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Recent Statuses

1 mo ago
Current So, which one of us is gonna be the brave soul to explain how George Lucas beat-for-beat copied Joseph Campbell's work when he was making Star Wars in the 70s?
2 mos ago
Thanks to the All Lives Matter riots as a result of Chauvin's trial results, guess who got a brand new PS5?
4 likes
2 mos ago
You know, Bondeye, if this is what your dad did while you were growing up, that would explain a lot about you...
2 likes
2 mos ago
@Demonmiyu Select the part you want to recolor with the magic wand tool, then go to Window > Adjustments > Black & White. Make a new layer, set its Blend Mode to Overlay. Start recoloring.
2 mos ago
"Handsome", yes. "Cool"...eh, maybe in like, the same way Vanilla Ice thought he was cool.

Bio

Играње улога је увежбавање понашања које може бити неопходно у одређеним ситуацијама како би се испунила очекивања других или остварио неки лични, стручни или друштвени циљ. Играње улога се користи и у терапијске сврхе као техника самоосвешћивања и разумевања себе и других. Технику играња улога за потребе психодраме, развио је 1920. Јакоб Морено. Као Role Play Games (РПГ) постоји специфичан жанр друштвених и компјутерских игара путем којих се играчи стављају у улоге ликова из епске фантастике или научне фикције.

Рол плејинг је играње улога. Може се користи за увежбавање понашања како би се испунила очекивања или постигао циљ. Играње улога се може користити и у терапеутске сврхе ради понављања искуства из прошлости, али и стављања особе у другу улогу. Играњем улоге социјални радници често помажу клијентима да увежбавају стварне ситуације. Своју употребу има у различитим аспектима групног рада, образовању деце и менаџера и помагању појединцима да тестирају одређено понашање.

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-A Template by Load Wraith




Name:

Transcaucasian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic

Territory:



History:

The dissolution of the Russian Empire has proved to be one of simply agonizing lethargy. Having been ruled beneath the Russian crown since the 19th century, the many nations of the Caucasus had proven incredibly eager to recapture their independence. With the seeds of rebellion firmly planted throughout the Russian Empire during the chaos of the Great War, many Caucasian peoples vied for their freedom, including the Georgian National Union and the Armenian National Liberation Movement, and when the winds of insurrection blew across Russia fatefully in 1917, the rebels of the Caucasus too, sprang to life. From Tbilisi to Van, guerillas and skirmishers - many of whom had been veteran insurgents within the too-decaying Ottoman Empire - carried out their struggles in the dark of night and foggiest of days.

Courageous as they had been, many of the rebels had only limited support from the world at large. Having fought both nations in the Entente as well as the Central Powers, these movements would inevitably begin to run out of supplies and steam, as their international recognition more strongly favored the Ottomans and Russia. Although this season of rebellion had firmly come to a close with the final reestablishment of the Viceroyalty in 1921, the ideas which would power the cause of self-determination would never truly die. Secret societies convened at churches, revolutionaries plotted at dinner tables, all waiting for their right moment to strike once more.

The recent ascension of Tsarina Kira Romanov had once again thrown the decaying Russian Empire into full-blown crisis. Yet, within every crisis lay opportunity, and so was it that the many rebels of the Viceroyalty once more took up their arms for their cause. Beneath every banner and for every ideology was the conflict fought, with what few loyalists could keep a force to the monarchist revitalists, to republicans and socialists. Yet, when the dust had settled in 1951, the Caucasian Peasant's Front - led by the emphatic Viyan Petrosyan and the keen-minded Vasily Blyukher - had emerged as the dominant force in the region, forcing out the South Russian Imperial Army and the Chechnyan National League from the region and to the north. With their grasp on the region more fully established and the makings of a constituent republic in the works, Petrosyan and Blyukher have emerged as popular figureheads in the region, and now can afford to - at least temporarily - catch their breath.

As it stands, the Transcaucasian SFSR was formed from the remains of the former Tsar's Viceroyalty of the Caucasus. Former Bolsheviks and Mensheviks, Luxemburgists, Anarchists, and all manner of movements convene within its vast and varied territories, which has - unsurprisingly - resulted in political infighting. Befitting of this motley political crew, Transcaucasia stands as a thoroughly patchwork state carved from Russia: It is a vastly eclectic union of Russians, Armenians, Georgians, Chechens, Tatars, Azerbaijanis, Turks, and Kurds. Though tensions between the ethnicity have (many) a grievance against others, the presiding SFSR has managed to keep these sentiments under wraps...for the time being, at least.

Yet still, the young Trancaucasian Union has far from escaped many of the classical issues its constituent states historically possessed; It is besieged on all sides by unfriendly faces, only barely able to be supported by the greater European socialist powers via tiny ports in the Black Sea and shoddy airfields in Sochi. A belligerent Turkey to the West, an unkind Iran to the South, and the vastness of the Tsarina's unwelcoming realm to the North all belie Transcaucasia, all of whom have envied their eyes upon its lands and resources. Still yet a young nation, much of Transcaucasia is resource-rich and infrastructure-poor, with only the major arteries from Baku and Yerevan linking north and west to its Georgian ports, with little room for much else. It is blessed with perhaps the largest oil reserves in the former Empire, yet a monotone export economy cannot sustain Transcaucasia forever, for its geography limits its potential buyers to transports along Russia's former railways and those along the Black Sea.

All in all, Transcaucasia lies in a lamentable position, and must tread carefully if it is to fulfill its dream of a worker's paradise, lest it be devoured as it has so many times before.
Are you all still accepting applications for this RP?


Yeah, just gotta give an idea and pester @Dinh AaronMk to talk more about it.
[@Archmagos] and I decided to make another (kinda-) Russian warlord since Hugs is taking so long. I hope Evan doesn't decide to shoot us.






Name:

Transcaucasian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic

Territory:



History:

The dissolution of the Russian Empire has proved to be one of simply agonizing lethargy. Having been ruled beneath the Russian crown since the 19th century, the many nations of the Caucasus had proven incredibly eager to recapture their independence. With the seeds of rebellion firmly planted throughout the Russian Empire during the chaos of the Great War, many Caucasian peoples vied for their freedom, including the Georgian National Union and the Armenian National Liberation Movement, and when the winds of insurrection blew across Russia fatefully in 1917, the rebels of the Caucasus too, sprang to life. From Tbilisi to Van, guerillas and skirmishers - many of whom had been veteran insurgents within the too-decaying Ottoman Empire - carried out their struggles

Courageous as they had been, many of the rebels had only limited support from the world at large. Having fought both nations in the Entente as well as the Central Powers, these movements would inevitably begin to run out of supplies and steam, as their international recognition more strongly favored the Ottomans and Russia. Although this season of rebellion had firmly come to a close with the final reestablishment of the Viceroyalty in 1921, the ideas which would power the cause of self-determination would never truly die. Secret societies convened at churches, revolutionaries plotted at dinner tables, all waiting for their right moment to strike once more.

The recent ascension of Tsarina Kira Romanov had once again thrown the decaying Russian Empire into full-blown crisis. Yet, within every crisis lay opportunity, and so was it that the many rebels of the Viceroyalty once more took up their arms for their cause. Beneath every banner and for every ideology was the conflict fought, with what few loyalists could keep a force to the monarchist revitalists, to republicans and socialists. Yet, when the dust had settled in 1951, the Caucasian Peasant's Front - led by the emphatic Viyan Petrosyan and the keen-minded Vasily Blyukher - had emerged as the dominant force in the region, forcing out the South Russian Imperial Army and the Chechnyan National League from the region and to the north. With their grasp on the region more fully established and the makings of a constituent republic in the works, Petrosyan and Blyukher have emerged as popular figureheads in the region, and now can afford to - at least temporarily - catch their breath.

As it stands, the Transcaucasian SFSR was formed from the remains of the former Tsar's Viceroyalty of the Caucasus. Former Bolsheviks and Mensheviks, Luxemburgists, Anarchists, and all manner of movements convene within its vast and varied territories, which has - unsurprisingly - resulted in political infighting. Befitting of this motley political crew, Transcaucasia stands as a thoroughly patchwork state carved from Russia: It is a vastly eclectic union of Russians, Armenians, Georgians, Chechens, Tatars, Azerbaijanis, Turks, and Kurds. Though tensions between the ethnicity have (many) a grievance against others, the presiding SFSR has managed to keep these sentiments under wraps...for the time being, at least.

Yet still, the young Trancaucasian Union has far from escaped many of the classical issues its constituent states historically possessed; It is besieged on all sides by unfriendly faces, only barely able to be supported by the greater European socialist powers via tiny ports in the Black Sea and shoddy airfields in Sochi. A belligerent Ottoman Empire to the West, an unkind Iran to the South, and the vastness of the Tsarina's unwelcoming realm to the North all belie Transcaucasia, all of whom have envied their eyes upon its lands and resources. Still yet a young nation, much of Transcaucasia is resource-rich and infrastructure-poor, with only the major arteries from Baku and Yerevan linking north and west to its Georgian ports, with little room for much else. It is blessed with perhaps the largest oil reserves in the former Empire, yet a monotone export economy cannot sustain Transcaucasia forever, for its geography limits its potential buyers to transports along Russia's former railways and those along the Black Sea.

All in all, Transcaucasia lies in a lamentable position, and must tread carefully if it is to fulfill its dream of a worker's paradise, lest it be devoured as it has so many times before.




She looked over at the holophone, just waiting for the tone to return to that familiar voice. Her feet were kicked back up on the table, relaxed in tandem with her leaned-back frame as she lazed about the commons chair. Just behind her, the pulsating, infectiously catchy beats of electro-funk hummed through the vicinity. Lucina couldn't really stand the stuff normally. But, she cracked open the second can of grapefruit seltzer, nestling the can open with only one hand, and popped it open with just a switch of her finger. She even caught the tab on the nail of her middle finger, and flung it before her as she watched it whistle like a fighter in takeoff.

The redhead narrowed her eyes as the resonantly ringing circle of the call rung and rung, each time her brow crunching a bit harder after every spin, until her emerald eyes squinted themselves out of existence and right into a sigh of annoyance. Her head was thrown back, her whole mass of hair flinging up like a blast of wind in photographs, until it fell right unto the back of her chair, and Lucina's proper face was left uninterrupted: That natural face was her throwing back more than a sip, more than a swig, and plenty more than a swash of her drink, but was her swaying half the can in one gulp.

But finally, interruption came, and Lucina glued her eyes back unto the screen. The patient ring was cut off by the two-bit chime of the phone's answering jingle, and only mere moments after came the sound Lucina came to hear.


"Heyyyy bitch." Ah, and there it was, impeccable in her diction, as always.

"'Sup gorgeous." Lucina chimed. She cracked a smile, taking another sip from her seltzer.

There was a noticeable pause in the response. Just a beat, but too long to be interference. Lucina knew from just the few moments in between that Tori was giving one of her signature half-hearted, half-shoulder shrugs just over the other side of the phone.


"Just on that grind." Even the apathy was dripping from her voice.

"I feel that." She took another sip, just as she heard giggling over the other end of the phone, and Lucina couldn't help but smile in turn.

"Are you throwing one back already?"

Lucina's grin only got deeper.

"You fuckin' know it."

"Livin' the real CO experience!" Tori chuckled back, "You're not a real pilot until you're always drinkin' on the job."

"Yeah, I got an Aquaback I fill up with cranny vodka for PT rucks, too."

"That's my girl."

Another call rung through over the holophone. Lucina's emeralds glared over, checking the tiny status message in the corner of the screen as it flashed and hummed over their conversation. And with equally impeccable timing, it was her mother. Always the first one to call, and always the last person that Lucina wanted to talk to.

"Ugh, fuck...Can I take this?"

"Oh, another call on the line?" Tori inquired. Lucina tapped a few of the holo-buttons, bringing up the all-so-familiar profile up again. Her unbemused eyebrows barely raised - certainly not in any display of impression.

"Yeah, it's my mom again." she groaned. The pilot could almost feel the heaving groan Tori produced a system over.

"Yeah, better take that one..." Tori agreed. A beat passed, a tiny breath all that could be heard amidst the residual ringing of a held call.

"Hey, we still on for leave?"

"Yeah, def." Lucina confirmed.

"Awesomesauce. I still got those vouchers for Vancey's."

"Poggers~." she chirped back. Lucina had been wanting to see Skylar's Skybox live for years now. They fit the angsty, noxiously teenage pop-punk niche from the N all the way through to the E.

A flip of her hair back once more signaled the start of her mental preparation, a small ceremony she needed for every time she talked. The next course of action, of course, was another sip of her seltzer.


"Alright, cool. Can I call you back a bit later?"

"Yeah, that's ok. I gotta go do PT soon, anyway...guess i'll catch you later, Lucy." Tori knew how much she hated the name "Lucy". Lucina could picture her shit-eating grin she'd produce proudly upon her physiognamy over the phone, that one with the mile-wide grin and the toothy smile. Her only regret was that the ship didn't have the bandwidth to turn on holocall so she could meet it with her own wide-toothed grin. The transaction would have to suffice with Lucina's heavy sigh.

"Talk to you later, gorgeous."

"Seeeya!" A one-tone click confirmed the end of Tori's line. Lucina rigorously tapped on her holoscreen, preemptively tapping the exact location she was expecting the pop-up box to appear. It zoomed right into being after Lucina's barrage of flurried taps, and where would have been a grating survey on rating call quality was just as annoyingly dismissed.

Each time her mother called, Lucina had to shake around her head, just to ensure that she would remain awake and alert enough to, bar anything else, at least present herself as in some reasonably sober state. Judging from her mother's continued insistence upon calling her whenever a seemingly spare moment cropped up, the act had either worked like a charm...or - if Lucina's hunch was right - the truth of the matter was that she frankly no longer cared enough about her daughter's sobriety whenever the two talked. Even so, the act of effort might be a good enough one to provide some mascara of decorum between the two, no matter Lucina's wish to cast most of it off. She swung the holo-switch right, flashing the screen green as the telephone icon popped to life.


"Allo?" The whole time, Lucina sprung upright, keeping her voice straight as she adjusted her posture. She had to do her best "sober voice" for mother dearest, after all. This was a modest improvement, at least. Lucina did the math, actually: On average, she had a BAC of 0.14% whenever she was talking to her mom over the phone.

"Bună, Lucina!" (Hi, Lucina!)

"Bună, mama..." (Hi, mom...) At least in Romanian, Lucina could pretend to hide her clear distaste just a tiny bit better. Just a bit better. Maybe not enough for anyone who had been listening to her the whole time, but perhaps just enough to muddle her annoyance with just tiredness.

"Cum ai fost? Este totul în regulă?" (How have you been? Is everything okay?)

"Da, lucrurile stau bine, cred." (Yeah, things have been okay, I guess.) Lucina grudged along.

"Când te vei întoarce la facultate?" (When are you going back to college?) she pestered.

"Destul de curând..." (Pretty soon...) Lucina lied. Truth be told, Lucina wasn't sure if there was a college left in the galaxy who would take her after she flunked out of Intro to Communication three times in a row. And that was the class you took when you wanted to broadcast the fact that you went to college to party.

"Când lucrurile arată bine. Am ajuns destul de departe în programul din MAS, așa că vreau să văd unde merge acest lucru. De fapt, sunt pregătit pentru o promoție." (When things look good. I've come pretty far in the MAS program, so I kinda wanna see how this turns out. I'm up for a promotion soon, actually.)

Oh, that had done it. Bitter. That's what the silence was: Just bitter, emboldened defiance against all that she had said and done. She'd lived with her for years, and everywhere you go, with everyone you talk to, one will quickly learn the ancient wisdom that Latin momthers were always the same: There were just certain things you just never told your mom, whether you were Italian, Hispanic, French, Romanian, whatever, whenever. One simply never doubted the authority and infinite wisdom of their own mother.

"Dar nu poți face asta pentru totdeauna!" (But you can't do that forever!)

"Oh, iată-ne din nou..." And, she was off...

"Ce crezi că vei face când vei fi bătrân și nu mai poți pilota?" (What do you think you're going to do when you get old and you can't pilot anymore?)

Lucina groaned in response. Her eyes rolled to the side.

"Haide, Lucina ... te rog să nu fii ca tatăl tău. Trebuie să te gândești la viitorul tău." (Come on, Lucina...please, don't be like your father. You have to think about your future.)

An eye roll was the hard-earned reward of her mother's lecture. The former brunette had the entire routine down to a side show at the circus with the sheer frequency at which she had heard this exact comparison by this point. Bar no circumstance, the tirade always began with college, or education in that capacity, at which it would inevitably boil down to some manner of comparison with someone else. Her dad or her friends from high school - none of whom she could remember and all of whom she had miraculously spent the past three years scrubbing all memories of which from her immediate mind - were always favorite topics. If her mother had felt particularly poignant that day, she might bring up one of her too-many half-brothers or half-sisters, whom she would never refuse to comment on their most recent successes by which Lucina didn't care to know of. There were three parts to her mom guilt-tripping Lucina: And none of them worked.

"I mean, yeah. I went to college for three semesters to basically tell everybody that i'm a dumb bitch. But my future's lookin' good."

Lucina sighed back. Her hair fell right back into its natural, obscuring spot as she shook her head.

"Look, i'll send over some more money tonight." she answered, the wary acridness in her voice clear that she was no longer content to avoid the reason her mother called.

"Nu mai încerca să schimbi conversația, știi că nu este vorba de bani. Și de ce vorbești engleza?" (Stop trying to change the conversation, you know this isn't about money. And why are you speaking English?)

She felt her mother's long, wary sigh through the minute pause over the phone coursing through her like a gust of wind across an empty summer field. It wasn't even embarrassing or guilty. It was just awkward. Awkward and really weird. Lucina fumblingly rolled her eyes around the common room, as if scanning over for a hidden message written along the walls, even if she had suspected such an epistle was likely to read, "Be nice" or, "Do good", or some equally cryptic-and-not-at-all-helpful fortune cookie.

"Știi că vreau doar ce e mai bun pentru tine." (You know I just want to see you happy.)

"Da...stiu." (Yeah...I know.)

Truth be told, Lucina was never sure if she was living her very best life here, or if she was just so used to living a life of perpetual suck that there were never any cherished, "Good Old Days": Just times when things sucked just a little bit less. For whatever it may have been worth with Lucina's plethora of sorority girl wisdom, her time in the 101st had been the least terrible things had been in years. But, she digressed.

"Eu, uh...cred că trebuie să merg la PT." (I, uh...think I have to go to drill.) the pilot excused. In her other hand, she gently whirled around the near-weightless can, feeling for any vibration or reverberation. Just a tiny slosh clinked against the side, the gentle pulse ringing through her fingertips. Barely even enough left for a sip.

"Ok. Te sun mai târziu." (Okay. I'll call you again later.)

"Eu te iubesc, Lucina." (I love you, Lucina.)

"Te iubesc, mama." (Love you too, mom.)

Lucina neatly plinked the now-empty seltzer can onto the table, forming its neat trifecta with the other empty cans as the familiar "Call Ended" message cropped up on the screen. There wasn't much action this time around, Lucina simply responding to the call quality survey with an annoyed glower. Returning from a relaxed posture, Lucina at long last sat up in the chair as it was intended, slowly coming to with the empty commons. At least, anytime she needed a good sobering, she could count on her mom to kill her buzz.

Her head tilted over at the clock display, faintly glowing a muted neon green from her datapad. Drill wouldn't start for another few minutes, yet Lucina wasn't going to jeopardize drill too much by killing another can within the hour. Rising from her chair, the pilot lazily put on her signature earphones - the gigantic ones, with the insulated earmuffs that could block out the noise from point-blank gunshots and puffed out from your ears like they were enormous alien antennae from corny old sci-fi movies. A swipe and two across her datapad shuffled her playlist, and as she began the march down to daily drill, she drowned out the thoughts of her mother with the contagiously catchy tunes of Skylar's Skybox.
Can I play as Friggo Baggins, Frigga's distant cousin?


Dec. 30 - Command Trench Interior




"Brock shite isn't meant for anyone..."

Connor revoltingly turned a disgusted look into his coffee mug, as the faint reflection of the lamplight shined a rippling reflection of the blue-haired lieutenant in spade. The new brew from this morning specifically wasn't coffee. Instead, this was some "novel" medley, concocted by the Department of Logistics to, in their words as Connor recalled from last week's memo, "Make up for our current shortages by preparing alternatives". And, like most of the food prepared by the Department, the brew could be put in a pig's trough and the poor animal would fall dead by nightfall. Connor shot his disgusted look back, recalling the ingredients in the paper-sealed package: "Blended acorn grain and corn meal" What bloody idiot would think that pouring hot water over bloody acorns and corn mash would make coffee?

A dumb fuck, for certain. A dumb fuck for thinking of the bloody idea, and an even dumber fuck to keep drinking it after the fact. Connor dismayfully took another sip of the swill. Every time the scalding blend touched his tongue, Connor felt as if he was licking a cast iron oak tree on a hot summer day, with flaking rust scratching his throat the whole way down to his stomach.

"Is Private Farris on the fucking front line?!" The Captain demanded. He had taken a break from organizing - or more accurately, correcting - the Generals' plans for the January Offensive. Even considering the usual gruff tone of Captain Middleton, Connor could tell that this was going to be a long week for the CO's.

"How the 'ell am I s'possed to know?" Connor shot back, looking up from his table back at him. "You sent the bloody sergeant after 'er."

His response earned the two a matching set of mutual glares. Their set of reciprocal death-stares slowly drifted into their usual repetition, Middleton returning his eyes to the papers and maps while Connor stared back into his mug.

"You better have the troop assignments done."

"They're fecking done." Connor waved his office log back at him. His eyes didn't bother moving up from his cup.

A blast of cold air swelled from the outside as the trench door creaked open, the howl of the winter's day invading the room like water rushing through rapids. The lieutenant and the captain turned their heads toward the crevice, in sync like the

"Right on time." Connor commented. He rose from his cross-legged position, grasping the plans on the table on his way up. "You're Private Grumann or wh'ever, yeah? I got a new assignment for your lot-"

"Get the fucking assignment brief done, Connor."

"I'm bloody gettin' ta' it!" he returned. The two could hardly speak five words without getting into a standoff.

"...like I was sayin'..." he pivoted his gaze back unto the private. "You'll be with the new Corporal fer this one. Together on'nit y'll be with, eh..."

The lieutenant paused, tapping his notes.

"So-coal-o'-ski, Mehetabel, Lévesque, Blau, Fürst, Roe, Daunte, Schäfer, Morvan, and...eh, White?"

Connor took a moment to pause as he mentioned the name.

"'Ey, ain't she the one who gave birth to twin girls durin' the trench raid?" He inquired. Just after, he shook his head and waved in dismissal. "Eh, nah. Just remembered that was someone else. Anyway, y' new assignment's fer-"

Pausing, Connor scraped over his planner, the violent flipping between pages and tabs almost scratching the heavy canvas of the plans as it audibly echoed even through the usual jitter-jatter of the command room. Heavy huffs fumed out with every audacious page turn, steadily etching into a sonorous rhythm. Frustrated, he slammed the planner shut out of the blue, picking up his mug in his newly-freed hand and nudged the private along with his right elbow. The assignment's order of operation was listed out, anyhow; The details were what briefing was for.

"Eh, c'mon. Let's go for a lil' saunter. I'm gettin' tired o' bein' locked up in here."

"Blimey, he's a fecking sour-tittied old codger, in'nt he?" Connor vented, slamming the trench door behind him as he exhaled into the frigid air. Stretching his arms upward, he expired a wary sigh, the audible cracks of his sore bones clear even through the mid-afternoon's battlefield ambience.

Jolting his arm down into his pocket, jamming it like a knife into a watermelon, Connor fumed and fumbled about, his hand violently scrounging about his coat crevice like a panicking squirrel. Swiftly, he yanked his hand back, his argent pocket watch flipping open with the switch of his thumb. He squinted down at the device, clearly dismayed by what he saw.

"Where the feck is Corporal So-coal-o'-ski?!" he seethed through the winter's smoke. Connor shook his head, frustratingly shutting the watch with a violent slam. His head chafly looked side to side, seeing if he could spot her anywhere nearby, but after a few passes and scans, the Darcsen boiled in exhausted anger.

"You seen 'er anywhere, Private? Blond-'eaded lass with the Legion cap and a funny voice?" he spat out at Richard. Barely giving him any time to respond, he shook his head, putting an arm upon his shoulder and giving a forceful tug along as he started his slog through the trench snow.

"Ah, fuckit! We're going looking for 'er, c'mon!"


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