Skythikon

Task Force Lima (COMPLETED)

Congratulations!

But now it's my turn to disappear for a while. Driving test coming up, followed by off-road driving and vehicular camouflage.

Candlewick [CLOSED]

Now that Connor thought about it, the writer's accent did not match any of those that could be found on the British isles, or at least those that he knew of. Her mention of New York was what made Connor guess that she was an American, and that simply added to the mystery of their presence in the room. Whoever, or whatever had brought them here certainly made sure that everyone came from different parts of the world, and if Connor was willing to entertain the idea, different periods of time as well. He had decided that the clothes everyone else wore looked far too strange and different to be from any part of the world that he knew; even the French probably did not dress the way the other two did.

Still, Connor decided to keep that theory to himself for now. It sounded ridiculous and silly even in his head, and the last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself. There were still parts of the world unknown to him, like the deepest parts of Siberia, the central Asian plains and Canada. That made for a lot of places the other two could have come from. "Ah, I apologize. I haven't heard of that book." Connor said sheepishly and scratched the back of his head. "I don't think there was a bookstore on the part of the Shetlands I lived in, and we only do get books every once in a while from the steamers that roll through every week or so."

He cleared his throat. "But New York? I hear that it's more Irish than Ireland nowadays. Can't say I'm surprised. The English are doing grand ol' job in making us leg it for the New World." He said with a grin, and was about to ask about what the writer had meant when she said that she was going to school to be an accountant. As far as Connor knew, that was something you learned as an apprentice, not something you could master by simply flipping through a book. However, he noticed that her attention had be drawn by another person who had woken up.

The other girl looked terrified, though Connor could not say he blamed her. He could tell that she too had come from somewhere far away - the newspapers and tabloids had been filled with news about the ongoing war in some nation in the middle east, and if he ignored all the traits that were obviously added in for propaganda purposes, the girl more or less fitted the description of someone from the region. Or, at least according to Fleet Street. "Don't be too afraid, we're all friends here." Connor said, though he kept his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword bayonet. He nodded to the other two with him. "They haven't tried to lynch me for being Irish, so I'll vouch for them."

Candlewick [CLOSED]

"I was a soldier," Connor said lamely. It was probably painfully evident from his red-and-black uniform that he was from the British Army, but then again, he was not so sure. The other two people - the gardener whose name Connor was not even going to try to pronounce and the writer - wore clothes that were completely unknown to him. Just by the presence of Suichiro, Connor was quite certain that they were all from different parts of the world. That was certainly going to make things difficult; it appeared that Suichiro could speak English, but Connor was not going to count on everyone knowing the language.

"Militia, to be specific. I'm actually an artist. Strictly amateur, but it makes enough money for me to get by." Connor corrected himself. "My regiment went on exercise the day before and I fell asleep as soon as I got home. Pity, I heard that the scenery would have been especially astounding today."

He turned to the writer. "A professional writer? You must be quite well-off, then. You certainly look a lot better than any of the others that I know of, though the Shetlands aren't exactly conducive for anyone hoping to be well-known. Have you written anything that I might have read?"

Candlewick [CLOSED]

There can never be enough FC4 playthroughs. (I'm assuming it's Far Cry 4)

Candlewick [CLOSED]

Engine Room

All Connor wanted was just a good night's rest.

The day before had been incredibly taxing. Not only was it the coldest day of the year, it was also the one day when he had to marshal out with the rest of his regiment to go on some exercise to prove that yes, they still knew how to fight. Even though he went along with it like every other militiaman, Connor never saw a point to the exercises. The Shetlands were about as far away from civilization as one could get without going to darkest Africa or the ends of the Earth. The most 'action' they ever saw just involved a handful of them sailing out to chase away Danish or Norwegian fishermen who entered British waters.

He was so worn out by the time he got home that he had simply just dropped his rifle on the floor and fell face-first into his bed, still wearing his uniform. Washing up was something that could wait till the next day, he had thought. At that point in time, he wanted nothing more than to just close his eyes and sleep. Thus, when he woke up and found himself in a place which he could only describe as being a cross between a dream and nightmare, he felt his heart skip more than just a single beat.

He quickly got to his feet and looked around him. There were others with him, some asleep, two awake and seemingly busy doing something with some odd contraption that he had never seen before. In fact, the entire room was alien to him; it looked like one of the engine rooms of the steamers which occasionally docked at the Shetlands for resupply, but at the same time, it looked far too advanced, like something out of a writer's imagination. He did not like this at all, but forced himself to remain calm. There was no way he was going to get anything done if he started panicking, though for the first time, he found himself wishing he had his rifle with him.

The second thing he did was to look down at his own body. Yes, he was still in his uniform, and it still looked as dirty as it was when he fell asleep in it. He took a look at each of the people around him. While they looked normal - or at least what he thought was normal - he still found himself feeling more at ease when he felt the hilt of his sword bayonet, even though it was notched and worn from being used for everything other than its intended purpose.

Once he had gotten his bearings, he figured that if he was going to find his way out, he was going to have to work with the people around him. The two studying the contraption looked approachable enough, and so Connor carefully made his way towards them. "This was not how I wanted to wake up," He said and cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone as light as he could. "Connor O'Flaherty. I take it neither of you know what's going on either?"

Crossed Lines (Cold war-era nuclear apocalypse survival)

Thought I'd throw this out again to see if I'll get any bites this time around.

1983, Germany

NATO carries out Exercise Able Archer. It was to simulate an escalating conflict with the Eastern Bloc, starting with a conventional conflict and culminating in a DEFCON 1 situation with the activation and firing of nuclear weapons. However, as misfortune would have it, on the day NATO started simulating preparations for a nuclear war, Soviet intelligence were attempting to detect the early signs of a nuclear attack. Soviet nukes and air units were thus placed on alert, but nothing was done yet.

After seven days of watching NATO shift their armies around the inter-German border, and with senior members of the Politburo and Soviet military utterly convinced that the exercise was a ruse to disguise actual preparations for an assault on East Germany, the Soviets began to build up their own forces along the border. Knowing full well of the M.A.D (Mutually Assured Destruction) doctrine, the option of using nuclear weapons as a 'first strike' was still off the table.

On day nine, just a day before Able Archer was to end, a telegram received by the KGB from one of their agents incorrectly stated that NATO was indeed ready to begin an offensive within no less than a week. This was the straw that broke the camel's back and on the 11th of November, 1983, the Soviets carried out a massive offensive all along the inter-German border with distracting skirmishes along the German-Czechozlovak border.

The offensive managed to catch NATO by surprise. While they had been expecting a Soviet reaction, an offensive on a scale which rivaled Operation Bagration was not something they had seriously considered. Within a week, the Soviets had reached the Danish border and were dangerously close to reaching the Dutch and French borders. Reinforcements were still at least two days away, and that was two days which NATO did not have. Thus, it was decided that WMDs would be used. It started with small-scale chemical warfare targeted at the flanks of the Soviet armies. In return, the Soviets deployed their own gases and toxins.

Eventually, one side decided that enough was enough. Tactical nukes were unleashed on the battlefield, with each strike obliterating entire armies. Tactical nukes soon gave way to strategic strikes. Much of Germany, Austria and in fact the majority of central Europe was reduced to a mass of burning cities and unrecognizable wastelands within minutes. Cities further away, such as Paris, London, Moscow or Washington, D.C were only spared after cooler heads prevailed - Ten days too late.

The brief but devastating war ended half a day after the last nuke fell. Neither side wanted to concede defeat, but neither side had anything left to give. Almost all of NATO's European armies were destroyed, as were most of the Warsaw Pact's western army groups. Whatever survivors there were were now trapped in a desolate wasteland stretching from the German-French border all the way to Central Poland. Some units continued fighting, unaware that the war had ended. Others tried to restore order where they could, with each brigade, battalion, regiment or even company carving out territories of their own in the wasteland.

Most, however, simply wanted to survive in the new hostile world.

----

So basically that's a background to this RP. It'll be largely open world, but from time to time I'll throw in a plot line or two to keep things interesting and eventually I will introduce the main plot (Probably going to involve a group of survivors trying to fight their way to civilization or something like that.)

Candlewick [CLOSED]

Name: Connor O'Flaherty

Age: 25

Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.

Occupation: Artist/Militiaman

Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.

He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.

History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.

In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.

After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.

It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.

Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up.

Candlewick [CLOSED]

Name: Connor O'Flaherty

Age: 25

Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes.

Occupation: Artist/Militiaman

Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.

He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time.

History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.

In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.

After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.

It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.

Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up.

Candlewick [CLOSED]

Just gonna reserve a spot for my CS over here. Say, just asking, would an artist who was also a member of the local militia due to national obligations be considered someone in a 'violent' profession? They don't fight wars or do any fighting, they just pretend to be soldiers one week out of every month, or something along those lines.

Candlewick (a fantastical seafaring RP)

Interesting, but what of characters whose profession would have had them be somewhat knowledgeable in combat and the like? Say, a militiaman from some Victorian era nation. Not a soldier by a longshot, but not exactly clueless either.