Excalibur Squadron OOC 2: The Song Remains the Same

[Grenartia]

You should probably transfer Lev to the KIA list.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

You should probably transfer Lev to the KIA list.

I saved substantive content editing for tonight. Last night was basically format editing.

[Morrdh]

Doesn't matter too much to me either way, and I've never done indent formatting on here.
If you want to format it for me...that would be awesome!
Either way, I I think it'd look fine.

I'll give it a shot.

(Had to [tab] every single line)

Backstory Archive

- Learning to Fly, Part I - Stranger In a Strange Land - Page arrives in Iraq.
- Forging the Sword, Part I - Vagabond Of The Western World - A young Lieutenant Robert Page arrives in a tramp steamer to join the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War.
- Forging the Sword, Part II - The Fly - Page opts to take a chance on a dangerous aircraft.
- Forging the Sword, Part III - Hammer to Fall - Page draws first blood against a Nationalist bomber group, and proves himself to the squadron.
- Forging the Sword, Part IV - Chain Lightning - A stormy battle over Jarama Valley claims the life of Page's wingman.
- Forging the Sword, Part V - Fireball - A milk-run mission turns into a slaughter Page only survives by the skin of his teeth.
- Forging the Sword, Part VI - Back in the Saddle - Page survives his crash, is rescued by a local band of Republican partisans, and is determined to continue the mission, even with his injuries paining him at every step.
- Forging the Sword, Part VII - No Prayer for the Dying - Embarking on a recon mission in a last-ditch attempt to find a way to destroy the Fascist forward headquarters, Page is confronted firsthand with the horror of war.
- Forging the Sword Part VIII - Cold As Ice - Page falls rather badly.
- Forging the Sword Part IX - Come Together - The plan to attack the Fascist headquarters is revealed.
- Forging the Sword Part X - Heading Out to the Highway - Page and Izzy hit the road.
- Forging the Sword, Part XI - Lady Double Dealer - The ambush is laid and sprung, with the Nationalists not seeing their fate until it's far, far too late.
- Forging the Sword, Part XII - Undercover of the Night - With the Fascist uniforms, the raid can finally begin.
- Forging the Sword, Part XIII - Shot In The Dark - The assault on the Fascist HQ kicks off swimmingly.
- Forging the Sword, Part XIV - Movin' On - The bandits get out of dodge, the Condor Legion asserts themselves, and Page thinks about his future.

[Gibberan]

Tigger, would you mind adding the Excalibur wikia to the OP?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Doesn't matter too much to me either way, and I've never done indent formatting on here.
If you want to format it for me...that would be awesome!
Either way, I I think it'd look fine.

I'll give it a shot.

(Had to [tab] every single line)

Backstory Archive

- Learning to Fly, Part I - Stranger In a Strange Land - Page arrives in Iraq.
- Forging the Sword, Part I - Vagabond Of The Western World - A young Lieutenant Robert Page arrives in a tramp steamer to join the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War.
- Forging the Sword, Part II - The Fly - Page opts to take a chance on a dangerous aircraft.
- Forging the Sword, Part III - Hammer to Fall - Page draws first blood against a Nationalist bomber group, and proves himself to the squadron.
- Forging the Sword, Part IV - Chain Lightning - A stormy battle over Jarama Valley claims the life of Page's wingman.
- Forging the Sword, Part V - Fireball - A milk-run mission turns into a slaughter Page only survives by the skin of his teeth.
- Forging the Sword, Part VI - Back in the Saddle - Page survives his crash, is rescued by a local band of Republican partisans, and is determined to continue the mission, even with his injuries paining him at every step.
- Forging the Sword, Part VII - No Prayer for the Dying - Embarking on a recon mission in a last-ditch attempt to find a way to destroy the Fascist forward headquarters, Page is confronted firsthand with the horror of war.
- Forging the Sword Part VIII - Cold As Ice - Page falls rather badly.
- Forging the Sword Part IX - Come Together - The plan to attack the Fascist headquarters is revealed.
- Forging the Sword Part X - Heading Out to the Highway - Page and Izzy hit the road.
- Forging the Sword, Part XI - Lady Double Dealer - The ambush is laid and sprung, with the Nationalists not seeing their fate until it's far, far too late.
- Forging the Sword, Part XII - Undercover of the Night - With the Fascist uniforms, the raid can finally begin.
- Forging the Sword, Part XIII - Shot In The Dark - The assault on the Fascist HQ kicks off swimmingly.
- Forging the Sword, Part XIV - Movin' On - The bandits get out of dodge, the Condor Legion asserts themselves, and Page thinks about his future.

Yeah, I'm not tabbing every line.

Tigger, would you mind adding the Excalibur wikia to the OP?

Good point - I'll add it right above the TVTropes page.

[Goram]

Improbable badass of the day award goes to Gunner Bryan Gasson, HMS Invincible.

Gasson was stationed in Q turret, a mid ships of Invincible, during the Battle of Jutland. At approx 0620, Q turret took a direct hit from a 12 inch shell, fired from Lützow or Defflinger. This shell blew the roof off the turret, penetrated the bowels of the battlecruiser and detonated Q, A and X magazines, causing Invincible to blow up. Despite being at the literal epicentre of the explosion (which was utterly titanic), Gasson was thrown clear and survived, without a scratch. He was one of only 6 survivors from the battlecruiser's 1,026 man crew.

[Monfrox]

Oh yeah, I also put Sam's theme song in her dossier. Gotta find it.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Finally writing my IC post.
Also, I'll be out of town this weekend, but I will still have internet and may be able to post a little bit.

If the Flying Officer could get his commander away from Ms. Noble, it was just possible that he might be presented with a chance to figuratively throw the first punch, there by establishing a story in the Skipper's mind before Alix had a chance to muddy the waters.

Too late, GOram.
Alix is ALWAYS muddying the waters of Page's mind.

[Morrdh]

25th July 1940

60 Ju 87's escorted by Bf 109's attack convoy of 23 ships. Five ships sunk and five damaged. Five Spitfires and a squadron of Hurricanes intercept. In 15 minutes four German fighters are shot down.
Night: Mines laid in Thames and Firth of Forth.
Losses: RAF 7, German 16

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Guys, I'm really sorry. I've barely gotten any sleep at all this week, and it's just making it impossible for me to write, or think. on top of that, I've discovered...well, not a plot HOLE, per se, but more of a "plot movement that doesn't really do what I want it to do" part, which'll require some mental capacity that I just don't have right now.
I will try to post as soon as I can.

[Kouralia]

Yeah, I'm not tabbing every line.

Use the {blocktext} code then

[Morrdh]

Lets try this again...

Backstory Archive

- Learning to Fly, Part I - Stranger In a Strange Land - Page arrives in Iraq.
- Forging the Sword, Part I - Vagabond Of The Western World - A young Lieutenant Robert Page arrives in a tramp steamer to join the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War.
- Forging the Sword, Part II - The Fly - Page opts to take a chance on a dangerous aircraft.
- Forging the Sword, Part III - Hammer to Fall - Page draws first blood against a Nationalist bomber group, and proves himself to the squadron.
- Forging the Sword, Part IV - Chain Lightning - A stormy battle over Jarama Valley claims the life of Page's wingman.
- Forging the Sword, Part V - Fireball - A milk-run mission turns into a slaughter Page only survives by the skin of his teeth.
- Forging the Sword, Part VI - Back in the Saddle - Page survives his crash, is rescued by a local band of Republican partisans, and is determined to continue the mission, even with his injuries paining him at every step.
- Forging the Sword, Part VII - No Prayer for the Dying - Embarking on a recon mission in a last-ditch attempt to find a way to destroy the Fascist forward headquarters, Page is confronted firsthand with the horror of war.
- Forging the Sword Part VIII - Cold As Ice - Page falls rather badly.
- Forging the Sword Part IX - Come Together - The plan to attack the Fascist headquarters is revealed.
- Forging the Sword Part X - Heading Out to the Highway - Page and Izzy hit the road.
- Forging the Sword, Part XI - Lady Double Dealer - The ambush is laid and sprung, with the Nationalists not seeing their fate until it's far, far too late.
- Forging the Sword, Part XII - Undercover of the Night - With the Fascist uniforms, the raid can finally begin.
- Forging the Sword, Part XIII - Shot In The Dark - The assault on the Fascist HQ kicks off swimmingly.
- Forging the Sword, Part XIV - Movin' On - The bandits get out of dodge, the Condor Legion asserts themselves, and Page thinks about his future.

Yep [blocktext] works much much better.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Yeah, I'm not tabbing every line.

Use the {blocktext} code then

I may do that. Honestly, I don't overly mind how it looks right now, anyways.
Anyway, in lieu of an IC post, here's a little thing I dashed off in about ten or so minutes - finally got all those backstories done!

Name: The Llamrei Crew
Age: 64 at the oldest, 16 (officially) at the youngest.
Rank: Commander (Captain excepted, of course) on down to Seaman Second Class.
Physical Description/Picture:

...and about 135 more!
Countr(ies) of Origin:
*deep breath*
United Kingdom: 41
United States of America: 14
Canada: 13
Free France: 12
Australia: 11
Poland: 11
Norway: 7
Various Smaller British Dominions (Malta, Malaysia, Scotland, Tristan da Cunha): 7
Denmark: 5
Netherlands: 5
Greece: 3
New Zealand: 3
Brazil: 2
Belgium: 2
South Africa: 2
China: 1
Philippines: 1
Specialties (air or ground - communications, demolitions, disguises, languages, etc.): You name it, man.
RP Experience: Not nearly enough to pull this off, let's not kid ourselves...
Personal History/Bio (more than one line please):

As soon as the Special Operations Executive took the RFA Lambridge over from the Royal Navy to convert it to its new commando-carrier/auxiliary merchant raider/"Super Q-Ship" spec to serve as the SOE's erstwhile new flagship, the issue of how a crew could be brought together to run such a unique vessel loomed large in the minds of the SOE leadership. The sole person they had in mind right off the bat for such an assignment was the (mostly) retired Captain Malcolm MacFinn, no stranger to covert operations, who was immediately offered (and, thankfully, accepted) command of the vessel. But as to the officers who would serve under his command, as well as the sailors who would serve under them, the SOE quickly found themselves fatally shorthanded.

Clearly, a new plan was needed. Trying to transfer in crews, either whole or piecemeal, from the Royal Navy or Royal Fleet Auxiliary was no solution - in the face of the U-Boat campaign and the horrific attrition that shipping crews were facing in the Atlantic, the Royal Navy was guarding its sailors tooth and claw against any poaching from other branches. The coordinators of the Llamrei project began to scour the Commonwealth for surplus officers, sailors, and other useful elements of the crew, such as aircraft mechanics (who also happened to be competent and capable, and thus harder to transfer), turning up a handful - as well as some surviving crew of sunken merchant ships whom the SOE got to before the Royal Navy could reassign them. But there still weren't enough.

So, reluctantly imbuing itself with the same multinational spirit that had so animated the original creation and ethos of Excalibur Squadron, the SOE authorized a new measure. The new rules allowed non-Commonwealth nationals, either from Allied governments, such as those of Holland and Norway, or from generously-defined "friendly neutrals" such as the United States, to serve on the Llamrei. While the ship's officer corps would be composed strictly of British or Commonwealth citizens, the rank-and-file sailors and other specialists would become a unique mélange of men from around the world. Many of them were poached from Allied navies-in-exile in Britain - a quintet of Polish sailors from a bombed-out destroyer here, a trio of Norwegian whalers conscripted into Kriegsmarine service who had successfully mutinied and delivered their vessel, crew, and traitor Captain to British shores there...the roster soon began to fill out.

The last open spots were filled through a decidedly unorthodox method: simply recruiting sailors directly from neutral nations, usually through agents operating from British embassies and consulates. This was the means by which most of the Americans were recruited, in addition to the "outliers" - sailors from minor friendly neutrals such as Brazil and China. After a few weeks of trawling dockside bars, listening to scuttlebutt, and finally managing to track down quality sailors who were willing to sign onto a warship that would be going into combat with a secret mission that they would be committed to for an unknown amount of time and would never be able to talk about to anybody, the last of the ship's crew was ready. With the final addition of two sections of Royal Marines, some SOE specialists to work directly with Excalibur, and a four-man SOE "security detail" meant to oversee total operational secrecy, the ship's crew was complete. By December 1940, the crew was all together in Methil, drilling and familiarizing themselves with the newly refitted vessel - and with working alongside each other.

Put simply, the multinational crew of the Llamrei would nearly be unique in the history of modern warfare, were it not for the squadron their ship was rebuilt to carry. Though all the crew hired speak at least basically proficient English (and it is of course the language of orders and official business on board the ship, with all officers being British or Imperial subjects), almost a dozen different "primary languages" can be heard spoken on the Llamrei. The ship itself, through sheer necessity, has inadvertently become a microcosm of the Allied cause entire, with men of all races, colors, creeds, faiths, and nations coming together as one body, acting in unison to defend the world from aggression and tyranny. True, some of the men are motivated by little more than need for money, or by their home countries compelling them to fight, but it cannot be denied that amongst the vast majority of them, the righteousness of the Allied cause burns deeply within their hearts with the heat of a thousand suns.

These men have now tied up their fates irrevocably with the Llamrei and Excalibur Squadron. Many have lost family members, or even their entire families, to the vicious depredations of the Axis Powers. A great number haven't just lost homes and families, but their home countries as well – bombed, crushed, conquered, and soon to be remolded in the Axis image.

For these men, the Llamrei is all the home they have left.

In this way, like Excalibur, the Llamrei has transcended its mean origins through its crew to represent something greater than the mere sum of its parts. It's not just a warship - not just the mobile nerve center of Excalibur Squadron's global operations -and not even just a home for this diaspora of fighting men stirred to action from across the world by the actions of evil nations in numbers unparalleled in history.

No, it's a living, fighting symbol of the ideals of freedom, justice, tolerance, and equality that so animate and elevate the Allied cause over the bleakness and ideological sterility of the brutal, racist and violent worldviews championed by Nazi Germany. In this way, signifier and signified are blended - not only does the Llamrei fight for the freedom and equality of all people, everywhere, it is a living example to show that such brotherhood and tolerance amongst men is not only possible, but superior to the barren, murderous worldviews of the Axis...and that such idealistic hopes can prevail across the world, forever vanquishing the Axis Powers to the hells from which they surely sprang.

...This author doesn't know about you, but for the record, it's enough to put a goddamn tear in his eye.

---

The summarized backgrounds of four randomly selected officers and sailors are enclosed below:

Lieutenant Rajveer Singh (formerly of the Royal Indian Navy), Chief Communications Officer:

The Communications Officer for the Llamrei, Singh seems to have also assumed the unofficial mantle of the ship’s resident “man of mystery”– no small achievement, given the astonishingly colorful and murky backgrounds of many of the crew. Whether at his station on the bridge or off-duty, there’s no doubt he cuts a striking figure, his exotic appearance adding to his mystique – his always-impeccable officer’s uniform augmented by the signs of his Sikh faith: a thick beard, his never-shorn hair bound up in a black turban, his steel “Kara” bracelet on his right wrist, and the deadly “Kirpan” dagger sheathed in a golden scabbard at his left hip. A severe and taciturn man by nature, he executes his job with a fierce and unswerving diligence and unmatched competence, and expects the same of those around him - those not taking their tasks seriously around him are likely to feel the icy, unyielding pressure of his legendary stare, generally a sufficient motivator to cease any lollygagging in his general vicinity (for the record, this is also how he tends to react to anybody calling him “Nemo”. He gets the reference, he just doesn’t appreciate it). He is a teetotaler as well, neither smoking nor drinking, always staying on the ship working, even when safely in port with the rest of the crew off partying dockside.

If that were all that was strange about him, he’d be no more out of the ordinary than many of the other crewers, but these elements only scratch the surface. The key to Singh’s hidden past, appropriately enough for a communications officer, is his voice. Despite the fact that (according to all records) he spent his entire life in India before joining the RIN and sailing abroad, Singh speaks English with perfect fluency – and on top of that, with a British Received Pronunciation-style accent so perfectly posh as to make Alexandra Noble and Sebastian Smythe (likely Excalibur’s most aurally upper-class members) sound like a pair of toothless, drunken Geordie coal miners by comparison.

Needless to say, this implies a great deal about Singh’s origins. His speech, coupled with his flawlessly proper manner of conducting himself, and his little-noticed sophisticated tastes (for instance, one can occasionally detect the faint notes of a Holst or Elgar concerto emanating through the locked door of his quarters late at night, and instead of socializing at mealtimes, he far prefers to sit alone with a well-worn Shakespeare compilation) betrays that he must’ve had an extraordinarily privileged upbringing for a native Indian of the Raj, given access to the best tutorship.

Which begs the question: how and why did some sort of obscenely rich Sikh princeling or heir not only join up with the dead-end that was the Royal Indian Navy (a true colonial backwater, with only a tiny handful of leaky, ancient corvettes to its name), but then eventually end up signing on to the HMS Llamrei, no doubt one of the most dangerous naval assignments imaginable in any navy? When question, Singh refuses to answer – and his records betray nothing.

And so, the crew of the Llamrei speculates in hushed tones behind Singh’s back.

Maybe he’s some sort of manservant, sworn to Captain MacFinn’s service after some unspecified, top-secret adventure deep in the heart of India (which, depending on which rumors you listen to, likely involved a man-eating tiger, a beautiful Mughal princess, a forbidden city in the jungle, and lost troves of jewels at the very least)? Perhaps he fled from his life of ease and fulfillment in the Orient to avoid an arranged marriage he couldn’t bear to live with, or after an assassination attempt by an unscrupulous brother or uncle trying to have him killed in order to claim the entire family fortune – or perhaps, it was even so that he could escape from the long arm of the law, pursuing him for any number of potentially lurid crimes. All of these rumors and more continue to swirl around the Llamrei.

But Singh pays them no mind. After all, he has work to do, and he evidently intends to do it better than anybody else, entirely on his own, if necessary. And regardless of any rumors, Singh clearly enjoys enjoy the full support and confidence of Captain MacFinn in his role as comms officer - indeed, MacFinn seems to be the sole member of the ship's complement that Singh holds in real esteem. Whether that's due to an inherently sycophantic character or something more, along with so much of Singh's nature, remains to be seen.

Petty Officer Cedrique Moreno (formerly of the Baia Suarez Companhia de Navegação), Watch Officer:
The Llamrei's eternally upbeat watch officer, guitar aficionado, and general raconteur, Moreno's demeanor is rather extraordinary, given the terrible struggles he's been through in the course of his life. What exactly these difficulties were has never been clearly understood: when asked about his past, Moreno likes to fake that he doesn't understand the question, or alternately, he proceeds to tell a long, rambling, obviously made-up story in Portuguese about him being the last "true" descendent of the “Kings of El Dorado”, escaping from his golden castle when he was a teenager to see the world. However, among those who've gained his trust, he's let bits and pieces slip over time of a history that, once assembled into a coherent narrative, seems a far more likely origin story.

The assembled tale goes something like this.

Born into staggering poverty in the favela slums of Rio de Janeiro, Moreno never knew his father, and his mother and siblings died in an outbreak of choleric fever shortly before he was five years old. Thus orphaned, the young Cedrique was taken in by the orphanage of the local Catholic church, which, as one would imagine, wasn't exactly a nice place for an adolescent to grow up either. It must be said, however, that even as orphanages go, this one was particularly dire: hundreds of children were, for all intents and purposes, warehoused there, with food being both poor and infrequent, basic education being nil, and beatings at the hands of the attending nuns common. The children were expected to work for hours on end at a variety of grueling tasks, mainly involving cleaning the streets of detritus and garbage (for which the Church got a hefty kickback from the city government - using orphans was cheaper than hiring actual street cleaners). And as the kicker, if children were badly hurt, or killed, or simply "disappeared" at the orphanage, their very status as orphans guaranteed nobody would care enough to notice, much less investigate. In the end, it wasn't an orphanage as much as it was a sweatshop made possible through child slave labor.

For nine years, Moreno was stuck in this hellish place, but one day, he finally snapped. It wasn't like it came out of nowhere - the moment in question arrived when he, hungry and deprived of sleep for two straight days, was pulled aside by one of the crueler Sisters to be punished with the strap for "laziness". In the midst of this beating, far from the first he'd ever suffered (or even the first he'd suffered that day), Moreno finally stood up for himself and fought back. He may have been weak from fatigue and hunger, and undersized due to malnourishment, but he lashed out with all the crazed, adrenaline-fueled desperation and hatred of a cornered animal venting a decade of cruelty and abuse. In the scuffle that followed, he wrested the strap out of her hands and used it to send her sprawling to the ground with a crazy, furious blow across the eyes. Now lost in an impenetrable haze of rage, he proceeded to furiously rain blows and kicks down on her until she was unconscious. When he caught his breath, it sunk in that he may just have killed his abuser - and with no other option before him, fled out, alone, into the night, as fast as his legs could carry him.

For the next few years, Moreno lived on the street. He was still poor and hungry - but at least now, he was free, for whatever that was worth. He fell in with a gang of other street toughs for a little while, who mainly got by through pickpocketing and theft, but vanished in the night once again after they began to take a pronounced turn towards more violent crimes, which he wasn't comfortable with. He made yet one more enemy for life in the process - as he stole away, for reasons only known to himself, he took the gang leader's prized guitar with him. A trophy, perhaps? No one knows for sure.

On his own again, Moreno wandered towards the sea, and took up residence on the streets near the sprawling Rio docks, as far away as he could possibly get from his gang’s old stomping grounds. Oddly enough, there, amongst the whores, junkies, and drunken sailors staggering to and fro looking for fights and illicit female company, he was the happiest he'd ever been. During the days, he worked as a shoeshine boy - at night, he spent a little of the money he'd earned buying booze for an old, drunken street musician named Curtiz, who tutored Moreno in how to play his new guitar in exchange for the cheap wine. Before long, the teen was busking on the streets himself like an old hand - and quickly found himself making more money at it than he was as a shoe-shiner. Indeed, it seemed the guitar was his natural calling, and playing outside the bars to crowds of boozed-up seadogs bawling their eyes out over his sad songs, dancing and singing along madly to his happy ones, treating him to free drinks and meals, and tossing him more money than he'd ever seen afterwards...Moreno felt like he had finally found a life that might suit him.

Of course, it couldn't last. Moreno was either 18 or 19 (for the record, his actual age is unknown - Moreno claims to have it down to the year, but no further) when it all came crashing down - all in the span of no more than five or so minutes. As he tuned his guitar one hot, late afternoon on the docks, getting himself ready for the night-time gigs (his most lucrative hours), when he looked up to see a horrifyingly familiar face from his past, utterly unmistakable despite one eye now covered with an eye patch - the very same nun whom he feared he had killed as a boy, still alive, and looking even more vicious than ever. As if guided by some evil sixth sense, her baleful eye gazed across the dock, passed across him - and then turned back in a sudden flash of hateful recognition. Her face contorting in rage, she quickly pointed him out, screaming like a demon all the while, to a constable strolling by, who got the picture very quickly. With the law hot on his heels, Moreno tore down the docks in a mad chase, guitar still in hand, eventually diving onto a tramp steamer with an eye to hiding in the cargo hold.

Unfortunately for him, the steamer cast off for Liverpool approximately thirty seconds after his entrance.

And so began the third phase of Cedrique Moreno's life - as a shanghaied sailor. Reluctantly conscripted into the crew by the captain of the vessel for the duration of the voyage in order to pay his way, Moreno found he actually quite liked sea life - it may have been hot and difficult work, with long, boring stretches in between periods of intense physical exertion, but you were at least guaranteed meals and a bunk, things he had definitely grown to not take for granted over the years. He was already a tough and strong fellow from life on the streets, so he took to the labor well, learning the ropes quickly. Despite his stowaway origins, he quickly earned the trust and friendship his fellow sailors as well with his friendly, soft-spoken demeanor and his mean favela-style guitar skills. By the time the ship reached Lisbon, Moreno had resolved to sign on legitimately and join in with the company full time.

For the next fifteen years, Moreno adventured across the world with the Baia Suarez Navigation Company. He crisscrossed the globe, traveling to and from dozens of ports all over the world, from the northern docks of Stavanger and Hammerfest all the way to the southern reaches of the world at Cape Town and Perth, and from the bustling ports of the American Eastern Seaboard to the sprawling, ancient harbors of Hong Kong and Macau. It was here that he finally began to educate himself – he’d managed to bluff and fake his way onto the crew despite the fact that he was more or less illiterate, which he finally had the opportunity to address on his long voyages, tutoring himself to read and write. It was also here that he began to pick up the rudiments of English, both from his fellow sailors in British ports, where Baia Suarez did most of its shipping business, and then from his studies. While he isn’t quite what you’d call “fluent” in English, he knows enough to get by fairly easily.

It was a good, honest life he was living now – he had money, a place to sleep, and friends as well, his musical skill and easygoing personality even managing to bridge the racial divide that sometimes showed its ugly face in how the white sailors often treated him at first meetings. He could see himself spending the rest of his life traveling the world like this, until finally, he got a better offer - this time, from the Royal Navy of Great Britain, offering him a spot in its ranks for a top-secret new project requiring skilled sailors from friendly countries. Brazil, being neutral but nominally Allied-friendly, was a potential source of recruits, and though Moreno didn’t see Brazil as much of a homeland, he still had his citizenship. While he’d never served on a warship before, the money was very good, and the prospect of genuinely new adventures ahead in service of a good cause piqued his interest. He accepted the SOE offer, and shortly thereafter, was assigned in with the watch officers – given that he was a bit of a jack-of-all-trades when it came to shipboard specializations, they must have figured it would be the easiest post to slot him in at.

Now, Moreno sails to war for the first time in his life. Though he’s one of the Llamrei’s few sailors who has never known combat or military service in any capacity before, nobody can doubt his toughness, skill, or bravery. This, in addition to his easy talent for teamwork and his sharp eyes posted on the horizon, will surely make him a valuable addition to the Llamrei’s crew – and what sea journey isn’t improved by a lilting guitar melody, drifting lazily in the leeward wind?

Lieutenant(E) Anders Rasmussen (formerly of the Arranmore Whaling Company), Engineering Officer:
Born to a Norwegian father and a British mother, Rasmussen spent his life split equally between these two countries. A dual citizen, he was born and raised in the small town of Lerwick on the Shetland Islands - a beautiful place, but not exactly one overflowing with opportunities for economic advancement or general excitement. Unless he wanted to become a sheep farmer, young Anders really had only one option in front of him - to go into the whaling business. It also helped that his father Knut was a leading light in the local Whaler's Union, being a twenty-year veteran of that particular vocation himself (and the captain of his own vessel, the Skinfaxi, under the aegis of the Arranmore Whaling Company). As soon as he reached his teens, Anders was right out there in the whaling boat with his dad on the months-long voyages they'd undertake, living sea life and experiencing all the thrills and danger of hunting the leviathans of the deep in their own habitat.

However, when it came time for his son to take his place on the boat as a fully-employed whaler, the elder Rasmussen found to his bemusement that young Anders much preferred working below decks with the engineers in the engine room than be out scanning the horizon, with harpoon ready to hand. While he took some convincing, his father eventually accepted Anders' new calling. Anders would stay below.

However, Anders wasn't entirely honest with his father. While he did prefer engine work to the harpooning, it wasn't necessarily because he had a better affinity for it - It was because he couldn't stand the bloodiness of deck work. It staggered Anders (even though it wasn't like he hadn't been warned) how cruel and brutal the actual killing of a whale could be: the harpoons cutting mercilessly into the peaceful behemoths, causing geysers of blood to explode out of them like the eruptions of volcanoes...the protracted death struggle as the blades and ropes gouged the life out of them, leaving a gory trail that went on for miles until the whale finally drowned, or succumbed to blood loss...and the final indignity of the whale's dismembering as it was hauled onboard. He was ashamed of himself for it, but there it was. The violence inherent in the job simply turned his stomach and gave him nightmares. At least down below, he could avoid looking at it.

And so it went. For twenty years, Anders worked away in the bowels of the vessel, dutifully keeping the engines of the Skinfaxi running as the vessel prowled the Arctic seas in search of whales. Despite his qualms at the bloodiness of the work, he found he could put them aside when tending to the vast assemblage of valves, dials, and gears day in and day out, as was his job. Eventually, he became quite good at it – good enough that he eventually rose to become the chief engineering officer for the vessel. In between voyages, he also started a family, eventually marrying and having two daughters. His life was unremarkable but content, much the same as his father’s had been.
But that all changed when the German nation attacked.

For the first few months of the war, Anders hoped that he wouldn’t be affected. There was no way the world could sustain another world war on the level of the first one – people would certainly come to their senses, hopefully sooner rather than later. Besides, if worst came to worst, his home in Lerwick couldn’t be of any interest to the Germans, being as unimportant as it was, and the Arranmore Company ran their ships under a neutral Norwegian flag. As long as he didn’t get drafted into naval service somehow, things would be fine.

But things didn’t turn out that way. In April of 1940, the Germans pounced on Norway – and one of the German Navy’s main priorities was to seize or otherwise neutralize the extant Norwegian merchant fleet, the chief target in particular being the fishing and whaling fleets. Cruising obliviously in the North Sea, the Skinfaxi hadn’t even gotten word of the invasion when the German cruiser Koln tracked it down. Suddenly confronted by a Nazi warship twice their size and speed making full steam right for them, the Skinfaxi had no choice but to surrender.

The whaler was then boarded by a strutting, jackbooted martinet in the uniform of the Kriegsmarine’s security troops, flanked by a quartet of marines. Demanding to see the captain of the vessel and that the crew be assembled on the foredeck, Anders and his crew were roused from their nervous purgatory belowdecks, waiting to see what would happen in the silent engine bay, at the point of a German rifle. On the way out, Anders, trying to sneak a last double-check of the gauge array (as was his instinctive habit), was rifle-whipped in the back of the neck by their captor as punishment for “dawdling”.

Once the crew was reluctantly brought together, the real show began. The officer swaggeringly introduced himself as Leutnant Clausen of the Kriegsmarine, and that the German Navy had come in force to help free the Norwegians from their illegitimate, British-sponsored puppet regime. Already, the British had been totally defeated on land and sea, and a government composed exclusively of true Norwegian patriots was already being installed, with the friendly military might of Germany safeguarding the process. However, Clausen smugly continued, the war was not over yet, and the German Navy was in need of willing allies to help in the naval war – and he was here to “request” the aid of the Skinfaxi and its crew. If it wished to join in with its new German allies, it would need to report back to Oslo immediately, where it would be reassigned, refitted, repainted, and repurposed to a specific end yet to be decided (Royal Navy intelligence analysts, based on the German precedent for this sort of conversion work, believe that had the Skinfaxi ever made it to Occupied Norway, it would likely have become either a minelayer or an auxiliary supply vessel for the Kriegsmarine merchant raiders). If they did not assent to this mission, Clausen sighed theatrically, then he couldn’t vouch for their safety out in these “dangerous waters”.

Despite all the talk of “requesting aid” and “liberation”, it was transparently a threat, made to threaten them into German service. A low muttering of discontent thrummed back and forth through the crew, Anders included, which was quickly silenced by the German squad cocking and levelling their rifles at the assembled group. If they fired, it would be a massacre for sure. For a minute, there was no noise save for the wind, the wash of the waves, and the creaking of the boat as it swayed back and forth, everyone’s breath held to see what would happen next. Finally, the captain of the vessel (Anders’ father’s successor, a man by the name of Haraldsen) stepped forwards to respond.
Anders didn’t expect a miracle. He wasn’t an idiot – he knew it was a hopeless situation, and that what the Captain said hardly mattered. If he didn’t hand the ship over, it was curtains for them – the Germans would just start killing people and take the ship for themselves. But he had to admit – he was taken aback by Haraldsen’s words. Snapping off a crisp salute, the Captain “gratefully accepted” the German offer, and gladly handed over control of the vessel to Clausen and his men. Even allowing for the tough conditions, this was a remarkably quick and lighthearted transfer of power. A kernel of suspicion began to grow in the back of Anders’ mind – and the minds of many of his fellows.

That night, as the ship reversed course to head south-southeast for the Norwegian capital, there was a great deal of dark talk belowdecks. As the German hijackers slept, numerous off-duty officers and sailors gathered in the engine rooms. At first, it was to drink and sympathize with each other as far away as they could get from the Germans (and the Captain) – but as the night drew on, they realized that what they were really doing was waiting for someone to broach the subject that was on all of their minds – but that alone, they dared not speak.

In the end, Anders was the one who (quietly and carefully) brought up the subject of mutiny first. But once the dam had been breached, he’d realized that the entire room had been waiting for hours for someone to speak what they’d all been thinking. He wasn’t a violent man, but the humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of these seafaring bullies and pirates was just too much. Surely, they couldn’t be allowed to make off with the ship. Before he knew it, as the hours of quiet but passionate talk went on, Anders found himself (to his surprise) assuming a leadership role over the whole affair. It made a kind of sense – he was one of the highest-ranking officers on the ship, but being isolated down in the engine rooms, he’d never really felt himself a prominent presence before in ship politics before.

Some of the men weren’t keen on the idea of mutiny, and with good reason – even supposing they could wrest control of the ship back from the Germans, where would they go? What would become of them? The Germans would hunt them, surely – they wouldn’t be able to go home, maybe forever. What would become of their families? For these men, the risks were too great to actively support the mutiny.

But as he went around the group, probing for the men’s feelings, trying to judge their stance on the matter and readiness to stand up for themselves and take the ship back, Anders realized that while some men may not have been willing to rise up with the rest of them, nobody was actually willing to take the side of the Germans. Eventually, he decided to call a group vote to decide whether or not they would go forward with the mutiny. Of the approximately 40 men on the crew (excluding the absent Captain), 75% of the crew voted for it, with the remaining quarter abstaining. Not a single sailor or officer voted against. That settled things – as did the subsequent vote that officially named Anders the leader of the mutiny. The die was cast, and though he felt the heavy weight of responsibility for success or failure on his shoulders, Anders thought it felt right, too.

Now invested with all the authority that mutineers could bestow, Anders decided to begin the formal planning phase. The sailors’ advantage, clearly, was in numbers – they outnumbered the Germans six to one, but only the Germans had guns, which went a long way to evening things out. Nevertheless, after talking it over, it was decided that their best shot was clearly to take the Germans by surprise while they were sleeping. Even if they had guards posted, they couldn’t possibly stop all of them (especially if they were toting skinning knives), and they stood a good chance of swarming the other three not in duty while they slept. The attack was set for the following night. Before they broke up the meeting, Anders cleared his throat one final time to make a concluding request – that the mutiny, as much as possible, be carried out bloodlessly. They had more than enough rope to restrain prisoners, and, he reminded them (cautiously), they weren’t animals like these Germans. They had to do better. This recommendation was taken with grumbling acknowledgement.

It was not a bloodless mutiny.

The next night, under Ander’s lead, the men swarmed the Germans, just as planned. Though they were totally overwhelmed, the Germans put up a good fight, killing two sailors with point-blank rifle fire, and as a result, Anders was unable to prevent his men from carrying out the sordid old naval tradition of “no quarter to boarders”. Clausen, a bastard to the last, attempted to surrender to the “commanding officer of the mutiny”, only to take the opportunity to try and plant a boot-knife in Anders’ chest. Only a quick dodge saved him from near-certain death, and the German quickly met his fate for his duplicity.

But it wasn’t concluded yet. Flush with victory, the men stormed to Haraldsen’s quarters, dumping the terrified Captain out of bed and ransacking his room to prove his complicity with the German pirates. Finally, in a strongbox concealed under his bed, they found it – a sheet with coordinates written on it that matched exactly where they had been boarded by the Koln, as well as a considerable amount of Germany-minted gold coins. The implication was clear – Haraldsen and had sold them out to the Kriegsmarine.

To the men, the only debate left was whether to toss him overboard like so much whale intestine, or to skin him with their knives and then toss him. But before they could tear him limb from limb, Anders put himself between them and their sole prisoner. While the captain's treachery disgusted him beyond words, he simply couldn’t bring himself to sanction cold-blooded killing. He wasn’t the most articulate man, but he plead with his men long and hard to not debase themselves with murder – they could bring the traitor Captain to justice. When asked by a skeptical sailor where they could possibly go to do so now that their homeland was conquered, the answer struck him – they could go to Britain. Surely they would shelter them - maybe the Norwegian government had even fled there, so the traitor could be tried by Norwegian laws. Once again, it came down to a vote, and to Anders’ great relief, they narrowly favored heading to Britain and leaving Haraldsen alive to stand trial. Under his leadership, the boat turned and made for the northern reaches of the British Isles at high speed.

After a tense voyage, Anders oversaw their arrival in Britain, and had the privilege of handing over Haraldsen to agents of the Norwegain government-in-exile himself - but then found himself at a loss. Clearly, he didn't have a career anymore, and the odds were pretty good that his ship would be requisitioned by the Royal Navy or some affiliated body as a result. He hardly knew what to do with himself.
But the SOE had a few ideas. They'd heard his amazing story through the grapevine, and realized that he (and a few others of his crew that they could get their hands on) would likely be a perfect fit for the Llamrei's crew. Tapped to lead the engine rooms, Anders had no other options on the table.

And so, the pacifist whaler went to war - but the Nazis can be assured that despite his peaceable nature, he's no pushover...

Petty Officer Tadeusz Wronski (formerly of the Marynarka Wojenna Polska), Gunnery Officer:
Before joining the Llamrei, Wronski served as a gunnery chief on board the Polish destroyer Grom ("Thunder"). This ship was one of the lucky trio of Polish Navy ships that managed to escape the 1939 invasion, along with its fellow destroyers Burza and Błyskawica (the latter being its sole sister ship). These three ships were the only surviving vessels of Free Poland - the rest of the Polish Navy was annihilated wholesale in Danzig Bay by the Luftwaffe. The ships were ordered by the Polish government to depart the Baltic Sea approximately 24 hours before the invasion began, as per the "Peking Plan" that had been developed in conjunction with the British to ensure that elements of the Polish Navy survived a German attack. As such, Wronski and his fellows did not get the opportunity to fight to the glorious end in Danzig Bay and around the Hel Peninsula as the Polish destroyers Gryf and Wicher did, which, despite the fact that it meant that they lived to fight another day, caused no small amount of angst amongst the sailors on board.

Indeed, Wronski, along with much of the rest of the crew of the Grom, seemed to suffer from a collective form of survivor's guilt in the months following the fall of Poland and their reassignment to service in the Royal Navy. By and large, however, this didn't mean the crew fell about weeping and bemoaning their losses - on the contrary. As their new Royal Navy bosses worriedly noted, while they had perhaps the highest morale and esprit de corps of any ship in the Royal Navy, the horrific loss these men had suffered seemed to make them rabidly aggressive and prone to violence, not just in terms of fighting the Germans, but also in terms of anyone who wasn't among their group of "refugees". Wronski was as bad as any of them in this regard - from October to New Year's of 1939, he was picked up no less than three separate times by military police for fighting and general drunken disorderliness.

Wronski had good reason to lose himself on drinking and fighting when not on duty. His entire family, including his wife and daughter, had been in Krakow when war was declared and the German bombing raids on the city commenced. Within a fortnight, the entire city was a smoking battlefield - and he was in England, totally cut off from them, only knowing that thousands of Polish civilians in the city had been killed in the bombing and in the fighting. Anguished, he concluded that in all likelihood, his family was dead - and that he, regardless of his orders, had abandoned them. These feelings were far from unique amongst his crew-mates. However, Wronski had perhaps the best seat in the house with which to exact revenge. As the ship's gunnery director, he took a fierce pride in the viciousness with which he trained his crews, and his men obliged by giving it their all. For months, they kept it up - no drill was ever too long, no shot quite good enough, and the men were never quite quick enough.

Finally, the time came to prove themselves during the Norwegian Campaign that April, and it became clear just how much of an impact Wronski's training had had - the Grom lived up to its name, and quickly acquired a reputation amongst the Germans as perhaps the most feared and hated ship in the entire Royal Navy. It became infamous for its shore bombardments (the main use to which it was put during the campaign), which went right past "merciless" to somewhere between "outright bloodthirsty" and "entirely gratuitous", even causing the unlucky Norwegian civilians in its way to view it with terror and suspicion. Whole villages were demolished by this lone destroyer, its gunners both accurate and seemingly willing to blow through hundreds of shells, melting their barrels from the heat, to get at one solitary German. All too often, they found the mark. Hundreds of German soldiers, dozens of vehicles, and numerous German landing barges (and an uncounted number of civilians) were blown apart under its guns.

This drew the attention of the Luftwaffe, which promptly dispatched its Heinkel bombers to hunt down the destroyer. Eventually, a bomb found its target, splitting the Grom in half and killing over a quarter of the crew. Wronski found his way to a lifeboat and managed to survive with his men until the Royal Navy rescued them all once again - and again, the men of the Grom found themselves without a home. Returned to Britain, the Royal Navy was somewhat leery of giving the remaining crew a new ship all to themselves - despite their efficacy, only the fall of the Norwegian government had prevented an inter-Allied incident from erupting over the Grom's devil-may-care bombardment strategy. Instead, they decided to break up the Poles and spread them around the merchant marine, using them as replacements (and hopefully mellowing them out in the process). In the course of this process, Wronski, being too skilled to waste on menial sailor work despite his bloody-mindedness, was transferred to the SOE's special new project, becoming one of the first Llamrei recruits.

Wronski is not a British (or Imperial) citizen, and thus, is not eligible to actually command the Llamrei's gunnery. Nevertheless, he has agreed to set this privilege aside for the opportunity to once again take to the seas for the sake of vengeance for his nation, assuming informal co-command of the guns with the actual Lieutenant overseeing such matters. Excalibur will surely benefit from his skills...if they can keep him under control.

[Kouralia]

Countr(ies) of Origin:
*deep breath*
United Kingdom: 41
United States of America: 14
Canada: 13
Free France: 12
Australia: 11
Poland: 11
Norway: 7
Various Smaller British Dominions (Malta, Malaysia, Scotland, Tristan da Cunha): 7
Denmark: 5
Netherlands: 5
Greece: 3
New Zealand: 3
Brazil: 2
Belgium: 2
South Africa: 2
China: 1
Philippines: 1

U.
W0t.
M8.

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Countr(ies) of Origin:
*deep breath*
United Kingdom: 41
United States of America: 14
Canada: 13
Free France: 12
Australia: 11
Poland: 11
Norway: 7
Various Smaller British Dominions (Malta, Malaysia, Scotland, Tristan da Cunha): 7
Denmark: 5
Netherlands: 5
Greece: 3
New Zealand: 3
Brazil: 2
Belgium: 2
South Africa: 2
China: 1
Philippines: 1

U.
W0t.
M8.

Oh, that's been that way since the first draft. You only noticed now?

[Kouralia]

U.
W0t.
M8.

Oh, that's been that way since the first draft. You only noticed now?

You know what I'm w0ting at?

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Oh, that's been that way since the first draft. You only noticed now?

You know what I'm w0ting at?

I can't possibly comment on what you MAY be thinking.

[Kouralia]

You know what I'm w0ting at?

I can't possibly comment on what you MAY be thinking.

The fact that Scotland is listed as a 'Various Smaller British Dominions', and is implicitly not included in 'United Kingdom'...

[The Tiger Kingdom]

I can't possibly comment on what you MAY be thinking.

The fact that Scotland is listed as a 'Various Smaller British Dominions', and is implicitly not included in 'United Kingdom'...

I was waiting to see how long it would take somebody to catch that (if ever), sort of as an "are you reading this" test...
And it HAS been that way since the first draft, so...

[Kouralia]

The fact that Scotland is listed as a 'Various Smaller British Dominions', and is implicitly not included in 'United Kingdom'...

I was waiting to see how long it would take somebody to catch that (if ever), sort of as an "are you reading this" test...
And it HAS been that way since the first draft, so...

Before I'd just reached 'various smaller British dominions' and then skipped the rest thinking 'yeah, I know what the dominions are'. This time I just happened to spot Scot- half way down the list, and was like 'wat'.

[Goram]

If the Flying Officer could get his commander away from Ms. Noble, it was just possible that he might be presented with a chance to figuratively throw the first punch, there by establishing a story in the Skipper's mind before Alix had a chance to muddy the waters.

Too late, GOram.
Alix is ALWAYS muddying the waters of Page's mind.

So, should Stanford hire a lawyer now or later?

[Gibberan]

Too late, GOram.
Alix is ALWAYS muddying the waters of Page's mind.

So, should Stanford hire a lawyer now or later?

Well, he's in South Africa now, so....

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Too late, GOram.
Alix is ALWAYS muddying the waters of Page's mind.

So, should Stanford hire a lawyer now or later?

Oh, he's got a lot of things to do beforehand!
Like...take care of any potential witnesses to any hypothetical wrongdoing...
*eyes Carter*

[Gibberan]

So, should Stanford hire a lawyer now or later?

Oh, he's got a lot of things to do beforehand!
Like...take care of any potential witnesses to any hypothetical wrongdoing...
*eyes Carter*

*shrinks in corner*

[Goram]

So, should Stanford hire a lawyer now or later?

Oh, he's got a lot of things to do beforehand!
Like...take care of any potential witnesses to any hypothetical wrongdoing...
*eyes Carter*

Meh. I'd not be too worried about what Carter says, to be honest. Though killing a defenceless, pro-German, enemy is absolutely within Stanford's character, it's one Officer's word against another of equal rank. There's no proof, other than Carter's word, that there was any wrong doing. On top of that, Stanford is relatively veteran member of the squadron, with an impressive combat record (which includes sustaining severe wounds in the face of the enemy). Accusing him would be a very serious thing to do.

The worry would be what Alix, as Page's favourite and Stanford's senior officer, does. That might cause some problems for everyone's favourite murdering officer.