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Role Play To Save Humanity Thread

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LoneFan:

--- Quote from: AdmiralRalwood on September 18, 2016, 03:39:57 pm ---
--- Quote from: LoneFan on September 18, 2016, 03:56:52 am ---Genetic conditioning for loyalty. I never considered that they would go so far.
Social opposite the anti-genetic engineering stance of Britania.  This would make them natural enemies perhaps.

--- End quote ---
"Perhaps", he says...

--- End quote ---

LoneFan:
I hope nobody minds that I am trying to attract some players from over at

http://well-of-souls.com/outsider/index.html
http://www.well-of-souls.com/forums/viewforum.php?f=4

Lorric:
I don't know if anyone would be able to RP a setting they initially know nothing about, and I'm not sure how possible it would be without actually playing the original Wings of Dawn. But they're welcome to try, and the original forum game from Spoon would be the place to look for inspiration. It might well be possible just from the RP there. There is at least one full playthrough of Wings of Dawn on Youtube if people want to watch that. As it is, with only one player currently involved (though if I could handpick that one player it would be Enioch) the odds of the Terrans winning are not zero, it's never zero as long as one fleet exists, but it's very unlikely. With the Hierarchy's terrible start I was thinking it might be realistically possible to have a low player participation win, but then they busted out three brutal rounds in a row, the last one the most brutal coinciding with the Terrans' first flat out bad round. But it shows how quickly things can change. Realistically it's going to take a concerted effort by multiple participants to raise the level of the Terran fleets enough to take the Hierarchy down.

Enioch:

--- Quote from: AdmiralRalwood on September 18, 2016, 03:39:57 pm ---
--- Quote from: LoneFan on September 18, 2016, 03:56:52 am ---Genetic conditioning for loyalty. I never considered that they would go so far.
Social opposite the anti-genetic engineering stance of Britania.  This would make them natural enemies perhaps.

--- End quote ---
"Perhaps", he says...

--- End quote ---

 :lol:


--- Quote from: Lorric on September 18, 2016, 10:10:31 pm ---I don't know if anyone would be able to RP a setting they initially know nothing about, and I'm not sure how possible it would be without actually playing the original Wings of Dawn. But they're welcome to try, and the original forum game from Spoon would be the place to look for inspiration. It might well be possible just from the RP there. There is at least one full playthrough of Wings of Dawn on Youtube if people want to watch that. As it is, with only one player currently involved (though if I could handpick that one player it would be Enioch) the odds of the Terrans winning are not zero, it's never zero as long as one fleet exists, but it's very unlikely. With the Hierarchy's terrible start I was thinking it might be realistically possible to have a low player participation win, but then they busted out three brutal rounds in a row, the last one the most brutal coinciding with the Terrans' first flat out bad round. But it shows how quickly things can change. Realistically it's going to take a concerted effort by multiple participants to raise the level of the Terran fleets enough to take the Hierarchy down.

--- End quote ---

Well, then, I'd better put this up, before we get completely stomped. Also, Doctorate takes more time than I thought. And I also need to finalise an article. So, this is as fast as I can possibly crank these out.

Also:


--- Quote from: Lorric on September 18, 2016, 10:10:31 pm ---(though if I could handpick that one player it would be Enioch)

--- End quote ---

 :nervous:

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Olga Ilieva was a graduate of the Imperial School for Aerospatial engineering. An honours graduate. She was natural born, to a family of natural borns: her brain fired on all plasma conduits, thankyouverymuch! She had once been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with the world as her oyster. She had three years as a fuselage and avionics designer in the Sodesuka yards, for the Empress’ sake!

Just how she had been reduced to a welding team supervisor in the grubby, state-owned Archangel yards was beyond her. Where had her life gone so wrong?

It may have been the massive budget cuts after the succession wars – Sodesuka had been hit hard by various warring factions and had no choice but to downsize to keep their budget in the black. It may have been that sow of a section chief, who had padded her own portfolio with Olga’s work. Or it may have been Karma because her life had simply been going so well before.

Whatever the case, she was here now, leading a team of blue collars, with a plasma torch in her hand, a work quota for the day and a pay-check that barely took her through the month. Sad, really. And that infernal Goro Inoue had messed up the weld again. And that would take at least two hours to clean up properly and redo.

So, all-in-all, Olga Ilieva was not a happy woman and was making her unhappiness known quite fluently to her team when the soldiers marched into the massive drydock.

Things . . . got downhill pretty fast from that point.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Well, there were some bright spots in this mess, Olga thought. Or as close to ‘bright’ as things could get when you were told that the half-million private yacht you were building (and which paid your bills) would have to be frozen and the docks re-purposed for the re-activation of a decade-old Fleet carrier. For one thing, she got to see that insufferable dock manager marched out of his office at gunpoint, with an MP rattling off a rap sheet as long as her forearm. She wasn’t that familiar with the intricacies of the judicial system, but she knew ‘embezzlement’ in a state-owned facility usually translated to ‘crystal mine holidays’.

Thankfully, the workforce were left to their own devices, past a very basic announcement by an officer of how thigs were going to be from now on. And she supposed the small bonus she got as a supervisor was welcome, even if it was in the form of governmental chits.

And she had to admit that Katyusha was not a bad ship to be working on. The carrier was old, true, but its systems were simple and easy to bring up to working order. As an added bonus and contrarily to old planet-bound navies, mothballed spaceships did not corrode further when placed in long-term storage – hard vacuum was a good preserver. There were a million things to do, of course, and most involved ripping out the old systems and Frankensteining solutions and interfaces with more modern technology, but that was easy work for Olga and it paid well and on that front she had no complaints.

And then, of course, the Universe had to throw her a curveball in the shape of Gregor Petrovich Yonsakuren, who descended upon her poor team (and herself) like a vengeful god.

His first appearance was a couple of weeks after the work in Katyusha started. He just walzed in the Epsilon Battery control centre, looked around, shoved Alexei away from his assigned post, inspected the seams in Control Panel Three (the one reserved for energy weapon targeting, if you have to know), spent five minutes digging through the electronics of the plasma bottle, humphed like a constipated walrus (or what Ilieva assumed a constipated walrus sounded like, blame her overactive imagination) and walked back out without saying a word.

He was back a few days later. They found them waiting for them at the start of their shift, kneeling on the centre of the control centre, in an immaculate dress uniform, with a nondescript bottle nearby and a row of shot glasses arrayed like soldiers in front of him.

“I am Chief Fire Controlman Gregor Petrovich, of the Yonsakuren clan,” he growled as they clustered by the door, uncertain. “This will be my station on this ship. Sit.”

He indicated the floor in front of him and there was something in his voice harmonics that made it clear that refusing would be a very bad idea. The workmen and –women hesitantly obeyed and sat, cross-legged, in a pale imitation of his strait-backed posture.

“My aim in life is to know my job; to know everything that pertains to practical spaceborne weaponry and ordnance. As long as there is any operation or piece of equipment I do not fully understand, my job is incomplete. I have therefore decided to be present throughout the reactivation and refit process of this ship and, more specifically, my station in it. I will be overseeing your work, making sure it is to my satisfaction and to the satisfaction of my commanding officer.”

The workmen exchanged worried glances – Olga not least among them. This sort of direct oversight could not bode well. His next words did not reassure them.

“I need to warn you that the Yonsakuren clan operates to the highest standards and that I will hold your work to no less than that. Furthermore, this ship is to be commanded by Captain Urumov and serve as the flagship for Praetor Kalazonitov. You might not know these names, but they are well-known to the Yonsakuren. My clan owes them a great debt since they came to our aid during the succession wars and drove off the traitor squadrons from the Uuni orbitals. It will be the height of dishonour and a direct insult to them for my station to perform at anything less than perfection while serving under their command.

“In the following days, we will rip every system in this station out of its mountings, test them to my complete satisfaction and re-integrate them into the ship in a way that is compact, functional and easily maintainable. You will be familiarised with Yonsakuren methods for enhancing efficiency and will be expected to show a work ethic suitable for a citizen of the Dynasty. You will be expected to work paid overtime.”

Olga swallowed audibly. ‘Yonsakuren efficiency’ did not sound good.

“Those among you who perform to my satisfaction will receive a pay bonus directly from the Yonsakuren clan relative to their contribution and a recommendation for promotion in Archangel,  if you choose to remain here. As an alternative, you will be given the opportunity to enlist as part of the Katyusha crew, with what amounts to a two-hundred-percent raise in pay, all the training, duties and privileges attached to a Specialist of the Delest Frontier Fleets and considerably improved chances in finding civilian employ when your stint with the navy ends. If all else fails, a recommendation from a Yonsakuren of my rank will guarantee you employment at Uuni.

“Those of you who perform to my dissatisfaction will be warned once, with no impact on their prospects; should they continue to perform at a subpar level, their employment with the Archangel shipyards will be terminated with no second warning. I trust I have made myself absolutely clear on this point.”

There were pale faces, weak nods and whispered ‘Yessirs’ all around.

“Good. I look forward to working with you,” Petrovich growled. His ape-like hands unfolded; reached for the bottle; uncorked and poured.

“Take a glass,” he ordered and everybody rushed to obey. The drink was clear, with a faint smell of alcohol. A few of the workers made to toast and drink, but Petrovich’s glare froze them to the spot. His eyes found Alexei, who flinched; the hulking NCO was twice the boy’s size.

“Welder Alexei Gregorovich Xing, you are the most junior employee in this room,” Petrovich rumbled. “You will speak the toast.”

“I…what? I mean…I don’t understand, Sir,” Alexei stammered.

“You will stand,” Petrovich instructed and Alexei scrambled to his feet. “You will raise the glass” –Alexei did, his hand shaking- “and toast to the health of the Empress, and to the success of the project you are currently embarking on.”

“To…to the Bright Lady!” Alexei’s voice broke. Olga knew the lad was vat-grown and it showed as his posture stiffened to something resembling military attention. “And…to the Katyusha?”

Petrovich nodded sharply. “The Bright Lady and Katyusha!” he snapped, raising his glass and the workers echoed him, weakly. He downed his drink in one shot and the workers followed suit, more or less tentatively.

There were coughs, and red faces, and the one impressive spurt of high-content Uuni samogon across the control panels, but Ilieva thought she availed herself rather well, what with only her ears catching on fire.

Petrovich seemed satisfied with her tolerance, at least. Not that she needed his approval or anything.

Spoon:
Hey, does this work two ways? Huck Fumanity :p
I don't usually do this but let's give it a whirl.

======

The massive but poorly lit bridge of the Hertak Flagship, always offered a sense of calmness to the mind of the 689th emperor of the Hertak Hierarchy. When he was bothered by something, he always came here, to dig through the memories of all the 688 emperors that came before him, in search for an answer. The soft humming and the occasional soft beeping from the consoles added a sense of serenity that he so desperately craved in times like these. He found that he had not been alone in this. Roughly 340 of the previous emperors had also preferred the comfort of the throne on board their flagships, as places of meditation. 'Throne' was stretching the definition of the word a bit. It was really more of a elevated bed, with soft pillows that were so easy on the scales and carapace.

Emperor Gggjlaz-... it's really kind of a mouthful, let's call him Murial, it's much easier on the tongue.
Emperor Murial had spend the whole past week searching for past memories that might offer him an idea on how to exploit a weakness in the Terran physiology, or on how to defeat their fleets without total annihilation. Time after all, was running short, and Murial could ill afford delaying preparations for the next stage of the Hertak's grand design by much longer.

The doors to the bridge opened, and the impressive figure of High fleet admiral Tyiirr-, let's go with Garmosh, slipped through it. By Hertak standards, it could be considered a 'stride'. His black and brown upper body scales merged into green and red colored carapace of his lower tentacled body. Murial had always admired Garmosh, as a prime example of what a powerful Hertak warlord should look like. It was not just physical prowess, but also a strong, keen mind, that was capable of outputting psi waves that could (quite literally) melt the minds of lesser races.

Garmosh moved to the front of the Imperial 'throne' with an eldritch grace, and did something resembling a bow.
"My liege" his voice reverbed as if he spoke with two voices at once "the Terrans are..." "Not yet defeated." Murial finished the sentence for him.
"Indeed my lord." Garmosh waved three of his tentacles, in some kind of apology gesture.
Murial let out a raspy sigh, two of his tongues left his massive beholder like mouth, and were not immediately redrawn back into his mouth. This was considered rude body language in Hertak society, but Murial did not care, for he is the 689th emperor.
Garmosh was not blind to the irritation on his emperor's face, he considered his next words carefully. "My liege... We may not, have time for subtleties with these Terrans. We may need to consider being more... forceful."
The implication made by Garmosh that Murial's overall strategy was anything less than perfect irked him. But, he did not summon his most esteemed High fleet admiral to hear him out and then ignore his suggestions.

Murial raised one of his appendages towards Garmosh, and closed three of his eyes to think. After a moment, he returned his gaze on Garmosh and addressed him with a raised voice, a rumbling, eerie sound that would send chills up a human spine. "We understand the situation. In the interest of the overall time table, I shall grant you permission to do what needs to be done to bring the Terran kingdoms to compliance. You may employ all the forces and tactics necessary to ensure a quick and decisive victory."
Garmosh's massive mouth curled upwards in a grin. He bowed and rumbled a word of gratitude and gracefully started 'striding' towards the exit.

Murial watched him leave, and let himself slide into a more comfortable position. Short as the exchange may have seemed, this decision was not one he made easily. Destroyed starships and dead warriors were of no use to him. If the Terrans could not be conquered with a net gain as the end result, than there was no point in invading their space.
He would let Garmosh handle it from here, a worry less on his troubled mind. Murial let out a gurgling sigh and let his thoughts slip away in the comforts of repose.

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