I'm new to the guild, and have been lurking for a little while. Nothing has come up that particularly interests me though :/ so I looked at some of your RPs, and pieced together my own.
Feel free to hammer me, considering my first post here is an RP itself. I've not GM'd before, but if it's just a matter of resolving player-issues and providing story flow, I'm sure I'll do fine.
Alternatively, a more experienced player is more than welcome to take this and use it... just let me know so that I can join!
If it does/doesn't suck, a little feedback would be nice so that I know for next time :)
Thanks for being wonderful and polite in advance! :)
Map of Chernarus.
Arma 2 Units for Ideas.
Chernarus History
RAGE Virus, based on 28 Days Later.
October 16th, 2015.
Chernogorsk.
Republic of Chernarus.
16:55
Yulian Stepanovich sipped at the fine porcelain mug, and did his best to savor the bitter sweet aroma of French coffee. He shifted uneasily in an uncomfortable garden chair, one of many set on the pavement outside of Nirov's Cafe. It was unusual weather for this time of year, but rain and cold was forecast for the rest of the week. The sun was high in the sky, even though the afternoon's fifth hour was fast approaching, and its warmth tore at Yulian's heavy thread blazer.
He dared not take it off, not yet. Though the time was nigh.
The aged Russian's eyes glanced over a lazily folded newspaper, set upon the table beside him. It wasn't his, but whoever left it there appeared to be inadvertently mocking him... although at the same time, they were inadvertently encouraging him, steeling his resolve.
The singular front page headline, half obscured, read, "Russia Remembers Red-"
Yulian's eyes narrowed, and he placed the porcelain mug onto the table with an audible knock. A few other patrons looked up from their distractions briefly, but their attention on him soon passed. The Russian, old and grey, lent back into his chair and pulled at his shirt colour. The heat was stifling, and sweat was running down his face.
He lifted his watch; an old Soviet-Army issue model. It was scratched and dented, but it still worked.
16:59.
Six years ago to the day, three generations of Yulian's family was snatched from him in the blink of an eye, in the flash of fire and shrapnel. His wife, his daughter, his son-in-law, his two grandchildren, Radmila and Violetta. Victims of some vague and irrelevant civil war. Their deaths were meaningless, the result senseless violence; a stupid political ploy to get Mr. Putin on board with Chernarus' communist rebels.
And now, this country was going to pay. The world, was going to pay. No more Russia, no more America, no more petty men with too much power, deciding the lives of innocents at a whim of their own delusional intentions.
No more world.
Professor Yulian Stepanovich, formely of Unit 291 operating our of Siberia since 1941, stood from his chair. A few children ran past him then, oblivious in their persuit of mindless fun. Their screams of joy and silly laughter distracted him from his mission, from his revenge, but only briefly.
Wrinkled hands fell to the buttons of his blazer, and undid them one by one. The jacket fell to the floor, revealing a tactical combat vest he'd worn back in '66. Strapped to it with duct tape, were several explosive devices, that were inturn overlapped with a layer of slim glass phials.
The phials contained a previously-thought destroyed virus, known as RAGE. It was a neurological agent, designed to heighten the anger of both man and animal to a point of blind, bloody minded murder. Victims cared only for passing on the contagion through contact of bodily fluids; they did not eat, they did not reproduce, they did not sleep and they did not stop until something stopped them.
By now, the other patrons had noticed him, and were edging away. He wasn't interested in them though; the cafe was especially busy, owing to the unusual summery weather. He turned, walked into the building to a chorus of screams, and then depressed the button on the detonator.
There were a series of thuds, and small scale explosions, and then the glass front of the building shattered into a thousand fragments. Dozens of shrapnel shards, coated in RAGE, pierced, decapitated and perforated everyone within the cafe, and also those immediately outside.
Yulian's severed head hit the floor, just as the first of his victims, bloody and torn, looked out at the city of Chernogorsk with delightful murder in their eyes.
Balota Airstrip,
Two miles from Chernogorsk.
18:21
Colonel Yan Urakov of the 1st CDF Motorized Battalion frowned at the reports streaming in from the Municipal Police Headquaters of Chernogorsk. Rioting had been reported on the streets, and the local police and National Militia were struggling to cope. Information was scarce, haphazard, contradictory and down right confusing, but all of it confirmed one thing: live ammunition had been authorized for use, but whatever was happening in the city, civil order had totally collapsed.
So much so, that Colonel Urakov had received orders from South Zagoria Military District to mobilize at once, and to put down what was being termed loosely as another Communist coup. He picked up the phone on his desk, and put in a call to his platoon commanders.
Balota Airstrip sprung to life with a series of sirens, bleating truck horns, rickety diesel engines and hurried shouts as the battle-tested 1st CDF Motorized Battalion hurried to their transports. Back in 2009, it would have taken an hour to get the unit moving, but that was then, and the CDF had come a long way.
As the column of CDF urals, each of them carrying a squad of infantry, approached the city, they came to a standstill. Chernogorsk was in flames, and an orchestra of intense but distant gun fire told the men and women of the 1st that whatever they were heading into one thing was for sure: their country was going to shit once again.
Back at the airstrip, Colonel Urakov reluctantly passed on the reports to the local U.S Army base, located on the island of Utes. He didn't expect them to help, even if the country had suddenly decided to plunge into another civil war, but the 2012 Chern-Am Cooperation Initiative demanded such things be shared. He sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and then headed towards the Operations Room.
The Americans, deciding to show support but without the firepower, dispatched a "peace keeping" contingent of marines to the city's harbor, under the pretense of evacuating American nationals from the beleaguered city. In truth, they'd picked up a few panicked transmissions from the Kremlin in Moscow through their diplomatic spying program, and were very curious as to what had Mr. Putin so riled up. These marines' orders were simply to secure the harbor, and to evacuate civilians fleeing the crisis. Tier One Operators in their midst were tasked with documenting the situation.
Meanwhile, Russian Spetsnaz appeared on Chernarus' northern border, infiltrating the nation as chaos reigned over its military. Their mission? Confirm the worst.
Confirm the end of the world.
Things in Chernarus are about to hit the fan. Chernogorsk has almost fallen in less than two hours, unless the CDF and U.S forces can purge the city of the RAGE virus... although this is unlikely.
Civilians fleeing the city are also being chased by the infected, and in this way, they will lead them to other settlements. The country will fall in days, not weeks, and then the RAGE virus will be unstoppable.
This is the start of the apocalypse! And your character's goal is likely to change rapidly from putting down the infected, to escaping and surviving them.
Be nice to each other.
Don't act like your character is invincible.
If you love war, know all the facts and numbers, please don't intimidate peasants like myself.
If you're a serving member of the armed forces, please don't flatten peasants like myself with your huge balls.
Post at least once in 3 days; don't leave people hanging.
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Nationality: Chernarussian, Russian, American.
Type: Military/Civilian.
Rank:
Unit: Either join the CDF column, or create your own Spetsnaz, USMC or other CDF unit... or join an existing unit made by a player.
Appearance:
Weapon:
Equipment:
Bio:
Feel free to hammer me, considering my first post here is an RP itself. I've not GM'd before, but if it's just a matter of resolving player-issues and providing story flow, I'm sure I'll do fine.
Alternatively, a more experienced player is more than welcome to take this and use it... just let me know so that I can join!
If it does/doesn't suck, a little feedback would be nice so that I know for next time :)
Thanks for being wonderful and polite in advance! :)
Map of Chernarus.
Arma 2 Units for Ideas.
Chernarus History
RAGE Virus, based on 28 Days Later.
Genisis
October 16th, 2015.
Chernogorsk.
Republic of Chernarus.
16:55
Yulian Stepanovich sipped at the fine porcelain mug, and did his best to savor the bitter sweet aroma of French coffee. He shifted uneasily in an uncomfortable garden chair, one of many set on the pavement outside of Nirov's Cafe. It was unusual weather for this time of year, but rain and cold was forecast for the rest of the week. The sun was high in the sky, even though the afternoon's fifth hour was fast approaching, and its warmth tore at Yulian's heavy thread blazer.
He dared not take it off, not yet. Though the time was nigh.
The aged Russian's eyes glanced over a lazily folded newspaper, set upon the table beside him. It wasn't his, but whoever left it there appeared to be inadvertently mocking him... although at the same time, they were inadvertently encouraging him, steeling his resolve.
The singular front page headline, half obscured, read, "Russia Remembers Red-"
Yulian's eyes narrowed, and he placed the porcelain mug onto the table with an audible knock. A few other patrons looked up from their distractions briefly, but their attention on him soon passed. The Russian, old and grey, lent back into his chair and pulled at his shirt colour. The heat was stifling, and sweat was running down his face.
He lifted his watch; an old Soviet-Army issue model. It was scratched and dented, but it still worked.
16:59.
Six years ago to the day, three generations of Yulian's family was snatched from him in the blink of an eye, in the flash of fire and shrapnel. His wife, his daughter, his son-in-law, his two grandchildren, Radmila and Violetta. Victims of some vague and irrelevant civil war. Their deaths were meaningless, the result senseless violence; a stupid political ploy to get Mr. Putin on board with Chernarus' communist rebels.
And now, this country was going to pay. The world, was going to pay. No more Russia, no more America, no more petty men with too much power, deciding the lives of innocents at a whim of their own delusional intentions.
No more world.
Professor Yulian Stepanovich, formely of Unit 291 operating our of Siberia since 1941, stood from his chair. A few children ran past him then, oblivious in their persuit of mindless fun. Their screams of joy and silly laughter distracted him from his mission, from his revenge, but only briefly.
Wrinkled hands fell to the buttons of his blazer, and undid them one by one. The jacket fell to the floor, revealing a tactical combat vest he'd worn back in '66. Strapped to it with duct tape, were several explosive devices, that were inturn overlapped with a layer of slim glass phials.
The phials contained a previously-thought destroyed virus, known as RAGE. It was a neurological agent, designed to heighten the anger of both man and animal to a point of blind, bloody minded murder. Victims cared only for passing on the contagion through contact of bodily fluids; they did not eat, they did not reproduce, they did not sleep and they did not stop until something stopped them.
By now, the other patrons had noticed him, and were edging away. He wasn't interested in them though; the cafe was especially busy, owing to the unusual summery weather. He turned, walked into the building to a chorus of screams, and then depressed the button on the detonator.
There were a series of thuds, and small scale explosions, and then the glass front of the building shattered into a thousand fragments. Dozens of shrapnel shards, coated in RAGE, pierced, decapitated and perforated everyone within the cafe, and also those immediately outside.
Yulian's severed head hit the floor, just as the first of his victims, bloody and torn, looked out at the city of Chernogorsk with delightful murder in their eyes.
Balota Airstrip,
Two miles from Chernogorsk.
18:21
Colonel Yan Urakov of the 1st CDF Motorized Battalion frowned at the reports streaming in from the Municipal Police Headquaters of Chernogorsk. Rioting had been reported on the streets, and the local police and National Militia were struggling to cope. Information was scarce, haphazard, contradictory and down right confusing, but all of it confirmed one thing: live ammunition had been authorized for use, but whatever was happening in the city, civil order had totally collapsed.
So much so, that Colonel Urakov had received orders from South Zagoria Military District to mobilize at once, and to put down what was being termed loosely as another Communist coup. He picked up the phone on his desk, and put in a call to his platoon commanders.
Balota Airstrip sprung to life with a series of sirens, bleating truck horns, rickety diesel engines and hurried shouts as the battle-tested 1st CDF Motorized Battalion hurried to their transports. Back in 2009, it would have taken an hour to get the unit moving, but that was then, and the CDF had come a long way.
As the column of CDF urals, each of them carrying a squad of infantry, approached the city, they came to a standstill. Chernogorsk was in flames, and an orchestra of intense but distant gun fire told the men and women of the 1st that whatever they were heading into one thing was for sure: their country was going to shit once again.
Back at the airstrip, Colonel Urakov reluctantly passed on the reports to the local U.S Army base, located on the island of Utes. He didn't expect them to help, even if the country had suddenly decided to plunge into another civil war, but the 2012 Chern-Am Cooperation Initiative demanded such things be shared. He sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and then headed towards the Operations Room.
The Americans, deciding to show support but without the firepower, dispatched a "peace keeping" contingent of marines to the city's harbor, under the pretense of evacuating American nationals from the beleaguered city. In truth, they'd picked up a few panicked transmissions from the Kremlin in Moscow through their diplomatic spying program, and were very curious as to what had Mr. Putin so riled up. These marines' orders were simply to secure the harbor, and to evacuate civilians fleeing the crisis. Tier One Operators in their midst were tasked with documenting the situation.
Meanwhile, Russian Spetsnaz appeared on Chernarus' northern border, infiltrating the nation as chaos reigned over its military. Their mission? Confirm the worst.
Confirm the end of the world.
The Story Arc
Things in Chernarus are about to hit the fan. Chernogorsk has almost fallen in less than two hours, unless the CDF and U.S forces can purge the city of the RAGE virus... although this is unlikely.
Civilians fleeing the city are also being chased by the infected, and in this way, they will lead them to other settlements. The country will fall in days, not weeks, and then the RAGE virus will be unstoppable.
This is the start of the apocalypse! And your character's goal is likely to change rapidly from putting down the infected, to escaping and surviving them.
Rules
Be nice to each other.
Don't act like your character is invincible.
If you love war, know all the facts and numbers, please don't intimidate peasants like myself.
If you're a serving member of the armed forces, please don't flatten peasants like myself with your huge balls.
Post at least once in 3 days; don't leave people hanging.
Character Sheet
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Nationality: Chernarussian, Russian, American.
Type: Military/Civilian.
Rank:
Unit: Either join the CDF column, or create your own Spetsnaz, USMC or other CDF unit... or join an existing unit made by a player.
Appearance:
Weapon:
Equipment:
Bio:
