Tayibe, Iraq (Currently Under Control of the Islamic State)
November 9th, 2015
3: 27 P.M., Local Time
For a moment, there was a second sun in the Afghan sky.
The howls of men and dogs alike were silenced. Everyone stopped, arched their necks back, and uttered, in a variety of tongues, "Oh, sh*t".
The Dreadnaughts' helicopter was six million dollars with of machinery that was about to become six cents worth of scrap metal. The communications lines of the elite mercenaries it up with panicked queries for Belroth, manic cursing, and the equally loud silence of total shell-shock. The helicopter began tilting to the side as it very quickly slurred between flying and falling. It smashed into the ground, sending thunder rolling down the small, dusty alleyways of Tayibe and coughing up a cloud of black smoke not three hundred yards from where the Dreadnaughts had fast-roped in.
The city-if Tayibe could be called that- was in the middle of nowhere, about fifty or sixty miles from the nearest village, and its residents were as apt to die from dehydration and heat exhaustion as they were the Dreadnaughts' bullets. The village was a cluster of sun-bleached houses and a general feeling of dereliction-while there was a training camp for insurgents not far from the village, there was no doubt that this particular piece of Iraq was dying more quickly than the rest. Faces of the villages were scarred and weathered hands callused and shaky, and eyes dim and faded from years of the harsh desert sun. There were perhaps five or six thousand people in Tayibe, with a pretty uneven age divide: the constant influx of young men to the local camp made sure of that.
And, as of ten minutes ago, their demographics had changed. The Dreadnaughts were sent in on a very simple mission: somewhere inside Tayibe was a prisoner that the United States was willing to pay a hefty sum for. The Dreadnaughts were to come in, find the prisoner, and get back out. Simple! Just like the Battle of Waterloo and Operation Barbarossa were supposed to be. Unfortunately, some ISIS fanatic with an RPG had made that plan somewhat unfeasible. There was a very ominous change in the tide of the battle, as the Afghans, no longer beleaguered by Dreadnaught air support-and knowing their enemy had no means of escape-began shouting chants at the top of their lungs, loud enough to drown out the cacophony of gunfire. The Dreadnaughts very quickly found cover as seemingly the entire city of Tayibe began to descend on them; within a minute, things had gone from entirely-as-planned to being one of the roughest failures in the Dreadnaughts' history.
But this is what they got paid for.
A Look At The Dreadnaughts
The Dreadnaughts. Much like the city of Tayibe, they are entirely fictional, and much like the city of Tayibe, they are very deadly. They're unparalleled in the military world, an elite group of perhaps six to seven hundred mercenaries of peerless skill. All have come from dozens of countries around the world, ranging from special forces groups to the most prestigious hospitals to cutting-edge R and D departments. Regardless of where they hail from or who they hail to, they have one thing in common: They are damned good at their jobs. Charging exorbitant rates for equally unbelievable results, the Dreadnaughts have quickly cemented their reputation as the prime PMC amongst many others. Frequently getting contracts from The United States, Russia, China, and many other major players in the political arena, The Dreadnaughts have emerged as a small but nonetheless powerful blip on the global radar.
The Dreadnaughts, as you may have surmised, are who you'll be playing as in this RP. I have no idea why your character has joined forces with them: perhaps it's for the paycheck, which is...well, there's not a single Dreadnaught that needs to work a second job. Maybe it's for the prestige: there's a certain appeal to being a member of a group that even Delta Force and the Spetsnaz are impressed by. Maybe it's for the power-there's no doubt the Dreadnaughts are going places, and there's a lot of people out there who want to be on the winning team.
Regardless, you have one boss now: a man by the name of Belroth Daemond. Intelligent, charismatic, and a skilled strategist, he's carved the Dreadnaughts over the last nine or ten years into an elite group, and earned the respect of both his soldiers and world leaders alike in the process. An undoubtedly wealthy man, Belroth's origins are mysterious (the most that anyone has been able to deduce for sure is that Belroth was in some form of covert Cold War organization, and that he's in his fifties), likely because he changes his backstory every time he's asked about it. Belroth is a well-educated man who typically directs his troops from the front lines, normally overseeing his soldiers from a bird's eye view (aside from more sensitive, stealth-related missions, obviously), a stratagem which has proven to be unwise recently. However, he's certainly a skilled tactician, and is generally admired by the troops-but, given their paychecks, admiration is pretty damned easy to attain.
November 9th, 2015
3: 27 P.M., Local Time
For a moment, there was a second sun in the Afghan sky.
The howls of men and dogs alike were silenced. Everyone stopped, arched their necks back, and uttered, in a variety of tongues, "Oh, sh*t".
The Dreadnaughts' helicopter was six million dollars with of machinery that was about to become six cents worth of scrap metal. The communications lines of the elite mercenaries it up with panicked queries for Belroth, manic cursing, and the equally loud silence of total shell-shock. The helicopter began tilting to the side as it very quickly slurred between flying and falling. It smashed into the ground, sending thunder rolling down the small, dusty alleyways of Tayibe and coughing up a cloud of black smoke not three hundred yards from where the Dreadnaughts had fast-roped in.
The city-if Tayibe could be called that- was in the middle of nowhere, about fifty or sixty miles from the nearest village, and its residents were as apt to die from dehydration and heat exhaustion as they were the Dreadnaughts' bullets. The village was a cluster of sun-bleached houses and a general feeling of dereliction-while there was a training camp for insurgents not far from the village, there was no doubt that this particular piece of Iraq was dying more quickly than the rest. Faces of the villages were scarred and weathered hands callused and shaky, and eyes dim and faded from years of the harsh desert sun. There were perhaps five or six thousand people in Tayibe, with a pretty uneven age divide: the constant influx of young men to the local camp made sure of that.
And, as of ten minutes ago, their demographics had changed. The Dreadnaughts were sent in on a very simple mission: somewhere inside Tayibe was a prisoner that the United States was willing to pay a hefty sum for. The Dreadnaughts were to come in, find the prisoner, and get back out. Simple! Just like the Battle of Waterloo and Operation Barbarossa were supposed to be. Unfortunately, some ISIS fanatic with an RPG had made that plan somewhat unfeasible. There was a very ominous change in the tide of the battle, as the Afghans, no longer beleaguered by Dreadnaught air support-and knowing their enemy had no means of escape-began shouting chants at the top of their lungs, loud enough to drown out the cacophony of gunfire. The Dreadnaughts very quickly found cover as seemingly the entire city of Tayibe began to descend on them; within a minute, things had gone from entirely-as-planned to being one of the roughest failures in the Dreadnaughts' history.
But this is what they got paid for.
A Look At The Dreadnaughts
The Dreadnaughts. Much like the city of Tayibe, they are entirely fictional, and much like the city of Tayibe, they are very deadly. They're unparalleled in the military world, an elite group of perhaps six to seven hundred mercenaries of peerless skill. All have come from dozens of countries around the world, ranging from special forces groups to the most prestigious hospitals to cutting-edge R and D departments. Regardless of where they hail from or who they hail to, they have one thing in common: They are damned good at their jobs. Charging exorbitant rates for equally unbelievable results, the Dreadnaughts have quickly cemented their reputation as the prime PMC amongst many others. Frequently getting contracts from The United States, Russia, China, and many other major players in the political arena, The Dreadnaughts have emerged as a small but nonetheless powerful blip on the global radar.
The Dreadnaughts, as you may have surmised, are who you'll be playing as in this RP. I have no idea why your character has joined forces with them: perhaps it's for the paycheck, which is...well, there's not a single Dreadnaught that needs to work a second job. Maybe it's for the prestige: there's a certain appeal to being a member of a group that even Delta Force and the Spetsnaz are impressed by. Maybe it's for the power-there's no doubt the Dreadnaughts are going places, and there's a lot of people out there who want to be on the winning team.
Regardless, you have one boss now: a man by the name of Belroth Daemond. Intelligent, charismatic, and a skilled strategist, he's carved the Dreadnaughts over the last nine or ten years into an elite group, and earned the respect of both his soldiers and world leaders alike in the process. An undoubtedly wealthy man, Belroth's origins are mysterious (the most that anyone has been able to deduce for sure is that Belroth was in some form of covert Cold War organization, and that he's in his fifties), likely because he changes his backstory every time he's asked about it. Belroth is a well-educated man who typically directs his troops from the front lines, normally overseeing his soldiers from a bird's eye view (aside from more sensitive, stealth-related missions, obviously), a stratagem which has proven to be unwise recently. However, he's certainly a skilled tactician, and is generally admired by the troops-but, given their paychecks, admiration is pretty damned easy to attain.
