Excalibur Squadron OOC Thread

[Len Hyet]

Nightkill is from India...

Hence the joke.

Ah
Never mind

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Just got us a new Excalibur theme.
I think I like it better than the old one.

[Len Hyet]

Just got us a new Excalibur theme.
I think I like it better than the old one.

Dude
The fuck?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Just got us a new Excalibur theme.
I think I like it better than the old one.

Dude
The fuck?

Think about it.

[Len Hyet]

Dude
The fuck?

Think about it.

It's a theme song. Not a metaphor. And the old one worked for metaphors equally well.
I mean come on. Warriors of the World? Freaking perfect.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Think about it.

It's a theme song. Not a metaphor. And the old one worked for metaphors equally well.
I mean come on. Warriors of the World? Freaking perfect.

Meh. I kinda moved on from Manowar.
And I like metaphors.

[Goram]

Bombing is boring. Ground combat is where the real fun is.

False. Bombs, bombing and bombers are all that's good about the world.

DOUHET FOREVER!

[The Tiger Kingdom]

OK< even-newer-theme is a thing. And I want feedback, dammit.

[Len Hyet]

OK< even-newer-theme is a thing. And I want feedback, dammit.

No me gusta

[Calizorinstan]

Haven't bothered to listen to it to be honest. I am debating whether I should kill off one of Pat's brothers at Pearl, have one of them stationed on the Arizona, as to give Pat a fire to fuel during the PTO ops...

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Haven't bothered to listen to it to be honest. I am debating whether I should kill off one of Pat's brothers at Pearl, have one of them stationed on the Arizona, as to give Pat a fire to fuel during the PTO ops...

After consuming various types of WW2 media for years , I've developed what I call "Tiger's Law of the Arizona":
If Pearl Harbor is to feature in some form of WW2 media, these three things must always happen:
a) The Arizona must be shown.
b) Someone must refer to it as "a fine ship".
c) And some major character (or major character's sibling) must die onboard it.

This rule is almost always totally upheld.

[The balkens]

we need a theme that sound ww2ish.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9-AZtwO ... xT2MQP4cwA

[Calizorinstan]

Haven't bothered to listen to it to be honest. I am debating whether I should kill off one of Pat's brothers at Pearl, have one of them stationed on the Arizona, as to give Pat a fire to fuel during the PTO ops...

After consuming various types of WW2 media for years , I've developed what I call "Tiger's Law of the Arizona":
If Pearl Harbor is to feature in some form of WW2 media, these three things must always happen:
a) The Arizona must be shown.
b) Someone must refer to it as "a fine ship".
c) And some major character (or major character's sibling) must die onboard it.

This rule is almost always totally upheld.

Makes sense if you think about it. So are you saying in a rather roundabout way, I should put a sibling of my character on say, the Oklahoma instead?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

we need a theme that sound ww2ish.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9-AZtwO ... xT2MQP4cwA

Holy fuck, that is a motherfucker of a url.
Pertaining to the topic at hand, I can see where you're coming from. I'd be happy having a system like we've been having, with two themes, one classic, and the other more of a rock and roll thing.
I just think BtBS is pretty much perfect. it's the song I listen to when I play Birds of Steel, for one.

After consuming various types of WW2 media for years , I've developed what I call "Tiger's Law of the Arizona":
If Pearl Harbor is to feature in some form of WW2 media, these three things must always happen:
a) The Arizona must be shown.
b) Someone must refer to it as "a fine ship".
c) And some major character (or major character's sibling) must die onboard it.

This rule is almost always totally upheld.

Makes sense if you think about it. So are you saying in a rather roundabout way, I should put a sibling of my character on say, the Oklahoma instead?

That's be original.
Or the Utah, or the California, or the Tennessee, or the Maryland, or the Nevada, or the Pennsylvania, or the West Virginia (you get the idea), or one of the smaller ships.

[Monfrox]

Thanks a lot, GOram...I had something planned but now I have to work around it.

[Kouralia]

Exactly
Now it might take a while (Pacific didn't start until 41) but it's happening

All the world's now the stage, and Excalibur are merely the players.

Are we involved in the invasion of Madagascar at some point? Or the Commando Raid at Dieppe?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

All the world's now the stage, and Excalibur are merely the players.

Are we involved in the invasion of Madagascar at some point? Or the Commando Raid at Dieppe?

Yeah, like I'm just going to blurt that out.
Nice try.

[Kouralia]

Are we involved in the invasion of Madagascar at some point? Or the Commando Raid at Dieppe?

Yeah, like I'm just going to blurt that out.
Nice try.

Will we go to KFC?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Yeah, like I'm just going to blurt that out.
Nice try.

Will we go to KFC?

Yes.
Man's got to get his popcorn chicken.

[Morrdh]

Been playing the WoT 360 edition beta.

WHY?!

In other news, we've had our first mention of the Mosquito! Congratulations everyone.

You're welcome.

[The balkens]

Been playing the WoT 360 edition beta.

WHY?!

[/qoute]

It's not bad!

[Monfrox]

I'll post up tomorrow.

Thanks for taking my objection into consideration, GOram. (yes, I'm still kinda mad)

[The Tiger Kingdom]

So yeah, it was either finish this one-shot I've been annoyed by for the last month, or finish the IC post.
I hope I made the right choice.

22 April, 1937
2142 Hours
NLF Camp

If any Spanish peasant had been walking the roads late this particular night, they might have been confronted by a rather irregular sight. A Nationalist patrol looking rather ragged and irregular as they slunk back to their camp after a hard day's patrol was hardly out of the ordinary, but the fact that they were accompanied by a carrying a man clutching his legs on a stretcher, an expression of dire pain written all over his face and yelling that pain for all to hear, was a bit abnormal.
"AH GOD! AAAAAAAAAAAARGH, MY LEGS! GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! OH, JESUS CHRIST, FORGIVE ME, FOR I HAVE SINNED...AND I HAVE REAPED THE -"
"Seriously, comrade, tone it down," Isabelle hissed, walking beside the stretcher. "There's being convincing, and then there's just being ridiculous."

The horrific caterwauling ceased momentarily. "Sorry. Acting never was one of my particular specialties." Page shifted in the stretcher, trying to make it look like he was in horrific pain. In reality, his crash injuries were somewhat paining him, so he didn't have to ham it up quite as much as he thought he might. "What do you advise doing instead, then?"
"Make it dramatic, just not that dramatic. Wince. Grimace. Breathe hard. Swear. Occasionally moan. But don't oversell it, or they'll get suspicious."

There was no response. She turned to look at Page, seeing an odd grin on his face. "...What?"
His expression shifted to be as innocent as he could manage. "Oh, nothing....nothing." He coughed. "Toning it down now."

Carlos, holding the front end of the stretcher, grimaced. "Could you maybe tone down your weight slightly while you're at it, Anglo? You're heavier then you look."
"Sorry, Carlos. Not much I can do on that front."

"All of you, quiet!" Vasquez hoarsely whispered from the front of the column, His Lieutenant's uniform was ill-fitting for a man of his massive frame, and in the light, he would no doubt have looked slightly ridiculous. In the dark, however, there was a good chance nobody would notice that his uniform betrayed him as an impostor.

It had taken Page by surprise how quickly everything had come together - it had only been a few hours since the ambush. Since then, they'd been busy stripping the uniforms from the bodies, washing the blood and dirt off of them, patching the bulletholes as best they could, and assigning them to whichever person they fit best. Page, of course, had been exempt from that - they needed him in his Republican uniform to complete the picture. Isabelle had kept on her peasant duds, and was mentally readying herself to go right back into her "vulnerable" guise.

They marched along for a while longer, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the darkness of the forest pathway. Suddenly, their pathway was illuminated by a flash of lightning, in the far distant. A small roll of thunder boomed across the landscape, and a few moments later, it began to rain, hitting their shoulders and wetting their hair.

"Ah, perfect," Page muttered to himself, "Desperate raids in wet clothes. How can this get better?"
"At least your clothes actually fit," Isabelle snapped back unhappily, picking at the hem of her blouse. "These stupid things feel like they're made out of burlap. I feel like a fool wearing this when everyone else is in full uniform." She sighed. "I miss my jacket."

Page sat up on his elbows, and screwed up his courage. "If it's any consolation, I think you look amazing either way."

It took her a full three seconds to react. She then did a double take, looking entirely surprised, her mouth open. He had no idea what to expect, until Vasquez's voice cut in.
"Coming up on the camp. All of you, get ready for my signal - as soon as we're through the gates and you see me raise my fist, start shooting. Aim for the guards in the towers first - they have the machine-guns, if our recon is correct."
Isabelle shook her head and returned her gaze to the road ahead. Page could see her face changing as she vanished back into her warrior persona. He sighed. At least I didn't just get slapped.

Soon the Nationalist camp crawled into view. It barely looked recognizable from the angle they were coming at it from, but the guard towers and overall layout were still vaguely familiar. Page craned his head to look at the hillside to the east , and tried to pick out where they had hidden the night before. He couldn't see anything in the trees.

They drew up close to the gate. The Fascist guard in the tower on the camp side lazily got to his feet and leaned against the metal siding of the tower.
<<You're nice and late, I see. You people should've been back an hour ago.>>

<<We had a bit of a stop to pick up our friend here.>>, Vasquez yelled back up, putting an odd growl in his voice in an attempt to disguise his voice.
The guard squinted suspiciously down at them. <<...Lieutenant Dominguez? Do you have a sore throat or something? You sound a bit...off. And what's with the girl down there?>>
Vasquez thought for a moment, and decided on pulling the aggressive card. <<Open the fucking gate. This prisoner's bleeding out, and he's not any good to us dead. The girl found him; she's here for the reward money.>>
The guard threw up his hands. <<All right, all right. In a moment, no need to bite my head off. Sir.>>

Page, while only getting the bare outline of the conversation, could clearly see that discipline wasn't exactly the strong suit of this place. The gate, a formidable construction topped with barbed wire, slowly creaked open, and the partisan team marched through. In between his faked fits of massive pain, Page tried his best to pick out where the most likely opposition would be coming from. There didn't seem to be much in the way of actual enemy patrols around the perimeter to contend with, but in all probability, the brick barracks buildings in the center of the outpost would be swarming in no time once the firing had started.

He only had his Webley, concealed under his jacket, and Isabelle only had her Mauser, hidden in a deep pocket of her peasant's blouse, for armament, as opposed to the rest of the partisans, who had their plundered Spanish armament. The plan, such as it was, would be that the rest of the group would start the shooting, and Page and Isabelle would hang back and try to pinch some fallen Spaniard's rifle when they saw the chance. It wasn't a particularly inspiring plan, but it was something. He decided he would focus on the guard tower to his left. It seemed as logical a place to start as any.

They passed the inner borderline. The shooting was only seconds away. Page held his breath, and reached a hand down, grasping the Webley, and pulling the hammer back. He looked up at Isabelle - as ice-cool as usual. I don't know what else I was expecting, really.

Vasquez looked back at the assembled team, making eye contact with each of them. He held his hand out. At this signal, Page's stretcher was lowered to the ground. His heart pounding, he got ready to get up and scramble out of any potential lines of fire as soon as he could.

There was no sign that the guards had noticed this strange breach in normal procedure. The false patrol stood their ground, weapons ready. Time seemed to hang, for a second. Then finally, the fist came up. With a roar of noise, the firing began, as Page hauled out his pistol, took aim at the machine gunner on the left tower, and fired away. The fight was on...

[Morrdh]

So yeah, it was either finish this one-shot I've been annoyed by for the last month, or finish the IC post.
I hope I made the right choice.

22 April, 1937
2142 Hours
NLF Camp

If any Spanish peasant had been walking the roads late this particular night, they might have been confronted by a rather irregular sight. A Nationalist patrol looking rather ragged and irregular as they slunk back to their camp after a hard day's patrol was hardly out of the ordinary, but the fact that they were accompanied by a carrying a man clutching his legs on a stretcher, an expression of dire pain written all over his face and yelling that pain for all to hear, was a bit abnormal.
"AH GOD! AAAAAAAAAAAARGH, MY LEGS! GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! OH, JESUS CHRIST, FORGIVE ME, FOR I HAVE SINNED...AND I HAVE REAPED THE -"
"Seriously, comrade, tone it down," Isabelle hissed, walking beside the stretcher. "There's being convincing, and then there's just being ridiculous."

The horrific caterwauling ceased momentarily. "Sorry. Acting never was one of my particular specialties." Page shifted in the stretcher, trying to make it look like he was in horrific pain. In reality, his crash injuries were somewhat paining him, so he didn't have to ham it up quite as much as he thought he might. "What do you advise doing instead, then?"
"Make it dramatic, just not that dramatic. Wince. Grimace. Breathe hard. Swear. Occasionally moan. But don't oversell it, or they'll get suspicious."

There was no response. She turned to look at Page, seeing an odd grin on his face. "...What?"
His expression shifted to be as innocent as he could manage. "Oh, nothing....nothing." He coughed. "Toning it down now."

Carlos, holding the front end of the stretcher, grimaced. "Could you maybe tone down your weight slightly while you're at it, Anglo? You're heavier then you look."
"Sorry, Carlos. Not much I can do on that front."

"All of you, quiet!" Vasquez hoarsely whispered from the front of the column, His Lieutenant's uniform was ill-fitting for a man of his massive frame, and in the light, he would no doubt have looked slightly ridiculous. In the dark, however, there was a good chance nobody would notice that his uniform betrayed him as an impostor.

It had taken Page by surprise how quickly everything had come together - it had only been a few hours since the ambush. Since then, they'd been busy stripping the uniforms from the bodies, washing the blood and dirt off of them, patching the bulletholes as best they could, and assigning them to whichever person they fit best. Page, of course, had been exempt from that - they needed him in his Republican uniform to complete the picture. Isabelle had kept on her peasant duds, and was mentally readying herself to go right back into her "vulnerable" guise.

They marched along for a while longer, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the darkness of the forest pathway. Suddenly, their pathway was illuminated by a flash of lightning, in the far distant. A small roll of thunder boomed across the landscape, and a few moments later, it began to rain, hitting their shoulders and wetting their hair.

"Ah, perfect," Page muttered to himself, "Desperate raids in wet clothes. How can this get better?"
"At least your clothes actually fit," Isabelle snapped back unhappily, picking at the hem of her blouse. "These stupid things feel like they're made out of burlap. I feel like a fool wearing this when everyone else is in full uniform." She sighed. "I miss my jacket."

Page sat up on his elbows, and screwed up his courage. "If it's any consolation, I think you look amazing either way."

It took her a full three seconds to react. She then did a double take, looking entirely surprised, her mouth open. He had no idea what to expect, until Vasquez's voice cut in.
"Coming up on the camp. All of you, get ready for my signal - as soon as we're through the gates and you see me raise my fist, start shooting. Aim for the guards in the towers first - they have the machine-guns, if our recon is correct."
Isabelle shook her head and returned her gaze to the road ahead. Page could see her face changing as she vanished back into her warrior persona. He sighed. At least I didn't just get slapped.

Soon the Nationalist camp crawled into view. It barely looked recognizable from the angle they were coming at it from, but the guard towers and overall layout were still vaguely familiar. Page craned his head to look at the hillside to the east , and tried to pick out where they had hidden the night before. He couldn't see anything in the trees.

They drew up close to the gate. The Fascist guard in the tower on the camp side lazily got to his feet and leaned against the metal siding of the tower.
<<You're nice and late, I see. You people should've been back an hour ago.>>

<<We had a bit of a stop to pick up our friend here.>>, Vasquez yelled back up, putting an odd growl in his voice in an attempt to disguise his voice.
The guard squinted suspiciously down at them. <<...Lieutenant Dominguez? Do you have a sore throat or something? You sound a bit...off. And what's with the girl down there?>>
Vasquez thought for a moment, and decided on pulling the aggressive card. <<Open the fucking gate. This prisoner's bleeding out, and he's not any good to us dead. The girl found him; she's here for the reward money.>>
The guard threw up his hands. <<All right, all right. In a moment, no need to bite my head off. Sir.>>

Page, while only getting the bare outline of the conversation, could clearly see that discipline wasn't exactly the strong suit of this place. The gate, a formidable construction topped with barbed wire, slowly creaked open, and the partisan team marched through. In between his faked fits of massive pain, Page tried his best to pick out where the most likely opposition would be coming from. There didn't seem to be much in the way of actual enemy patrols around the perimeter to contend with, but in all probability, the brick barracks buildings in the center of the outpost would be swarming in no time once the firing had started.

He only had his Webley, concealed under his jacket, and Isabelle only had her Mauser, hidden in a deep pocket of her peasant's blouse, for armament, as opposed to the rest of the partisans, who had their plundered Spanish armament. The plan, such as it was, would be that the rest of the group would start the shooting, and Page and Isabelle would hang back and try to pinch some fallen Spaniard's rifle when they saw the chance. It wasn't a particularly inspiring plan, but it was something. He decided he would focus on the guard tower to his left. It seemed as logical a place to start as any.

They passed the inner borderline. The shooting was only seconds away. Page held his breath, and reached a hand down, grasping the Webley, and pulling the hammer back. He looked up at Isabelle - as ice-cool as usual. I don't know what else I was expecting, really.

Vasquez looked back at the assembled team, making eye contact with each of them. He held his hand out. At this signal, Page's stretcher was lowered to the ground. His heart pounding, he got ready to get up and scramble out of any potential lines of fire as soon as he could.

There was no sign that the guards had noticed this strange breach in normal procedure. The false patrol stood their ground, weapons ready. Time seemed to hang, for a second. Then finally, the fist came up. With a roar of noise, the firing began, as Page hauled out his pistol, took aim at the machine gunner on the left tower, and fired away. The fight was on...

Presumably a link-up of the latest batch of one shots herein occurs soon?

EDIT: Oh and Kour, your move.

[Calizorinstan]

Dd anybody know that there was a Japanese midget sub attack off of Madagascar in 1942 or so?