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6 yrs ago
Current "Out of every hundred men, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are targets, nine are the real fighters, for they make the battle. But one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back." -Heraclitus
3 likes
7 yrs ago
"I have resolved never to start an unjust war, but never to end a legitimate one except by defeating my enemies." -King Charles XII 'Carolus Rex' of Sweden, 1700
1 like
7 yrs ago
“Civilians are like beans; you buy 'em as needed for any job which merely requires skill and savvy. But you can't buy fighting spirit.” -Robert A. Heinlein
5 likes
8 yrs ago
"The soldier is also a citizen. In fact, the highest obligation and privilege of citizenship is that of bearing arms for one’s country” -General George S. Patton Jr.
3 likes
8 yrs ago
"Wine has drowned more than the sea." -Roman proverb
6 likes

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Working on my sheet. I'm just under halfway through.
Count me interested.
Might as well try this out. Hit me up with them rolls.
<Snipped quote by CaptainBritton>

Good question, and most likely one of two (weigh in if you like), those being either the Late Sengoku into Early Edo period - so the intersecting years between the two - or the more general Edo period, essentially when the act of musha shugyō became prevalent due to the arts of war and swordsmanship becoming organised and categorised into schools. I'd also consider the Late Edo period, which would probably end up leading to a 'Last Samurai' sort of thing...without Tom Cruise.

Not sure that actually answers the question, but I am open to opinions and so on.


In that case, what is your stance on Nanban technologies, such as arquebuses shipped through Tanegashima, Portugese-tempered steel, or even Red Seal ships if that were to come into play somehow?
Interested. As a further question, what period of feudal Japan might this be based? Kamakura, Sengoku, Edo/Tokugawa, Early Meiji/Boshin?

Count me interested.
Private First Class Roland Kertesz
UNSC Eternity Abroad
0645 hrs
March 3rd, 2526



"Goddamn." Roland muttered coldly and quietly as he ambled around, BDU strapped up and on, with the chest plate's straps still hanging loose and his helmet fastened by its chinstrap to his battle belt. "Need fuckin' earplugs to even walk around in here." He said, louder this time, not that it could be effectively heard over the din. He stood near the assembly area where the Marines would organize by company, and then into platoons to board their Pelicans.

He glanced around. No gas here, no gas there, open flight deck and a couple engineers on their smoke break nearby. He took the answer to his silent question and tugged at a plastic carton tucked into a pouch secured behind his chest plate. Once flicked open, he retrieved a rather worn down butane lighter and a good ol' Lucky Strikes. Popping it between his lips, he flicked at the lighter's striker until it produced a flame. He shielded his hands over the flame and held it to the death-stick, the end glowing a volcanic red.

With a quiet click he stowed the lighter and then the carton, and placed one hand upon the cigarette, grasping it between his index and middle finger, and using his other hand to idly tug at the balaclava which was pulled down and ruffled around his neck. His MA5 swung idly at his hip, the mag well empty, and his M6 was in its holster but not secure.

Seemed he was early, he mused. Briefing didn't start for another 15 minutes, as his combat-proof watch fastened over his sleeve on his right arm demonstrated. So he glanced around, observing the armor which he'd known so well, studying over the details again. His name was neatly stenciled on the front of his chest plate and the back, and on his helmet. He wore two pairs of tags as standard. Around his neck, a pair with silencers clearly demonstrated his name, rank, blood type, religious preference, and gas mask size, as was standard. An identical set was secured into his shoes. He hated to have known what it was all for. Printed in a uniform fashion on his left pauldron was his blood type, AB+, in large black letters. The opposing pauldron housed a single stripe, the mark of a PFC.

And it soon bored him even more. He finally ambled up to the rows of folding chairs that doubled as a briefing and assembly area. There were at least enough chairs present for an entire company. And each and every row was sectioned off by platoon and then subdivided into squads. Finding his squad's area, he lowered himself into the seat and pulled his chestplate tight, glancing at his watch as he snuffed the now entirely smoked cigarette, disposing of the butt. 10 til briefing. He leaned back and waited.
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