TomeBinder Member
Volumes Untold
- Last Seen: 10 yrs ago
- Joined: 10 yrs ago
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Username history
- TomeBinder 10 yrs ago
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10 yrs ago
Not so sure I agree with this facebook stuff anymore. I'd rather go back to pretending everyone on here wasn't... well, you know what I mean ;)
10 yrs ago
It's my Birthday. I am drunk, and will get worse as the night draws in. That's... that's all. Now all I need is an option to post all the messy photos :P
Bio
I like to write stories, and no genre is beyond me.
Short, sweet and to the point.
Short, sweet and to the point.
Most Recent Posts
The bandit leader got back to his feet screaming with agony as he realised two arrows were jutting from his back. He gritted his teeth at the Argonian, but then lost his nerve. He turned to run, just as a magelight caught his face, blinding him with an impossible light. He swung his sword left and right, twisting wildly as if batting away a dozen attackers. A third arrow struck him in the neck, and he fell to his knees with a series of gurgles.
The fight was over.
An eerie silence set upon the scene as the agents of The Collector gathered together, to assess the carnage. Two of their number had been slain; hapless fools who were no match for the common highway man, it seemed. After rooting through the corpses, they found nothing but third-rate armour and weapons, and a few septims. They left the dead on the road - there wasn't time to bury them, not with the bandits still possibly at large.
But what had happened to Helgen? It seemed impossible to all of them that some bandits had managed to overrun the Imperial garrison. This warranted further investigation, but first, there was a bottle of mead that needed to be gathered. They assembled before the gate, weapons ready in case more of the bandits lay within.
Before they proceeded though, they were alerted by footsteps coming up from behind. Thinking they were being flanked by foes, the agents turned, ready for battle. However, all they saw was a heavily armoured Orc warrior, and by her side, the leather-clad slender figure of an Imperial woman. The newcomers quickly held up their scrolls, signed by The Collector's distinctive seal, and so the group had become a party of six.
Together, they proceeded through the gate.
Helgen was a burnt ruin. Houses had been reduced to scorched timbers, the roads were scattered with debris and blackened bodies, and the keep's towers had been smashed apart. What could do this kind of damage, no one knew, but then no one cared. The tavern lay up ahead, or what was left of it. They'd search there first for the mead, and hopefully, they could be on their way within minutes.
And then a volley of arrows flew in from the ruins, and a half dozen battle cries sounded. The arrows narrowly missed the survivors, or were deflected by the armour of any they hit. However, six burly Nords, dressed in bandit attire, rushed from three directions. Four more of their comrades, carrying Imperial bows, followed.
Behind all of them, stood a man who was seven foot tall, and possibly six foot wide. A giant of a man indeed, carrying a large maul. One of his eyes was obscured by an eye patch, and a massive black beard surged down from his shaven head. He laughed heartily, clutching his pulsing abdomen.
"KIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLL THHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEM!" He roared.
The fight was over.
An eerie silence set upon the scene as the agents of The Collector gathered together, to assess the carnage. Two of their number had been slain; hapless fools who were no match for the common highway man, it seemed. After rooting through the corpses, they found nothing but third-rate armour and weapons, and a few septims. They left the dead on the road - there wasn't time to bury them, not with the bandits still possibly at large.
But what had happened to Helgen? It seemed impossible to all of them that some bandits had managed to overrun the Imperial garrison. This warranted further investigation, but first, there was a bottle of mead that needed to be gathered. They assembled before the gate, weapons ready in case more of the bandits lay within.
Before they proceeded though, they were alerted by footsteps coming up from behind. Thinking they were being flanked by foes, the agents turned, ready for battle. However, all they saw was a heavily armoured Orc warrior, and by her side, the leather-clad slender figure of an Imperial woman. The newcomers quickly held up their scrolls, signed by The Collector's distinctive seal, and so the group had become a party of six.
Together, they proceeded through the gate.
Helgen was a burnt ruin. Houses had been reduced to scorched timbers, the roads were scattered with debris and blackened bodies, and the keep's towers had been smashed apart. What could do this kind of damage, no one knew, but then no one cared. The tavern lay up ahead, or what was left of it. They'd search there first for the mead, and hopefully, they could be on their way within minutes.
And then a volley of arrows flew in from the ruins, and a half dozen battle cries sounded. The arrows narrowly missed the survivors, or were deflected by the armour of any they hit. However, six burly Nords, dressed in bandit attire, rushed from three directions. Four more of their comrades, carrying Imperial bows, followed.
Behind all of them, stood a man who was seven foot tall, and possibly six foot wide. A giant of a man indeed, carrying a large maul. One of his eyes was obscured by an eye patch, and a massive black beard surged down from his shaven head. He laughed heartily, clutching his pulsing abdomen.
"KIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLL THHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEM!" He roared.
Righty'o, I'm off to bed, but I know you Americanos are awake during my twilight hours. So I've sent Han in, with his remaining nine men.
They're basically performing a very small scale human wave against the crash site, neglecting to scout the area first or anything.
I don't need to explain to you folks their vulnerability.
They're basically performing a very small scale human wave against the crash site, neglecting to scout the area first or anything.
I don't need to explain to you folks their vulnerability.
Han looked up, confused by the sudden explosion that had rocked the ground beneath him. Perhaps, he thought, the helicopter's fuel tanks had caught. Then the gun shots sounded, and he realised he'd blundered.
"Everyone, spread out," he said, clambering to his feet. "Six paces apart."
The group of Viet Cong jumped at his orders, arraying themselves into a loose line. They weren't nervous, no, they were eager. They lived to fight the Imperialist, and now they had him cornered. They did a quick check of their weapons, and signalled their readiness down the line.
"Death to the Imperialist!" Han yelled, surging forwards through the shrub.
His men cheered at his words, and broke into a likewise sprint. The crash site was up ahead, but so was the enemy. Caution may have served them better, but Han believed he was dealing with one or two survivors - not six. Besides, for all he knew Tang, Mach, Chiem were still in the fight. They'd swarm over the Americans, and put them out of their misery at the end of a gun barrel.
"Everyone, spread out," he said, clambering to his feet. "Six paces apart."
The group of Viet Cong jumped at his orders, arraying themselves into a loose line. They weren't nervous, no, they were eager. They lived to fight the Imperialist, and now they had him cornered. They did a quick check of their weapons, and signalled their readiness down the line.
"Death to the Imperialist!" Han yelled, surging forwards through the shrub.
His men cheered at his words, and broke into a likewise sprint. The crash site was up ahead, but so was the enemy. Caution may have served them better, but Han believed he was dealing with one or two survivors - not six. Besides, for all he knew Tang, Mach, Chiem were still in the fight. They'd swarm over the Americans, and put them out of their misery at the end of a gun barrel.
Question, can spells be used in ways they were not intended to be used in the games? For example, attaching a Magelight to a person instead of a wall?
Sure, I don't see why not.
Han Chien saw the Imperialist machine catapult out of the sky, trailing a swirling line of black smoke. Others carried on their airborne journey, stopping only briefly to contest the undeniable might of the People.
"Papa," came a small and squeaky voice to his right.
Han Chien turned and looked down; it was Vong, his six year old daughter.
"Vong!" he snapped, "why are you not with your mother and sisters?" Vong flinched at her father's temper, and he sighed. "You know it is not safe when the alarm goes off. The Imperialists are here, and they would do unspeakable things to little girls like you. Go, and do not leave the tunnel until the all clear is given."
She gave a teary-eyed nod, and then hurried back towards the village. Han sighed a second time, she was much too young to understand the world into which she was born. Still, if she didn't learn soon, then it was only a matter of time before she blundered into an American's rifle scope.
Americans. Han's fists clenched at the mere thought of the word.
"Commander!" shouted someone from behind, and Han spun with his sidearm half way out of its holster. He was in no danger, not here, he knew that perfectly well... but old habits died hard.
A young man in the green of the NVA was cycling down the roadway, flailing a palm full of papers. "Commander Chien!"
"What is it?" Han called back, walking to meet the rider half way.
"Divisional orders, sir," replied the young man, coming to a halt. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and then held out the papers to Han.
Han snatched them from him, and after a few seconds of glancing over the scribbled text, he nodded. "It will be done," he said.
The rider turned back, and rode off the way he had come. Han meanwhile turned and marched himself into his village, where a loose row of the People's faithful stood to rigid attention, dressed in their peasant garb but each holding a Type 56 assault rifle against their chests. Their faces were young, but their eyes were full of the kind of determination one would only find in Vietnam.
Han walked in front of them, appraising them with his eyes, pacing backwards and forwards as if making a muted speech. But no words came, for there were no need for any. His men knew the glory of their existence, and he knew they'd die to the last if it meant taking an Imperialist with them.
At last, he stopped, straightened up and said just a few brief words. "We check the crash site for Imperialist dead. Survivors must be taken alive if possible." He turned and pointed a hand out of the village, an extended finger lining up with a small pillar of rising smoke just beyond the river. "Let's go."
Han and his twelve martyrs traversed the shallow river with ease; it was something they practised daily. Once on the other side, they climbed the shallow slope that led into the vegetated hill side. The pillar of smoke became lost behind the thick canopy, but Han didn't need to see it anymore, he knew where the Imperialist machine had crashed.
The Viet Cong section spread themselves out in a thin line, six paces between each man. Weapons were held lazily by their waists; they didn't expect anyone to have survived the crash, indeed, they rarely did. Their approach from the west was slow, their march clogged by the jungle's harsh terrain. The midday heat beat against them, and the humidity reduced their clothes to sopping rags. The life of a Viet Cong guerilla was a hard one, but one Han and his men had mastered.
Through a gap in the trees, Han could see the mangled tail fin of the Imperialist machine. He held up a hand, bringing his section to a stop.
"Tang, Mach, Chiem, go ahead and search the site. We'll keep watch, in case the Imperialists return," Han said.
The three men grunted, and shrunk away into the dense undergrowth. The remaining ten men took the opportunity to catch their breaths, and sat themselves down. Han passed around their only water-filled canteen, and mused at the Americans' stupidity. They were so arrogant! They thought their machines and their weapons gave them strength... hah! True strength came from the kind of courage one needed to watch their peoples die by the thousands, unflinching, kept secure in the belief of an inevitable victory. The kind of courage that made one smile in the worst conditions. Han had that courage, and he was confident.
Perhaps too confident.
The Huey had snapped itself against a thick Spanish joint fir tree; the tail laying twenty feet away from the body. All things considered, the Huey's human cargo had fared well. Six men clambered from the smouldering wreck dragging their gear with them, coughing and cursing as they tried to marshal their situation.
Sergeant First Class Ryan Davis poked his head back into the mangled body of the Huey, and grimaced. Seven men were strewn about the place, some without limbs, some with grievous shrapnel and bullet wounds - but dead all the same. He didn't bother to check the pilots, because a blackened hole was all that remained of the cockpit.
They'd spun in the air a several dozen times as their bird plummeted towards the jungle below. By luck, the Huey had struck the Spanish joint, breaking its disastrous momentum and allowing the body to hit the floor in a controlled way. Well, as controlled as a pilotless chopper could abide.
If it weren't for that damned NVA flak round, they all might have made it out. Everyone seated nearest the cockpit was dead, absorbing the shrapnel and saving the guys further along the seating. A few bullets perforated the Huey too though, and no doubt they'd of been fatal to someone - flak or no flak.
Ryan turned and looked at the survivors, taking in their faces. Second Lieutenant Myers wasn't among them, and a quick double take of the Huey's interior confirmed the worst. He stepped back out of the smouldering wreck, but before he could start organising the men into some semblance of order, something moved in the corner of his vision.
He wasn't sure what, but in 'Nam you didn't take chances. Not with Charlie the way that he was.
His frantic hand waves sent the men throwing themselves to the ground where they were covered by the thick shrub of the jungle floor, and Ryan himself ducked down behind the Huey's crumpled form. His finger flicked the safety off on the rifle he clenched tightly in his hands.
Three black-clad figures entered the rough clearing carved out by the Huey's descent. They stood tightly packed, peering over the scene with casual awe - excitement even? But they hadn't spotted the American soldiers just fifteen feet away, partly because they weren't expecting survivors, but mostly because a downed American helicopter up close was quite the sight.
"Papa," came a small and squeaky voice to his right.
Han Chien turned and looked down; it was Vong, his six year old daughter.
"Vong!" he snapped, "why are you not with your mother and sisters?" Vong flinched at her father's temper, and he sighed. "You know it is not safe when the alarm goes off. The Imperialists are here, and they would do unspeakable things to little girls like you. Go, and do not leave the tunnel until the all clear is given."
She gave a teary-eyed nod, and then hurried back towards the village. Han sighed a second time, she was much too young to understand the world into which she was born. Still, if she didn't learn soon, then it was only a matter of time before she blundered into an American's rifle scope.
Americans. Han's fists clenched at the mere thought of the word.
"Commander!" shouted someone from behind, and Han spun with his sidearm half way out of its holster. He was in no danger, not here, he knew that perfectly well... but old habits died hard.
A young man in the green of the NVA was cycling down the roadway, flailing a palm full of papers. "Commander Chien!"
"What is it?" Han called back, walking to meet the rider half way.
"Divisional orders, sir," replied the young man, coming to a halt. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and then held out the papers to Han.
Han snatched them from him, and after a few seconds of glancing over the scribbled text, he nodded. "It will be done," he said.
The rider turned back, and rode off the way he had come. Han meanwhile turned and marched himself into his village, where a loose row of the People's faithful stood to rigid attention, dressed in their peasant garb but each holding a Type 56 assault rifle against their chests. Their faces were young, but their eyes were full of the kind of determination one would only find in Vietnam.
Han walked in front of them, appraising them with his eyes, pacing backwards and forwards as if making a muted speech. But no words came, for there were no need for any. His men knew the glory of their existence, and he knew they'd die to the last if it meant taking an Imperialist with them.
At last, he stopped, straightened up and said just a few brief words. "We check the crash site for Imperialist dead. Survivors must be taken alive if possible." He turned and pointed a hand out of the village, an extended finger lining up with a small pillar of rising smoke just beyond the river. "Let's go."
###
Han and his twelve martyrs traversed the shallow river with ease; it was something they practised daily. Once on the other side, they climbed the shallow slope that led into the vegetated hill side. The pillar of smoke became lost behind the thick canopy, but Han didn't need to see it anymore, he knew where the Imperialist machine had crashed.
The Viet Cong section spread themselves out in a thin line, six paces between each man. Weapons were held lazily by their waists; they didn't expect anyone to have survived the crash, indeed, they rarely did. Their approach from the west was slow, their march clogged by the jungle's harsh terrain. The midday heat beat against them, and the humidity reduced their clothes to sopping rags. The life of a Viet Cong guerilla was a hard one, but one Han and his men had mastered.
Through a gap in the trees, Han could see the mangled tail fin of the Imperialist machine. He held up a hand, bringing his section to a stop.
"Tang, Mach, Chiem, go ahead and search the site. We'll keep watch, in case the Imperialists return," Han said.
The three men grunted, and shrunk away into the dense undergrowth. The remaining ten men took the opportunity to catch their breaths, and sat themselves down. Han passed around their only water-filled canteen, and mused at the Americans' stupidity. They were so arrogant! They thought their machines and their weapons gave them strength... hah! True strength came from the kind of courage one needed to watch their peoples die by the thousands, unflinching, kept secure in the belief of an inevitable victory. The kind of courage that made one smile in the worst conditions. Han had that courage, and he was confident.
Perhaps too confident.
###
The Huey had snapped itself against a thick Spanish joint fir tree; the tail laying twenty feet away from the body. All things considered, the Huey's human cargo had fared well. Six men clambered from the smouldering wreck dragging their gear with them, coughing and cursing as they tried to marshal their situation.
Sergeant First Class Ryan Davis poked his head back into the mangled body of the Huey, and grimaced. Seven men were strewn about the place, some without limbs, some with grievous shrapnel and bullet wounds - but dead all the same. He didn't bother to check the pilots, because a blackened hole was all that remained of the cockpit.
They'd spun in the air a several dozen times as their bird plummeted towards the jungle below. By luck, the Huey had struck the Spanish joint, breaking its disastrous momentum and allowing the body to hit the floor in a controlled way. Well, as controlled as a pilotless chopper could abide.
If it weren't for that damned NVA flak round, they all might have made it out. Everyone seated nearest the cockpit was dead, absorbing the shrapnel and saving the guys further along the seating. A few bullets perforated the Huey too though, and no doubt they'd of been fatal to someone - flak or no flak.
Ryan turned and looked at the survivors, taking in their faces. Second Lieutenant Myers wasn't among them, and a quick double take of the Huey's interior confirmed the worst. He stepped back out of the smouldering wreck, but before he could start organising the men into some semblance of order, something moved in the corner of his vision.
He wasn't sure what, but in 'Nam you didn't take chances. Not with Charlie the way that he was.
His frantic hand waves sent the men throwing themselves to the ground where they were covered by the thick shrub of the jungle floor, and Ryan himself ducked down behind the Huey's crumpled form. His finger flicked the safety off on the rifle he clenched tightly in his hands.
Three black-clad figures entered the rough clearing carved out by the Huey's descent. They stood tightly packed, peering over the scene with casual awe - excitement even? But they hadn't spotted the American soldiers just fifteen feet away, partly because they weren't expecting survivors, but mostly because a downed American helicopter up close was quite the sight.
@QueenOfTheBee Accepted.
Okay, I think we're ready to start.
I've got the first IC post ready... here goes!
EDIT: Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd have at it :D
Okay, I think we're ready to start.
I've got the first IC post ready... here goes!
EDIT: Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd have at it :D
<Snipped quote by TomeBinder>
Can I introduce them a little bit later in the story? I feel like creating an American soldier right now.
Of course, you can do whatever you want :)
Sorry but Ive got to drop out of this
No problem. I'm actually grateful you've said this now, rather than a few posts into the IC.
All the best.
Characters are all looking good. Excited to kick this off, and get our boys into the shit.
There will be shit a-plenty. We'll give it a few more hours, to let peeps finish their sheets/join. After that, I'll launch, and any stragglers can catch up later on.
Oh, and accepted by the way :)
Shout out to @idlehands for the character from San Jose. That's where I am! xD
I'm allowing an ARVN translator to tag along with the survivors, if you're interested. After some extensive research, one being there seems perfectly plausible.
I might switch my character around and make him black too. That's mostly because it's a reality of Vietnam; the closer to the front you got, the blacker the faces were.
Edit: Requesting approval on the changes.
Changes are fine. I've got no problem with people wanting to depict the ongoing social/racial issues of the time. If anything, I'd encourage it.
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