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    1. Rata Tat Tat 11 yrs ago

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Seven years.

It has been seven years since the Ishval Civil War began, a conflict that embroils most of Eastern Amestris and has cost the lives and futures of many good men, women and children on both sides. Supported by their conviction and enemies of the state, the Ishvalan rebels have endured longer than anyone expected they would. No peace has been managed, no true ground gained--what should have been a simple extermination has turned into a fiasco with nothing but a rising toll to show for it. But such gridlocks cannot last forever, and true to form the Amestrian government under Führer King Bradley has had enough. A single Presidential Order will turn the tide of the war, and while historians, critics and survivors will be be scarred in its passing, it has been issued regardless:

Order #3066. The deployment of the State Alchemists.

The time has come for the Dogs of the Military to come to heel, bare their fangs and lunge for the throat of the enemy. In the name of Führer King Bradley and Amestris itself, you have been called to the front lines to ply your craft, not as a scientist, but as a soldier.

And you will answer.

You gave up your right to refuse long ago.
I've apparently had this rattling around in my head for long enough that it seemed like a decent enough thing to throw it up there.The short of this is that you will be playing State Alchemists immediately after Order #3066 is enacted--the order that strips conscripted Ishvalan members of the Military of their rank and brands them as traitors to the state and, more importantly, orders State Alchemists to the front lines.

As everyone who has read/watched the series knows, this is a Bad Thing.

Like the interest check it is, this post will not cover much about the character generation or whatnot, though be aware that I am reserving the right ahead of time to be a dick for the sake of the game and will have several requirements to force original, interesting and real characters. This will not be a happy roleplay, by and large--it won't all be combat, and indeed combat isn't the point, but your characters will be the instruments of what will become known as the Ishval Massacre (for a reason), and they'll be expected to deal with that. Mature content is likely to ensue. There is a plot, and there will be breaks from it, and if we're very, very lucky and it seems to be working for me I might continue it with a follow up and we'll see what the characters grow into after the war.

If it works, we'll pull together something fun and tragic and dark with a bit of honesty and, if we're shooting for the moon here, maybe a little truth to it.
Definitely interested. Lemme know when nonsense begins.
As long as she doesn't mind winding up with a few pierced snakes. Needle would get bored after finding out they don't go anywhere when you ride them.

Although that does provide an awful lot of opportunities for terrible innuendo.
You...don't want to give Needle a wisp.

That would end badly.
I'll toss my hat to the game, why not. See if it goes anywhere.
For a globb, you're awfully glib. Let's give this a go, then. I couldn't resist.

I can't quite tell what spots are and are not taken as of the moment,and can change if necessary, but I figured I'd toss my hat in for this game's Special Snowflake award..

Similarly uninspired, I'm afraid, but if nothing else it will get the ball rolling.
As she stood and listened to the Colonel speak to the others, Sasha stood at idle attention beside the German boy and waited for the storm to pass. Landsfeldt cut an imposing figure with or without his cybernetics, but Sasha knew a good soldier when she saw one. You didn't get to be a man like him without having earned it, and if only for that and the fact that he recognized that she was worth putting into his 'elite team' she gave him the respect he deserved. In contrast to the fidgety Feuer she stood still and patient, her hands crossed below her slight bosom and her eyes watching the Colonel's back as he spoke to her soon-to-be squadmates. He liked them, that much was clear—enough to put up with their eccentricities and their failings, which was impressive enough from a man like him. Enough to call them his 'elite team', and enough to try and breath new life into them.

So be it, as it were. As she followed Feuer into the room, she took the added time to size them up a bit.

It hadn't taken her long to get an impression of the caged animal they called a boy that stood with her in the hallway. He barely knew what to do with himself in uniform, that much was clear—it took all the discipline he had just to stand still, and even then he did it poorly. A hotheaded hotshot of a pilot, but one that could back up his bravado according to what little she'd gleaned about him from what passed for his report, and that wasn't nothing. In Sasha's mind there was nothing wrong with commenting on your own excellence as long as it could be proven, and he seemed so eager to get the chance to prove himself that he was practically jumping out of the black uniform they'd stuffed him in. As he trundled off to get himself changed, she wondered idly if he would have what it would take to 'play nice', orders or no.

The other three, the squad proper, seemed...put out. Perhaps she would too, in their situation. None of them got here by being slackers, and failure was a hard lesson to learn. It seemed to have hit the girl of them hardest. Secretly Sasha was glad for another female in the mix, if only to have someone else to cut the machismo that in her experiences male pilots tended to exude in droves. She caught whiffs of it from Richard, the boy with the glasses, and also from Roman though she could hardly tell why. They all of them looked bored, if not complacent, and as Feuer stalked off to change she found herself making her way to one of the arm chairs.

“What a lively bunch you are.” She offered with a wiggle of her fingers by way of greeting, sinking into the chair with a slight sigh and rolling her shoulders to relax. Tense by training and nature if nothing else, she looked to them idly and smiled past a small scar that tugged at her lip on the left. “Sasha, a pleasure. I'll be providing fire support from the Ulanova. Is he always so brusque?” She added with a gesture of a thumb to the sliding door, indicating the now-absent Colonel. Flicking the buttons at the front of her uniform, she opened it up on one side to reveal a white tank-top and unselfconsciously brought an ankle to the top of her knee, ignoring the skirt of her uniform. Ridiculous, that they had women wear skirts in a military academy, but from what she'd heard this was as much prep-school as anything else.
There we are. Got something up, at least.
Watching her and flittering down to the table, Needle was almost disappointed with how rational she seemed. He had always liked the wyldlings—their danger, their hunger, the raw need they lived with spoke to him as few other creatures did. They were as desperate as he was for something more than the awful smoke and grime of life, and this he appreciated. Still, rationality had its uses, and if she wouldn't be swayed by the simple fun of it then he had other methods of convincing her.

He'd made sure of it.

“It's not unusual for him,” he agreed with a smile, letting his leather-bound feet touch the table and tapping across the wood with soft clicks of his heel, “especially when plotting. Or scheming. Whichever you might call it—either way, he wants you here and didn't tell you why because he's sold you out. They,” he emphasized the word, “want you too. And that's something that neither of us will find a good thing.”

Walking forward to watch her, one foot in front of the other, Needle eyed up her concoction. He'd other chemists, of course, or at least others that owed her favors, but her skill was impressive. She kept an eye on her wares and hadn't sampled overmuch—certainly nothing in the room had turned colors or started walking—and focus and control were something the precocious little pixie could appreciate. “What I want from you instead is your help. By all means, make me some glam—I'll never say no, and there's a great many friends I can think of that would love to sample your wares. But I need a bit more from you than that, and not something I'm willing to discuss here. But I'll promise you this, here and now--”

And then a single note, a woven little thread worked its way from the door and waltzed it's way into Needle's lizard-brain like an arrow through a storm. Just a hint of it—there were doors and clamor and glamour in the way, after all, but it was enough to set him reeling with the way things had been before. The crying and the fucking, the crawling over and under and in the middle of his own kind, shivering in a swarm, as mindless as ants and just as misgiven, adrift in the sea of--

“What the fuck was that?”

In an instant the needle it he held behind his back was out, waving like the tip of a sword towards the alchemist even as he clutched his head. She wasn't an elf—no memories like that could have surfaced from some hollow emotion. She wasn't a satyr, and the one that Auntie had pauper-pulled from the streets wasn't strong enough to pull that up. This was something new, something awful that drew the memories like poison from an open wound, and Needle was dripping with them, gushing. No one should be able to pull that from him, that was his--

Focus.

The bite of the needle through it's little palm was enough, the sharp little tip hissing through it's soft skin enough to make it gasp. Red blood welled where the point bit in, a tiny drop not even the size of morning dew that matted his clenched fingers as he pulled away and jammed the needle into the wood with a grunt. The fingers in its red hair bit into the scalp, enough to draw the thought away and focus. Whatever that was, he couldn't let it distract him. He couldn't. Not when he was this close.

He breathed, and laughed, and looked back to her with mad little eyes that glittered shark-dark in the light.

“Sorry, lovely, I got a bit scrambled. Someone about there's playing with what they shouldn't. But back to my point,” he forged on in spite of himself, trying to salvage something of this, “you need me. Adin's betrayed you, the fae are on their way, and if you want to be something more than a little twinkling star you need my help. Price or no, and I assure you mine isn't high. Just a bit of light ready, bedtime stories and fairy—hah!—fairy tales.” History was a fairy tale, because fairies had lived it. Breathed it. Watched it happen and jotted it down and remembered it in ways that humans would never understand. Most pixies didn't, either, but Needle--

“So tell me, precious,” it said again, propping itself up on it's little needle as it watched her, half-tattered wings twinkling behind it, “if I told you right now that the Queen of Souls was after yours, would you let me fix that for you?”
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