he moved aside the country shed door peppered the constant patter of rain and distant summer thunder. The partisan knew the full importance of the mission - and the full danger of going alone - as Barynja Chaykovsky made him swear upon his life that he retrieve the cache entirely and undetected. The Devil take him if he wouldn't do it.

He leaned down as he entered, large beam-sections of the old shack creaking in as the rain stormed ahead. Pacing about the narrow midsection, Arseny squeezed himself between the wall and a tarp-coated tractor, shuffling his feet as he dragged soggy bushes of hay as he moved. As he finally nudged himself through the narrow path, the partisan dug beneath the dust-laden workbench, feeling about the straw floors. The wet straw formed into messy mounds, beneath the few centimeters of padding, his hands hand finally reached the solid, metallic coldness he searched for. Arseny wiped the rainwater dripping from his hair with his army cap, then fumbled about his keyring again. He quickly flipped through the verisimilitude of old keys again, plucking out a long, slender iron key. His spare hand brushed off the large metal box beneath, locating the tiny keyhole. The partisan gave a brief, narrow blow downwards, where particles of dust danced upwards like heavy snow. Finally, he gave one last brush-over of the lock and inserted the key with an audible ker-chunk!

Gripping the hay-covered handles of the cache box, Arseny propped himself upon the balls of his feet. He bent forward, straightening out his back, then, heaved upwards as he groaned and grunted as the giant stash resurrected from the Earth. The dark-haired partisan swung himself to the left, crashing the enormous box upon the nearby workbench, huffing all the while. His hands became busy at work, brushing off the final dashes of stuck hay, then he took two hands and flipped each side lever, heaving open the stash box.

The metallic shimmer from within the Red Army's cache was small, yet its contents glistened even in the dreary drizzle of the Ukrainian summer. Row after row of neatly-lined rifles, each separated by their own thin layer of packing paper, adorned the insides of the stash. Old Mausers, Mosin-Nagants, a few Wz's, and -
'Shit, is that a MG?' Arseny looked down, cracking a smile as he checking the status of the cargo, all the while in at what he was seeing for the fifth time today. He knew that Barynja Chaykovksy was good for the weapons - her and those Germans she was in with - but truth be told, Arseny expected museum pieces. But no, everything was all laid neatly inside, the polished wood giving off a shimmer like the brief luminescence of old tungsten light bulbs fading to black. Most of these guns looked like they were meant for collectors; From where Arseny stood - his impressed eyes scanning in steadfast approval - none of them had scratches nor wear anywhere to be seen.

He shut the large stash box with a sonorous thunk, tightening the two buckles on its side as he stared down at the front of the lockbox, then unto his feet. Arseny sharply inhaled, bending his knees just slightly as he tilted forth, heaving while he lifted the enormous metal box well over his head and slung it upon his shoulder while his beet-red expression exerted itself from the weight. Just lifting that hundred kilogram box? Easy as could be; Arseny had done worse in the camps in Lwow. But now? Now was the hard part. Now was when this man was supposed to shimmy his way back through the tarp-coated tractor, back through a sludge of soggy hay that ran so deep it was to be indistinguishable from the muddy bogs just outside. Arseny cursed beneath his breath, squeezing himself through the the narrow passageway, feeling every last zipper and spare thread along his patched-over war jacket catch along every splinter and jagger of the dilapidated shed walls. He would fume, squeezing himself through while immense weight of some dozens of rifles encased in this hulking safebox teetered him over with every odd movement. Sometimes, the box would bang across the walls, and the shed would shake so much Arseny instinctively glared upwards, praying to God that just this odd movement wouldn't cave the whole place down on him in it.

At long last, the partisan edged himself through to the other side, sighing in relief. Shifting the box around with his shoulder and right arm, he heaved the box to his waist level, carrying it in a more natural fashion. His straw-glued boots nudged the shed door open to a creek, where he finally simply slammed his shoulder unto the heavy egress to a complete opening. With his gait turning into a stagger not unlike the awkward waddle of a penguin, Arseny fumbled his way back along the mud-troughed footprint path he had left on his approach, all the while the steady downpour of the mid-morning amplified to a resounding drone. His eyes paced, nervously peeking out beyond the misty, dreary woods, constantly scanning the treeline for anything he could, the constant rain be damned.

The faint silhouette of his trusted wagon - and the ever so faithful, unbothered demeanor of Misha the Horse - brought with it a sigh of relief, mashed in with the grunts of his long haul. His shoulders dropped, his upright posture slumping to a relaxed slouch while Arseny hastened his pace to his vehicle. With one final huff, the partisan unfurled the cache, slamming unto the bed of his wagon with a mighty gasp. There, he pressed his palms up against the slippery, cold surface of the trunk, pressing it into place alongside other crates, some wooden, some metal, all displaying varied slogans and signs. Shifting his weight left, Arseny pushed the cache left, nestling it right in place next to the "Vasylyshyn Farms - Bulk Potatoes" crate.

He swung himself around the side of the wagon and sighed. Leaning an arm up against the wall of the wagon, he shut the back hatch closed, covering up his face as he'd protect the contents beneath. He plucked out a sheet of scratch paper, crumpled from a few hundred folds and almost sogging to the point of collapse, where he began reading out the list of stops on his daily "farming trip". Arseny still had 3 more stops to collect. But, by the time he and the others were done with all their pickups and back at base, his brothers and sisters in the Red Army would have more than enough to one-up the Whites.



2000s style pop-punk is making a comeback and i'm so happy



___________________________________
Eleonora Zofia Küchler-Sokołowšky, 22
________________________________________________________________________________________
Volhynia | Hoznán / Horazan, Volhynia, East Europan Imperial Alliance
___________________________________

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E

Leo towers over most women from the Federation in an almost statuesque posture, her fit and able frame honed from years of hellish regimen. Fair-haired and with two sparkling azure eyes, Sokołowšky's presence is - barring all else - nothing short of thoroughly impressive. Nestled beneath her army cap and helmet belies her back-length blonde hair, pinned up before battles. No matter where she may find herself, nor with how few resources, Eleonora makes a point to take care of herself, and takes immense pride in presenting her best appearance. Always presenting with a unshakeable smile, standing as upright as a mighty ancient oak, the Volhynian is always certain to exude an air of confidence about herself.

Eleonora's uniform is a piecemeal assembly of uniforms, strewn together over years of scavenging and stitching. Her singular constants are the iconic white, red, and navy armband of the Volhynian flag, which proudly adorns her left sleeve. She makes note to keep it spotless, always rubbing down any grime or gristle which taints it after each and every engagement.
---P E R S O N A L I T Y
"Extrovert" does not begin to describe the almost aggressive demeanor by which Eleonora carries. There are few instances in which Leo will refuse discourse..and even fewer in which she will not begin to indulge in all manner of queries until it becomes sickening. This, compounded by Leo's rapid pace of speech, couples together to form a thoroughly colorful vocabulary which leaves its audience wondering if what is spoken is truly what she had meant, or if she simply lacks the diction to hold a more fitting conversation. Perhaps a result of years spent around the Federation's most crass soldiers, Leo seems to be very comfortable asking the more blunt questions in life. She may come across as incredibly to-the-point, and perhaps a bit crude, yet Eleonore finds no fault in, "telling it how it is", as she puts it.

---B I O G R A P H Y

- Was raised in Hoznán, a large city in Volhynia (She will always insist that it is "Hoznán" and not "Horazan")
- Has 3 siblings
- Mother was a priestess
- Father was a comedian

---P O T E N T I A L S

Fierce Patriot: Eleonora will die for the Volhynian cause with nothing but joy in her heart and a smile on her face. Overbearingly outspoken about her admiration towards The Fatherland and its noble plight for freedom, she will never cease to "enlighten" others about the glories and wonders of Volhynia. To her, The Empire is a despotic, tyrannical regime which only desires total Europan domination - and if Volhynia and millions of others trapped within Imperial chains are to be free, it must be military defeated. She borders on fanaticism in her beliefs, and will seldom give any ground on any issues related to the cause.

"Ščo?": When Eleonora first signed on to the Volhynian Legions and arrived in Federation lands, she came not knowing a single word of the Federal language. Four years of immersion have helped her comprehension immensely, yet Leo is far from "fluent" in any regard; Her speech is heavily accented, and she often interchanges words she doesn't know with those of her native tongue, fishing for a response. She has heard commands and general phrases aplenty to not be confused with battlefield orders, but in more technical, verbose conversations, Eleonora may have trouble keeping up.

"Marš, Vołyniny, Marš!": East Europans are notoriously stubborn, and Eleonora fits this mold quite well. Equal parts valiant, foolhardy, and utterly obstinate, Eleonora refuses to allow any obstacle to slow the inexorable advance of her iron heart. She takes this in stride, often urging her comrades when they find themselves in despair to hold their heads high, always proud, and to forever march forward no matter the bleakness of their battle - For when the dust inevitably settles and the storm is weathered, Leo will say: "Never forget that we are saving nations and enslaved people!"

Veteran Legionnaire: From the moment the Great Europan War erupted, Leo immediately dedicated herself to the Volhynian Legion, trudging off to an unknown land with her comrades-in-arms to fight for a free Volhynia. She has spent four hellish years along the trenches and fields of Europa, and has survived some of its most brutal battles.

---E Q U I P M E N T


---A F F I L I A T I O N S

- Mihaiyl Feodor Sokołowšky (Father)
- Emma Küchler (Mother)
- Josef Gareon Küchler-Sokołowšky (Older Brother)
- Rozaliya Ksenia Küchler-Sokołowšky (Twin Sister)
- Riško Marcel Küchler-Sokołowšky (Younger Brother)

---R E L A T I O N S

None at the moment.

-
-A Template by Load Wraith


<Snipped quote by Yam I Am>

You may want to change the discord link settings to not expire, cause that one is expired too. Lol.

Also I am showing some interest.


You mean like this one? discord.gg/sKBCKZym
@Yam I Am I think the discord link is broken, it keeps saying I'm invalid.


Here, try this one. I just made it:

discord.gg/Nbhxc62M
So I'm guessing I just post my application here then?


Yeah, just plop it down here.

There's lotsa lore and stuff in the Discord, plus you can talk to like the 4 or so of us who are active there and work out relations and stuff.

And if you don't have Discord...well I guess I could go pester Yenny until they respond here.

Also please buy some Karynian brandy. It's simply delectable.
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