Ace Combat: Symphony of Sevres (OOC)

[Rupudska]

At the risk of being "that guy", is my app approved or is there still something I need to fix?

I'd say I'd prefer a longer bio, but when my app goes up that may end up being hypocritical, so it's fine. Accepted.

[Reverend Norv]

At the risk of being "that guy", is my app approved or is there still something I need to fix?

I'd say I'd prefer a longer bio, but when my app goes up that may end up being hypocritical, so it's fine. Accepted.

I think I can clearly take all the time I need on finishing my app, then.

[Cylarn]

At the risk of being "that guy", is my app approved or is there still something I need to fix?

I'd say I'd prefer a longer bio, but when my app goes up that may end up being hypocritical, so it's fine. Accepted.

Get your app in, fool.

[Rupudska]

I'd say I'd prefer a longer bio, but when my app goes up that may end up being hypocritical, so it's fine. Accepted.

Get your app in, fool.

OLDERSHAW, E.F-P.

+++Name: Elaine Farris-Pike Oldershaw
+++Age (18 at youngest): 25
+++Sex: Female
+++Sexual Orientation: Allegedly heterosexual
+++Appearance: (Mostly optional if you have a picture, but put in height and weight regardless)
+++Identifying Marks: Elaine has significant scarring on her upper arms, back, and her left leg.

+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): O-2
+++Call sign: Magellan

+++Aircraft: Hawker Fury Mk II
+++Aircraft Appearance: Bright green with sky blue underside (except upper wing, whose underside is grey), struts, and trim, black band same width as fuselage on starboard upper and lower wing.
+++Emblem:[/color] A stylized carrack in brown and white, located on port side of fuselage between the wings
+++Modifications: Engine Overhaul
+++Funds: $2000

+++Psychological Analysis: Disregarding her gender, upbringing, and net worth, Elaine's personality is the last one of what one would expect for a military pilot, let alone a mercenary. A naturalist (as a hobby, at least), of the sort of eccentricity only England and her colonies can produce; inquisitive and prone to tangents, she herself has claimed she "doesn't know much about any one thing but knows a little about a lot," though she is most certainly an excellent aviatrix. She is at least professional, and good enough at piloting a pursuit aircraft that how she stays here is not in doubt, but it still fails to answer the why of her being here in the first place.
+++Weaknesses: While she has rather high endurance in flight, her combat maneuver sense is more lacking - she has a tendency to underestimate the maneuverability of her aircraft, flying it more gently than it can probably handle.
+++Fears: Elaine has, understandably after her experience, become somewhat wary of overflying rainforests, and large forests in general. Her appreciation for Africa, despite it being the source of much of her fame, is almost nonexistent - while she appreciates the beauty of that untamed land, nothing short of contractual obligation would ever make her go there in anything but a heavily armed high-altitude aircraft with a damn good radio. Her greatest fear, however, is being defenseless, and it is likely this that is the source of her desire for the mercenary life.

+++Nationality: United Kingdom
+++Ethnicity: English
+++Languages Spoken: English, French, German, Latin, Greek, Turkish; a respectable degree of Spanish, Russian, Japanese, and Italian, can understand but not speak Dutch, Cantonese, and Portuguese.
+++Religion: Anglican
+++Birthplace: Manchester, England
+++Permanent Residence: Several - her "primary" residence is a colonial mansion in Mombasa, but for the duration of her contract with the Marmaran military she is living in a rowhouse in Constantinople proper.
+++Skills: Excellent long-distance flight endurance and navigation skills, including at night, good shot with a rifle, pistol, and bow (if wholly self-taught in the latter), respectable horsemanship, bushcraft, and first aid skills

+++Bio: To say that Elaine's early upbringing was stock-standard for an English aristocrat would be, in her own terms, no exaggeration at all. She was the second daughter and sixth (and last) child of Abigail and Maxwell Oldershaw. Her mother, though quite politically active for a woman of her era, was strictly a housewife - even if she was rather mechanically minded. Her father owned (and still owns) a sizable aluminum mining firm, and had a great deal of interest in what passed for aviation at the time in the form of dirigibles and the earliest rigid-frame airships, though he considered himself "too old" to pursue such interests. Not to mention injuries to his leg sustained as a young officer in the Third Anglo-Burmese War. While not in the absolute highest echelons of British society, as Maxwell was and is not nobility, the Oldershaws were high enough that money was no object for nearly anything. Her private tutors were experts in their fields, she learned to drive in a Rolls-Royce, and she learned to ride a horse by the time she was seven.

Her first brush with aviation came in 1919 when her elder brother Arnold, returning from the First World War, elected not to join any of the mercenary aviation companies springing up across Europe and Africa - at first, anyway. He decided instead to become a barnstormer of sorts, and invited her on a ride in his Curtiss Jenny. What was merely an interest for her father, and a way to pass the time for her brother, swiftly became an addiction for her. She learned to fly herself with her brother's help and soon purchased a Jenny of her own, beginning a piloting career - first jointly with Arnold, then on her own once her interests began to shift from barnstorming to air racing, specifically endurance racing. She kept barnstorming on the side, though, touring across Europe, America, and Australia over the next several years. Most notably, she competed in the disastrous Dole Air Race from California to Hawaii in a Travel Air 5000, where she was ultimately forced to land in Molokai due to a fuel leak near the end of her flight. While not disqualified, as she had launched with what few others had taken off at the appointed time, she ultimately came in last (of 3 finishers) as she was required to complete the last flight to Honolulu to avoid disqualification. After the race, she was involved in the search for the handful of pilots that went missing over the Pacific Ocean, but she didn't have any more luck than the other searchers.

Undeterred, and in fact emboldened by her self-claimed success in the race, she set to work for two years extensively modifying a Ford Trimotor for maximum endurance while using a more conventional Travel Air 2000-based model for smaller, calmer air races. She announced in December of 1929, to the surprise of many, her intent to circumnavigate the globe in said aircraft - even as the Southern Cross had yet to complete its attempt. Her attempt was ultimately sponsored by several groups - her own family, Ford Motors (despite Henry Ford's own flagging interest in aviation), and a whole slew of smaller companies in England that had supported her usual aviation career. Unlike Charles Kingford Smith however, her planned route would take her east - starting in San Francisco, she would cross America to Texas, then hop across the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean with a stop in Cancun, trace the South American coast, then hop across the Atlantic at Salvador and arriving either at Luanda, Leopoldville, or Brazzaville depending on the situation in the area at the time. Her course would then take her up the Somalian and Omani coast, across the British Raj, then down to Singapore, Australia, Fiji, Hawaii, and finally back to San Francisco. She expected it to take "a bit less" than two years. Her crew included a Japanese female relief pilot by the name of Mitsuki Kurokawa, and two Americans - a navigator, Fred Reynolds, and a radio operator by the name of Ben Mallory. She would launch in March of the following year, and had very little trouble all the way across the Americas and even into Africa.

She made it 300 miles out of Leopoldville before a "sudden storm" according to her last radio transmission forced her to attempt to navigate through a perceived break in the storm. Her plane was found easy enough three weeks later, partly due to her having painted it an eye-searing combination of oranges, yellows, and reds for the exact purpose of being visible in case of being forced down. No living sign of her or her crew was found at the time, however, besides a note tied to the flight stick vaguely indicating that Reynolds was dead and they would be heading "towards Stanleyville," and that if they had any real difficulty with the natives they would instead head west towards Lake Tanganiyka. When she and her crew arrived in neither place, even after several months, the search was called off and she and her crew were declared dead. A report from a boat captain on the Congo River had claimed to see two women and a man matching their description, who had asked about the situation in Brazzaville, but had not seen them since.

In July of 1932, she finally was found alongside Mitsuki, thinner, tanner, and half-naked, on the coast of Lake Albert by a British fishing boat. The two were quickly taken by train to Mombasa for medical treatment, and an interview. As it had turned out, they had crashed a great distance north of where Reynolds had thought they were, and missed both Stanleyville and Tanganiyka completely. They had indeed reached the Congo and spoken to a boat captain, but decided against following the river due to the deteriorating situation in the French Congo - after all, both Britain and Japan had thrown their hat in with the French Republic, though neither were willing even that long after the war to provide much in the way of real support. Mallory had died several weeks later after having been bitten by "something", though by then Elaine had become far more interested in escaping that "humid green Hell."

The two were thrust, somewhat against their will, firmly into the limelight. The whole world wanted to know every lurid detail of their adventure, and the two only shared even as much as they did half-heartedly, with Elaine wanting very much to return to aviation once she was fully recuperated, and Mitsuki just wanting to leave Africa for good. Their personalities had likewise changed. Elaine had, in her youth, been compared to a squirrel, but was now much more subdued, and somewhat claustrophobic outside of an aircraft. Instead of touring racing circuits (or even completing her circumnavigation, though she was ultimately convinced that she may as well accept the attempt as a failure), she was shoved from radio room to radio room, newspaper to newspaper, to answer the same questions, over and over, for months. Even after the interest began to die away, as late as the end of 1933 she was being accosted by reporters at every race, ultimately turning down an invitation to the MacRobertson Air Race as she started to avoid places where reporters would be on principle.

Almost desperate for an escape, she discovered that the Republic of the Marmara was creating a reconnaissance squadron, and would prioritize applications from people with long-distance flight experience, regardless of nationality. She swiftly applied, not even realizing she had essentially become a mercenary until she was already accepted. She served, with skill if not any serious distinction, for the initial six months before her contract ran out, mostly overflying the Greek border and occasionally Iraq where Marmaran forces were on-again-off-again assisting the British in quelling Kurdish attempts to expand into that area. During her service, however, she discovered a new fear - that of helplessness in the air, one exacerbated by most of Marmara's recon aircraft being lightly armed, dreadfully slow, agile as an ocean liner, or all three. Upon the time when it came to renew her contract, she instead shifted to a combat squadron, using her still-vast supply of winnings from races to purchase a relatively new Hawker biplane fighter.

+++Why You're Here: A few reasons. To escape the limelight that has only become burning to her eyes is one. Another is to enjoy the freedom flight once provided her, with a lessened fear of being in danger one can do nothing about.

+++RP Example: (Members of WoF, who have been invited via Discord, or who were in Ace Combat: Broken Line do not need to provide this)

STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)

[Cylarn]

Get those apps done, so that way I can write Clark's personal opinions/gossip on the rest of the team.

[Bolslania]

Get those apps done, so that way I can write Clark's personal opinions/gossip on the rest of the team.

Ooooooh scuttlebutt

[Wolfenium]

WIP

(VASARI, GUGLIELMO)

+++Name: Guglielmo Vasari
+++Age (18 at youngest): 22
+++Sex: Male
+++Sexual Orientation:
+++Appearance: 183cm, 90kg
+++Identifying Marks: None

+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): O-1
+++Call sign:

+++Aircraft: Avia BH-33L
+++Aircraft Appearance:
+++Emblem:
+++Modifications: -
+++Funds: $16500

+++Psychological Analysis: Vain, prideful, narcissistic, a spendthrift
+++Weaknesses: Difficulty in getting along properly with others, especially those of a lower social strata. Difficulty in following orders in favour of kills. Pathetic liar.
+++Likes/Dislikes:
+++Interests:
+++Fears: Loneliness, blood

+++Nationality: Marmaran
+++Ethnicity: Italian
+++Languages Spoken: Italian, Greek, English, French
+++Religion: Roman Catholic
+++Birthplace: Catanzaro, Calabria, Kingdom of Italy
+++Permanent Residence: Pera, Constantinople, Republic of Marmara (real life Beyoğlu, Istanbul, Turkey)
+++Criminal History: None
+++Skills: (Don't go overboard)

+++Bio:
+++Why You're Here: "I... umm... actually, I quite like the thrill! I wouldn't say it's for any higher purpose than that (*cough*), but you need more fly-boys, so I figured I'll help myself~."

+++RP Example: No.

STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

This looks neat! Tagging it out of interest. I tried to join Ace Combat: Molon Labe about two years ago, think I showed up a tad bit too late then. I'll start working on an application right this instant!

[Bolslania]

Should I make an app for my gunner?

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING APPLICATION GOES OVER HISTORICAL EVENTS, GROUPS AND SLOGANS THAT MAY BE DISTURBING. DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

BUCHANAN, W. P.

+++Name: "The name's William Pierce Buchanan. Being an Ulsterman, I had the honour of being named after our old king William of Orange, as had just about every other lad my age in our hamlet. To offer me a sense of individuality, my mates started calling me "Billy-Pip", on account of my second name. I thank God that that name shan't enter into the annals of history. The only person to have called me "Billy-Pip" in the last two years is my brother, simply because he knows how much I detest it if he does that."
+++Age (18 at youngest): "I'm nineteen years old myself, turning twenty this November. Mum always told me I was a few minutes older than my wee brother Douglas, do with that information what you will."
+++Sex: "I'm a man, so I am. Eldest son of the Buchanan household."
+++Sexual Orientation: "I've always preferred the fairer sex. I've got my girl, she's still stuck up in Ulster. I met her just after I enlisted in No. 502. Her name's Colleen, a Fenian name, but that didn't bother me when I met her. Found the wee lass in a public house not too far from the airfield. She liked my smile, I was piss drunk, things happened. She and I, we got married late last autumn. Had to keep it a secret, though. Her dad died in the Rising, old Fenian that he was, my dad shot Republicans with the Auxies. She loves me, but the longer I spend in Constantinople, the more I start to think... Ah, forget about it." (Closeted homosexual)
+++Appearance: (Mostly optional if you have a picture, but put in height and weight regardless) "You're asking me about my height? Mate, ask Douglas, he'll headbutt you into the ground, so he will. How's that for a sight? Oh, I remember, back in Eglinton, I stuck out like a sore thumb. What's the use of a laughable nickname like "Billy-Pip" if you can grow to be five feet and five inches tall? When our wee marching band would go out, they'd always put me besides William Turnbull, the lad from across the street. William's a giant, and he stood about twice as tall as I did. Those sneers aggravated me back then, so did the fact that William always beat me at football, but the truth is that, when William and I, Will & Will, if you will, went down to the recruitment office down in Londonderry, only one of us was accepted into the Air Force. Lad was too tall and as smart as a sack of potatoes, you see. Regarding my weight: Douglas and I have always been on the lighter side. If I would have to wager, I think he might weigh a tad more than I do, mostly because he smokes and drinks.
I've still got my dad's dress coat, the one he wore at the Somme. Brought that with me, not only because it's so dashing and bloody protective against the fresh chills up in the sky, but because it reminds me of my father, and I place a great amount of sentimental value on that coat.
+++Identifying Marks: "Tattoos? Goodness no, you won't find any tattoos on my skin. It says it right there in Leviticus 19, God doesn't want us mutilatin' our own bodies. I say, if I'd-a gotten mysel' a tattoo, my father would've disowned me on the spot. Depending on what we get down to in these lovely Balkans of yours, he might very well still disown me, but it won't be 'cause I'd've gone and taken a tattoo or two. As for other marks; I've got a wee scar on my left leg, remnant of a rubbish landing on my part. Furthermore, I've got that coat I was going on about a moment ago, as well as a pair o' auld bovine leather boots, crafted by MacMillan, Eglington's finest cobbler. The rags I brought with me from the Emerald Isle are beyond repair by this point, all I've got left is the uniform they gave me when I arrived in Constantinople. A fine thing, so it is. Finer than anything some Ulster hillbilly should get his hands on. To think that I would've worn something akin to this in the RAF is maddening. It looks rather strange on me, wouldn't you agree?

You may have noticed that I'm not currently sporting a holster. This is, naturally, because I'm somewhat of a pacifist, old chap. Truth is: If I'm up there, I can make pretend that that Hawker's bombs don't exist, you see? All I need to do to bomb some Turks or Greeks is pretend that the explosives I'll drop don't exist. Dear old Douglas, bless him, has a much different task; If some blasted interceptor catches up with us, my brother'll look that gentleman pilot behind us right in the eyes as he shoots him down. Much too barbaric for me, if I'm honest. He seems eager enough, and I found that eagerness makes up for competence in most circumstances. Due to his, ahem, eccentric nature, he'll be the one carrying the guns, too. If I did get shot down, I'd be able to hold them off with a wee forager's knife that my nan gave me for my grandfather's inheritance. It's more of a personal talisman than a weapon, but I'm sure it'll find a use somewhere along the way."

+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): "The Republic of Marmara has seen fit to award me with a comfortable position as an O-1. I've yet to familiarize myself with these foreign rank structures, but I do believe that an O-1 in His Majesty's Royal Air Force would have been a Pilot Officer. I would've been a Pilot Officer, you know, if the king had only given me my commission. Now I'm here, wearing foreign fatigues in some dusty Constantinople officer's mess hall, prancing around with a rank I couldn't pronounce if I tried."
+++Call sign: "Oh, bugger me. Were we expected to think of call signs? Douglas and I didn't come prepared, and we're quite sorry about that. Allow me to think of something off the top of my head, if you'd allow me. How does 'Strongbow' sound to you?"
+++Aircraft: "We've brought this Hawker Hind with us. Fenians were mad for keeping such a beauty so far North. If you ask me, they might as well have been asking for us to steal that thing. We found it all by itself, in that aerodrome near Drogheda. Well... Now that I come to think of it, she wasn't all by herself, but those brave Irishmen didn't bother us anymore when we got around to liberating the old Hawker. Truth is: Them Fenians devils vastly underestimate our Ulster lads. They keep their eyes on the IRA, so much so that they hardly even noticed us getting away with their new materiel. Be that as it may, that Hind is an aircraft that belongs to Britannia, and I can guarantee ye' that it's of more use in our hands than it is in some damned republican's."
+++Aircraft Appearance: "We've done our very best to make sure that the Hind is up to standard, both operationally and aesthetically. Douglas and I are most comfortable with the decorations we've given our aircraft. I take it you Marmarans are very keen on discretion and humility, but I feel those qualities don't exactly describe my brother and I very well, and thus we'd be hard-pressed to adapt to those expectations. Naturally, Esprit de Corps is very important to us. We're vibrant, vivid lads, in a vibrant, vivid flying machine, and felt that our Hind should reflect that. Besides, what even is the trouble? The only ones we'd be offending are those blasted Irishmen, and I don't see any of them in this mess hall. Matter of fact, having profanities scattered across our aircraft might lead to some good. I had the most delightful chat with this Englishman down in Brussels over a good cuppa. He certainly didn't mind our calligraphic griffonage, on the contrary: he quite enjoyed it, so he said. You'd have to be a right ba-... difficult chap to sympathise with the IRA, after all the problems they've caused us back home.

+++Emblem: "Now, if you take a look at our new-found wealth, you'll surely discover that we're still flying an Irish Air Corps roundel. We have attempted to fix this. When we took a quick flight to Brussels following the heist, we bought a wee can of paint, and set out to change our aesthetic up a bit. I proposed "QVIS SEPERABIT", Douglas recommended "Fuck All Papists", we settled on "No Surrender", and a handful of other slogans to clad out that ugly Fenian contraption. Awfully sorry about the rough look, chap. We'll install a Marmaran roundel when we get there, eh?"

+++Modifications: "This thing's brand new, you see? All neat and tidy, no mechanic's saw fit to bugger with it yet. We'll do some labour for yous first, and once we get paid, we'll have plenty of time to inspect all the rarities Constantinople decides to throw at us."
+++Funds: "Unfortunately for us, we didn't bring a whole lot of money, and we haven't got a whole a lot of money left. Douglas and I, we figured that, in this historic city of emperors, we should live like royalty. My dear brother enjoys a good drink once in a while, and I like to indulge in fine cuisine, so we both have our tastes and those tastes have their price tags. It's been the liquor and beef that's cut us down the most, but I believe that Fleming down in Brussels did overcharge us on the paint a tad. If you'd give me a wee moment, I'll check how much we've got left... Ah, excellent. Seems like we've scraped together the respectable sum of precisely twelve quid, a single Irish pound, and, ahem, is that a penny?"

+++Psychological Analysis: (personality)
+++Weaknesses: "Oh, Lord above... I've plenty o' weaknesses. The grandest one off the top 'my head would be my extreme inexperience
+++Likes/Dislikes: "Ahem, I wasn't quite expecting that question, old chap. Can't say I'm having an easy time thinking of something in particular. There are the obvious "God & Ulster", of course. I like a good Filet Mignon, or a sturdy Greek Moussaka. That's embarassing, you've stunned me with that. Well, I'm at a loss for words. You're free to ask me at any time, though, I'll be sure to think of something clever."
+++Interests:
+++Fears: "Death's a funny thing, you know? When given the time to sit about and ponder your every thought, you'll become frightful, perhaps even terrified of it. But when you find yourself in a cockpit, those fears vanish immediately. Every fiber of your being is fixated on keeping you alive up there. You don't have the time or energy to think about death. It's all mighty ironic, is it not? The closer you are to death, the less you fear it? I suppose it differentiates the cowards from the heroes. Those that fear death have no reason to fear it, and those that do not have conquered fear itself. If it is as I say, then I am a coward. Death frightens me, it haunts me, it never quite gets to leave me alone, you see? In many ways, that Hawker Hind is my only escape, my only shelter from that dreadful feeling. It's not just the fear of death that I myself have, naturally. It's the fear for my brother's passing, my father's wellbeing, and my mother's health, too. County Londonderry wasn't a particularly nice place to grow up in, you see. Catholics and Protestants alike could get quite... rowdy. On the day o' my birth, the 29th of August 1915, a month before my father would ship out to France with his beloved Inniskilling Fusiliers. He'd been seized by the Taigs, held prisoner in a wee Catholic home in West Derry. They wanted to shoot him, so they said, but they eventually let him go free, after they heard news of my mother having me. Murdering a newly-made father like that would be bad for the Fenians' image, even if that father was the biggest, baddest Taig-killer the Emerald Isle's ever seen. So, suffice to say, death plays, and has played, a fairly large role in my own life. I'd say it's my grandest fear.

+++Nationality: "I'm a subject of the crown, an Ulsterman through and through. Not sure if that makes me more British or Irish, but I am certain that I am a citizen of the United Kingdom. At least, I used to be about a week ago. Didn't bring any of my papers with me, obviously. Bonnie Douglas advised me against it. Without identification, it'd be bloody difficult for any old chap to trace back to, well, anywhere. So, when you finish writing that tall document of yours, why don't you just write down 'stateless' for me, would you? Causes the least problems I'd expect."
+++Ethnicity: "I'm not that certain about my ethnicity if I'm honest with you. Our family's never had the official documents to prove their heritage. The tale I've always been told is that we originally hail from the Scottish marches, and that our forebears settled the Ulster plantations more than two hundred years ago. However, that's all just hearsay, so there's an adequate chance that some Fenian blood managed to find its way into my veins. Wouldn't rely on it, though. I have found that us Ulstermen have always tended to our own kind, even before that breed of "Ulsterman" even existed.
+++Languages Spoken: "If you're looking for those fancy gents who learnt how to fly at overpriced schools and private aerodromes, I think you've lost your way. I only speak the King's, I'm afraid."
+++Religion: "I'm a member of the Irish Presbyterian Church, always have been. My father's the minister in Eglinton, and I pray God should send me back to Ulster soon. Till that day comes, I'll be stuck in Marmara, bombing Turks, Greeks, Reds, whoever the Republic tells me to bomb essentially."
+++Birthplace: "I was born in a small village in county Londonderry called Eglington, about five miles 'way from Londonderry town. In case you're wondering: Eglington's nothing like Constantinople. Nothing like Constantinople at all."
+++Permanent Residence: "Now, I don't blame ye' if you're a wee bit sleepy and lost the gist, but Ireland does not want us anymore. English pen-pushers must've given this Hawker Hind to the Fenians for a reason, and if they find out two loyalist nicked it, then there's a good chance president Dev won't be happy. Old king George wouldn't want to risk straining his relationship with the Irish over two ruffian Scots, so we'd be in a tough spot, regardless if we landed North or South o' the border. Fact o' the matter is that the closest thing we've got to a permanent residence now is our cockpit."
+++Criminal History: "I've never had the displeasure of running into any problems with the police. I figure that my brother'll probably say something similar, just know that, if I say that I've never truly been approached by the authorities, it wasn't because I had a major political organization legitimizing my poor decisions when I was but a boy. No, I've always found myself to be a paragon of decency and good behaviour, and I say that without a shred of diffidence. As a matter of fact, I suppose my brother and I are likely amongst the very few in the No. 27 who have come to flee persecutions. Still, my criminal behaviour, severely limited criminal behaviour, might I say, is of no faulty judgment of mine own. Firstly, I'd just been thrown out of No. 502 at the RAF, and my chances of employment were increasingly dim, secondly, the Irish stole that plane from mighty Britain to start off with, so we're only taking what's ours, and thirdly: My brother has a way with words. You might not think it, but he's got his own persuasive ways."
+++Skills: "I didn't fly all the way from Belfast to Byzantium to blow my own horn here, but you should know that I'm quite clever. Why are you looking at me like that? It takes some brain to nick a state-of-the-art bomber, you know. Tell you what, if you want 'humble', go to Abdul's chippy shop across the street, and talk the shoarma vendor there. He might be very courteous and down-to-earth, but that is either because the man's dull and incapable of telling a good story with enough confidence, or that he's simply trying to appeal to you, and, more specifically, your wallet by mimicking good behaviour in the hopes that you'll tip him when you do go and collect your kebab.

Listen here: I'm no shoarma salesman. I graduated from Northern Ireland's first junior technical school, received straight A's in maths and physics, and excelled at basic training at Aldergrove. Major Campbell, our Officer Commanding, pulled me aside one day, and explained to me in the greatest detail how the king wouldn't me my wings, due to my family's ties to the Ulster Volunteer Force. I'd flown bombers then. Mighty Vickers Virginias, piloting them as though I had been born to do it. Perhaps I had been born as such, but my time at Aldergrove had come to end an end too soon, and thus I was dismissed, taking all the valuable information and practical knowledge I'd gathered with me.

Other than being such a frightfully good pilot that even the soldier king George wouldn't dare let me join, I'd say I'm fairly bubbly lad with a vast vocabulary, which's always been a bit of a boon to me. Furthermore, I believe I'm right good at getting my bombs to land where I want them to. Couldn't say for certain, of course. The only time I've ever managed to get a bomb to hit a target was during our theoretical classes, and a flying exercise or two. I suppose that aerial bombing might be a tad bit different when under anti-air fire and constant fighter interception, but as you might have gathered, I'm a fairly confident man, and I certainly lack no confidence regarding my ability to bomb, which I know shall make up for whatever lack of competence I may or may not have.

+++Bio:
+++Why You're Here: There's no better place for fugitives to hide than in the ancient city of Constantinople. We'll need to lay low for some time, and we're more than grateful that No. 27 Squadron of the Republic of Marmara has seen fit to assist us financially. Other than that, it's nice to spend some high-quality time with my brother abroad, makes it so that I can keep my eye on him from time to time, you see.

+++RP Example: Frontlines: The German Assault
The Sun Never Sets
Kaiserreich, Legacy of the Weltkrieg: 2nd American Civil War


STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)

---

BUCHANAN, D. D.

+++Name: "What's it to you, you fuck'n snot-nosed bureaucrat? Calm down, calm down, I'm just fuckin' around with ye. Douglas David Buchanan, D-D-B., Doug, Dave, whatever. How's Mr. Buchanan for a nickname, actually? I think that's my favourite."
+++Age (18 at youngest): "I'm only nineteen. Most of the lads I've seen about the Officer's Mess are older, or at least look older. I know no one man could look as young and good as I do, but maybe you Turks and Greeks look uglier and older than us Ulstermen. I did see a lass walking around in an officer's uniform, and she looked better than any kebab in the mess hall. Fuckin' strange sight, I'll tell you that much. If Billy-Pip and I get shot down by a fuckin' woman, they better not send us back to Ulster. Mum 'n dad would hate to bury two sons that got outgunned by a lassy in a flying soapbox. Anyway... What was your question again?"
+++Sex: "Nah, thanks mate. Today's a Sunday, and where I'm from we try to keep it quiet on the day o' the Lord. Why don't you ask me tomorrow?"
+++Sexual Orientation: "How do you mean? You lot let poofs into the Air Force? Big fuck'n mistake, just give it a few weeks and you'll have the lads shagging in the mess hall, right into your gyros, or your baklava, or what have ye. Mate o' mine, in the volunteers, ye? He told me that's what they do in Dublin. Them Sinn Féin bastards, they only declared independence cause they're a bunch of poofs. Couldn't shag in the House of Commons, he told me, so they made their own little shite parliament where they could disgrace themselves all day long. I'm not a big fan o' all that, as you might've gathered. I like women, women don't like me. Don't get me wrong; I'm a fuck'n Adonis, I just think the shaved head scares 'em off. Truth is, with the amount of lasses I get nowadays, you could say that I'm married to the old Hind we nicked from the Fenians, so if you ever see me 'round the airfield, trying to shove you-know-what into the exhaust o' that bomber, you'll know that I would've completely lost it by that point." (Heterosexual)
+++Appearance: (Mostly optional if you have a picture, but put in height and weight regardless) "Appearance? Appearance? You goin' on about my fuckin' head? You's fucking Kebabs don't even know how to shave yerselves. When Billy and I were passing through Istanbul, we saw this feller who had hair from 'ere to Dundee. Fucker was clad in fur, from head to toe. It's as though these people have never bothered to invent a fucking razorblade. Nae, keeping a short haircut has always been the most practical, always will be. Saves ye' ages when you're having a wash. Not that I'd know it, though. I lack the fucking patience for a hot bath. Ages ago, when I still graced West-Londonderry FC with my presence, I used to take cold showers. Those were quite nice, proper refreshing after a good game, so very different from a dull and lazy bath. I don't like putting myself in that position where a Fenian bastard could sneak up on me like that. I don't want to be that bastard that dies in the fucking bathtub, you understand? What was that man's name again? John-Paul Murray? Morrit? I remember going over that sod's death in school ages ago. He died in a fucking bathtub, could you imagine dying in a fucking bathtub? What do I know. That rich frog might know a tad 'bout that Murray fellar. Haven't heard him speak any English, but judging by the way that fucker dresses, there's a very good chance he'll speak enough Turkish to tell you all you'd need to know about that bath-loving freak. Hell, judging by the way that froggy bastard prances around the damn place, he'll probably be able to tell you what old Johnny-Paul had for his breakfast that day. Alright, alright, I'll settle down, I'm getting ahead of mysel'. What else did you need to know?"
+++Identifying Marks: (Mostly optional if you have a picture, but describe anything hidden in the image, like tattoos) "Tattoos? Don't let da' hear of it. Even mentioning that word could get you banned from his congregation. No, the reverend wasn't particularly keen on tats, which is why I never told him I got one. Yeah, a big old red hand of Ulster, standing firmly on my chest... Look at your fucking face! Don't tell me you actually believe that, do you? A tattoo? Me? Where'd you think I'd-a gotten the money from, eh? If I ever find myself with a spare Shilling, you could bet your bum that I'd spend it on a tall pint or a lovely glass of whisky. Do yous even sell good whisky down in Constantinople? I've yet to find a pub selling good Scotch for an even better price. There's overpriced Bourbon in Yankee tourist bars, as well as some of that Greek stuff that leaves your throat burning after you gulp it down. I'm getting ahead of myself - What's that? Clothing? Well, the Marmarans decided to give me this: Brownish fatigues that look more like a beggar's than a soldier's. I'd be damned if they actually call it a 'uniform' 'round these ends. Regardless, it's nice and warm, and it gets the job done, so it does. Other than that, I'm packing some steel, as is expected. My favourite is probably the Webley Mk.VI. Had to bribe an officer in the Constabulary to get it, and it wasn't cheap. There's also this Webley RIC revolver that I got shortly after I joined the volunteers. That gonne's about as old as they come, but holding a revolver in both hands like John Wayne from those Yank films 'bout the American prairie is just too much fun, even if one of those pistols can't shoot for shit. I've also got this Dreyse 1907, cute little thing. Got that off one of Freddy Crawford's smuggling runs. Strange how some weapons just get 'lost', don't you think? Ah, yes, finally, I've got this American Smith & Wesson .45 Model 1917 pistol. It's got a tedious loading mechanism, and it's a single-action revolver. Use it a tad too much and you'll be sure to lose a finger somewhere along the line. Naturally, I'm only carrying so much steel in case there's some kind of immediate catastrophe, such as the old Hawker going down above the Wilderness, an attack on the air force base, or some belligerent drunken chap in a Marmaran public house. William, the fucker that he is, insists on not carrying any firearms. Don't want Billy-Pip returning home in a wooden box, so I don't really mind packing some shoot-irons, just in case.

+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): Now, I'm not certain if I even have a rank. Them Marmaran fellows gave me some hot stew and a cold brew, and that's all that matters to me now. They gave 's some new clothes, a roof o'er our heads, and I think they might as well have given my brother a commission. What does this rank look like to you? Stripes, chevrons, stars... I can't make anything out. I used to be a troop leader in the Volunteers, though. Those were the days. Me 'n the lads would go about town, and we'd always find something to do. Granted, things weren't always pretty, but if you want pretty, you don't come to Londonderry.
+++Call sign: "Oh, aye, you need a call sign do ye? Billy did tell me about that. I was thinking hard about what I'd like most, and I think "Orange" is a good pick. Has a lovely ring to it, doesn't it? I'll bet you my last Fenian pound that old king Billy would love it. Do yous Turks even know who that is? Ah, fuck it. 'Doubt I'll be using that callsign a lot anyway, since my brother's more o' the communicative type, and he's flying the bomber, so he'll be calling the shots. It's the thought that counts, eh?

+++Psychological Analysis: (personality)
+++Weaknesses: "First up, I've got no fucking clue what I'm doing. Oi, don't write that down, be diplomatic about it. Use some of the words that Billy-Pip loves using. Words like "uninitiated" or "unacquainted" or "out of his depth" or some shite like that. It's a bit fucking obvious, is it not? I'm stuck in Constantinople, you're stuck with me. Not much to say about that, not much to complain, either. Some'd say that I'd have no fucking place to be here, and that my decision to nick an Irish bomber was childish, ill-conceived and stupid. And they'd be dead on. They'd also be a good-for-nothing, whiny Fenian prick, who'd get it if I were within a mile's radius o' them, but that's what it is. Either way, this bomber's ours now, always has been, so anyone who runs their fucking mouths will wish they wouldn't've.

Ties into my second weakness quite well, that. You've noticed that I'm a tad bit passionate. I like to have strong opinions, fook'n sue me. If you want to talk to boring pricks with sawdust shoved so deep up their arses' that it's coming out their mouths whene'er they speak to ye' 'bout their dull family or company or what ye', go on over to the next Yankee pub down the road. I've always found that a more aggressive approach has always been the way of the Ulsterman, and anyone who disagrees is a fucking sap.

Now, finally, there's also the fact that fact that my schooling's fucking null, that I only know one language, and that there's a decent chance that ma head's gone all fucking empty on me, since the brandy made me lose so much of the old noggin' that there's probably nothing left. Some'd call it alcoholism, but you'd also have to factor into account that those who would call it that are, and I do apologize if I start repeatin' myself here, dull, lazy, good-for-nothing ugly whiny arrogant Fenian pricks who have never experienced a tad bit o' fun in their fucking lives. Hasn't anyone ever told them stupid fucking bastards that only Taigs can be alcoholic? It is the natural state of the Catholic Irishman to be enslaved to the bottle. Us Brits do indulge in a little drink or two, but we'd never fucking enslaves ourselves to it. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'll find some class fucking booze to dump in this slimy diarrhea you Kebabs call coffee."
+++Likes/Dislikes: "You probably already know what I like and what I dislike. Whisky, Ulster and freedom on the one side, Taigs, reds and Catholics on the other. If you were to want to know my opinion about something particular, why don't you ask me after this interview? Lord knows I'll always accept an invitation for a pint or two."
+++Interests:
+++Fears:

+++Nationality: "Now, I'm no fook'n idiot, so I left all my traces to Ulster back where they belonged. Passport, identification, driver's license, they're all lying in the cupboard back in Eglinton. If they haven't been seized by the Constabulary, that is. I just didn't want anyone to find out that I nicked the aeroplane, you understand? If a lad doesn't watch himself, he'll leave his papers somewhere he doesn't want them to be. Back when I marched with the Volunteers, I learnt not to bring any o' my papers. They could make a policeman look the other way, especially if there wasn't any evidence, but leave any sort o' trace, be it a letter to your gran, the UVF wouldn't cooperate, and there'd be a good chance that you'd get persecuted. Some of my lads had to pay some big fines, no clue where they got the money from, though. Either way: I wasn't so keen on paying some copper's wages, so I suppose my lack of legitimate identification makes me stateless, or, God knows. Don't look at me like that, do you think I'm some fucking diplomat?"
+++Ethnicity: "I am a hundred percent British, can't ye' see that? There's not a drop of Fenian blood in my veins. Da's always told me the family's moved over from 'round Berwick-upon-Tweed. Must've gotten sick of chasing about the English for centuries that they decided to come to Ulster. I'll tell ye, the land's lovely, but the people in 'ere are the worst. My uncle was an Orange Man, and Orange Men don't take Taigs, so don't go getting any ideas about my ethnicity."
+++Languages Spoken:
+++Religion: "I'd say I'm a proper Protestant, but the things I've done in the last few years aren't exactly Christlike. My da, a minister, bless his heart, always did his bess' to teach me them Twenty-two Commandments an' everything else, Shame they didn't stick. I liked the stories 'bout Noah and 'is boat, though. Maybe that's us? If the Fenian bomber's Noah's ship, and I am Noah, I guess that makes Billy-Pip... A piglet? Forgive me for my lack of knowledge 'bout Big Noah and his ark. Lord knows I'm no'a theologist, or whatever the word is.
+++Birthplace: "I's born in Eglinton, county Lundenderry. Wee village outside Londonderry proper, wouldn't expect ye to know it."
+++Permanent Residence: "Permanent fucking residence? You some kind of comedian? My permanent residence'll be some ditch below the Hagia Sophia if you fuckers stop paying me bills. Till then, I'll make mysel' comfortable in these bunks you've given me."
+++Criminal History: "Funnily enough, the RUC has always been quite good to me. In the glorious nineteen years I've walked this earth, I've only been convicted of criminal conduct once. The truth is that them RUC fellows have always been quite good to me. And if it seemed as though they were not, the UVF just threw some pounds their way for good measure. The Constabulary paved our cities and towns of Fenian scum in the day, and us volunteers did so in the night. The only time I couldn't worm my way 'round a charge was during the big Belfast derby two years ago. Our very own Linfield 'gainst Celtic. We were sure that we'd beat the Taig fuckers. Joe Bambrick, the fucking legend, had been put on centre-forward. He always well, so he did. Celtic fouled him ten minutes in, and old Joe couldn't get back on his feet. Leave it to the fucking papists to cheat us out of a powerful win there. We lost, three-nil, and me 'n the lads weren't all too happy about that. When we's finally caught up with them stinking Fenians, things went South quickly, and bribing the RUC wasn't going to cut it. Spent a night in jail, and that's all I've ever done wrong, according to His Majesty's most loyal Royal Ulster Constabulary."
+++Skills: "Right, mate, if the both of us were to share enough pints, I could dictate you an entire book about my proudest exploits and strengths. And that'd only include my proudest acts, the almighty Father up above knows I could just as well write a whole new bible filled with all the questionable, not-so-proud proceedings that I've orchestrated, but we'll only get to those if I'm really fucked up. As for those skills worth telling: I'm a right good fucking shot, you know. I'd say I'm the best fucking shot walking about this very fucking air base, but naturally I'm not a man to brag, so I'll remain right fucking humble, yeah. That thing in the back of the 'Ind? The Lewis? Thing rips up those wee paper aeroplanes like you wouldn't fucking believe. Not that I'd know, of course. I've yet to shoot a sod out the sky. I've had a go at shooting at the Taigs with the old .303, though. A blast, literally and fig'ratively.

Other 'an that, I'm a fucking machine. These birds we've got, you fill 'em with gas. Me, I much prefer a good drop of Scotch, or anything else that makes the time go by faster. Some say the brandy makes them sleepy, some say it makes them feel funny, but I know that I could conquer the fucking world If I had enough whisky to back me up. I always tell my brother that it makes me a better shot, you know. He doesn't like it when I tell him that, but that's besides the point. Either way: if a Hind can't fly without fuel, then I need a drop o' brandy to lift my arse off the ground. It's the nectar of the fucking gods, I'll tell you.

+++Bio:
+++Why You're Here: "The short answer? Crime. The long answer? The only decent place two upstanding, law-abiding Ulstermen like my brother and I could find some shelter is in this godforsaken fucking city. Constantinople is about the farthest you can get from them Fenians in Europe, and I certainly haven't seen one of the red-haired pricks about yet. Other than that, making money's my calling, and if we can earn our living by fucking with the Taigs, what's left to discuss?"

+++RP Example: Frontlines: The German Assault
The Sun Never Sets
Kaiserreich, Legacy of the Weltkrieg: 2nd American Civil War


STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)

---

Well, these are my applications currently. They're both very much WIP, and I plan on progressively expanding on both characters' backgrounds over the next few days. As the first post suggested, I decided to make two seperate applications. If this is wrong, please do inform me. Any and all feedback about the bombastic Buchanan twins is absolute welcome, please do send me a telegram if you've got any suggestions or ideas!

[Rupudska]

Should I make an app for my gunner?

If your plane has one, yes.

[Bolslania]

(Dmitrievich, A. Y)

+++Name: "My name is Andropov Yevgeniy Dmitrievich, people usually call me 'Andy' for short." (Include nicknames and titles)
+++Age (18 at youngest): "I am 36 years old"
+++Sex: "I am male, obviously"
+++Sexual Orientation: "I am heterosexual"
+++Appearance:, 5 foot 7 inches, 129 pounds
+++Identifying Marks: "I got stabbed in the arm by Bolsheviks while fleeing. And I also got scarred by the same flak burst that cut up Mueller. I also have a scar where a bullet from an enemy fighter grazed me."

+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): "As a flight crewman I am a Sergeant equivalent."
+++Call sign: "Wolfbat 2"

+++Aircraft: "I am the rear gunner for Mueller's Aero A.32"
+++Aircraft Appearance:
+++Emblem:
+++Modifications:
+++Funds: "I have about 78 Marmaran dollars."

+++Psychological Analysis: "I'm often told I'm gruff and jovial at the same time, I don't know how that works either this is just what people say. Growing up in Russia is tough, no matter what economic level you're at its tough. Therefore, any Russian who survives childhood is tough both physically and mentally." (personality)
+++Weaknesses: "I am a touch over-enthusiastic about alcohol, I dont bother much with other drugs but alcohol, alcohol is my vice. Physically I'm slowing down, I cant always see the fighter as soon as a I should for instance, and even if I do sometimes I can't react before bullets are rattling on the plane."
+++Likes/Dislikes: "Like I said, I am partial to drink. Otherwise I like women, and sleeping."
+++Interests: "I grew up with mechanics and machinery and have always had an affinity for machinery and tinkering."
+++Fears: "I actually really hate insects, I know they are plentiful in Marmara but I do my best to keep my quarters airtight and free of insects"

+++Nationality: "I am from Russia"
+++Ethnicity: Caucasian
+++Languages Spoken: "Russkiy moy rodnoy yazyk, and I speak English and German fairly well."
+++Religion: "I am technically Russian Orthodox, although I don't consider myself a good christian."
+++Birthplace: "I was born in the beautiful city of Moscow"
+++Permanent Residence: "You could say my permanent residence is here, on this base."
+++Criminal History: "The current Soviet government would call me a traitor, but otherwise I am not a criminal."
+++Skills: "I am talented in mechanical maintenance and repair, and have gotten fairly practiced at aerial gunnery."

+++Bio: "Here is my story. I was born the 3rd son of one of the mechanics for Tzar Nicholas II. I spent my childhood crawling around in and playing with spare and scrap parts, being one of the royal mechanics, my father was able to provide for my family reasonably comfortably, and had access to the Tzar's doctor. Which wasn't protocol but the doctor was nice enough to provide his service for members of the staff if they could pay. Unfortunately, not even the Tzar's doctor was able to save my mother, who was seized by tuberculosis when I was 15. By that time my brothers and I had been working as mechanics as well, and had become fairly accustomed with vehicle maintenance. When I was 16, I got to work, with my family, on a plane that the Tzar was going to travel on. That was my first experience with an aircraft and I was intrigued by it. My dreams of aircraft maintenance were suddenly put on hold by the Bolshevik revolution of 1917. When the reds stormed the palace, they came into the workshop, meaning to kill or beat us. My father sacrificed himself and was able to slow down the reds enough for us to take the car and drive to an airfield, where a plane was waiting to evacuate members of the Royal Family and staff. As we all know, the Royal Family was....unable to evacuate. So my brothers and I wound up in the German Empire, where we set up a vehicle repair shop. Apparently fate had taken a cruel interest in us, because Hitler and his movement became increasingly violent and prominent, even thought they weren't in power, we felt it was best for my brothers and I to run once again. We got scattered about 3 years back now, and I wound up here, being a mechanic and rear gunner for Mueller."
+++Why You're Here: "I wound up here because I've been running from reds and fascists, this is one of the few places where Im safe and can make a profit."

+++RP Example: Use the same as for Mueller's app

STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

Alright, so I’ve been bickering with this for some time now. In my application, I mention that the characters I intend to play stole a Hawker Hind from the Irish Republic. Despite the fact that we could easily dispute the probability of such a heist ever occuring in any timeline, I tried to remain as historically authentic as I could, mentioning specific Irish airfields close to Northern Ireland, and having my characters reflect on their actions, frequently mentioning specifics to try and create immersion.

Something that has been bugging me, however, is that the Hawker Hind only entered service in November 1935. Seeing as that the German Empire is stronger and arguably more stable than the Weimar Rep. used to be, would it have been possible for the Germans to send some aeroplanes Ireland’s way? Considering that Britain was essentially the only power to divert some of its planes to Ireland in our timeline, I doubt that would remain the case with the Huns being in a more powerful position, especially militarily. What would be the best course of action to deal with this pickle I’m finding myself in? Make up some story about German shipments to Ireland, or stick with the Hind and not make a fuss?

[Bolslania]

Alright, so I’ve been bickering with this for some time now. In my application, I mention that the characters I intend to play stole a Hawker Hind from the Irish Republic. Despite the fact that we could easily dispute the probability of such a heist ever occuring in any timeline, I tried to remain as historically authentic as I could, mentioning specific Irish airfields close to Northern Ireland, and having my characters reflect on their actions, frequently mentioning specifics to try and create immersion.

Something that has been bugging me, however, is that the Hawker Hind only entered service in November 1935. Seeing as that the German Empire is stronger and arguably more stable than the Weimar Rep. used to be, would it have been possible for the Germans to send some aeroplanes Ireland’s way? Considering that Britain was essentially the only power to divert some of its planes to Ireland in our timeline, I doubt that would remain the case with the Huns being in a more powerful position, especially militarily. What would be the best course of action to deal with this pickle I’m finding myself in? Make up some story about German shipments to Ireland, or stick with the Hind and not make a fuss?

While I'm not the OP or a Co-op, by my reading it looks as thought the German Empire is trying to repair relations with England and France, and selling planes to Ireland wouldn't (I think) be great for repairing relations with England. Once again, I'm not OP so idk, but thats my understanding.

[Rupudska]

Alright, so I’ve been bickering with this for some time now. In my application, I mention that the characters I intend to play stole a Hawker Hind from the Irish Republic. Despite the fact that we could easily dispute the probability of such a heist ever occuring in any timeline, I tried to remain as historically authentic as I could, mentioning specific Irish airfields close to Northern Ireland, and having my characters reflect on their actions, frequently mentioning specifics to try and create immersion.

Something that has been bugging me, however, is that the Hawker Hind only entered service in November 1935. Seeing as that the German Empire is stronger and arguably more stable than the Weimar Rep. used to be, would it have been possible for the Germans to send some aeroplanes Ireland’s way? Considering that Britain was essentially the only power to divert some of its planes to Ireland in our timeline, I doubt that would remain the case with the Huns being in a more powerful position, especially militarily. What would be the best course of action to deal with this pickle I’m finding myself in? Make up some story about German shipments to Ireland, or stick with the Hind and not make a fuss?

While I'm not the OP or a Co-op, by my reading it looks as thought the German Empire is trying to repair relations with England and France, and selling planes to Ireland wouldn't (I think) be great for repairing relations with England. Once again, I'm not OP so idk, but thats my understanding.

Germany is trying to repair relations with Britain and the old French government, which I should probably call something else to avoid confusion. Mostly it's because the Kaiser is just as if not more anti-communist as in OTL, and being sandwiched between two powerful communist nations is not a fun place to be.

[Reverend Norv]

Going to make a full-court press to get my app done in the next 48 hours. Sorry for the delay, and I hope we are all still raring to go.

[Rupudska]

Going to make a full-court press to get my app done in the next 48 hours. Sorry for the delay, and I hope we are all still raring to go.

It's fine, I've neglected my own app as well, which I aim to correct starting today.

[Reverend Norv]

App is done. This is a true Norv novel of the old school, so I hope it was worth the wait. And Florac is pretty much the most interesting man in the world, so he is plenty of fun to write about.

[Rupudska]

I shall surely endeavor to read it. IC will go up sometime this week, but not Christmas Day.

[Reverend Norv]

It is likely that de Florac met Clark in the Congo, and perhaps Andrea in Spain; not sure about the other characters.

[Cylarn]

It is likely that de Florac met Clark in the Congo, and perhaps Andrea in Spain; not sure about the other characters.

I'll expand upon Clark's history in the Congo, and add some more information on his time in South America.

[Vrijstaat Limburg]

I reckon it'll be somewhat awkward for these seasoned airmen to be lumped into the same unit as two common criminals from county Londonderry. Writing these characters has been quite fun, and I do like toying around with that idea of two nobodies running around in Constantinople in a stolen aircraft, but I keep being reminded that their fantastical background is just that: fantastical. It's certainly not as feasible as any other current application in this thread, and I do apologize if I were to be pushing the boundaries of RP applicability and realism with the Buchanan twins.

Having said that, I'd also want to apologize for not being as quick on finishing the application. I hope to end it before the IC comes out, but I couldn't guarantee anything right now, I'm afraid. The holidays are quite a busy season, as some of you might also find. I have, however, added a small picture of what the Hawker Hind might look like now that my characters have gotten their hands on a can of paint, hopefully that makes up for it

If anyone's got any suggestions, ideas or criticisms about my application, do feel free to let me know!

[Rupudska]

It is likely that de Florac met Clark in the Congo, and perhaps Andrea in Spain; not sure about the other characters.

Elaine would have been in the Congo at that time, but the chances of her meeting any of the other characters is slim, and she wouldn't have stayed in the French Congo long either way.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

BLÁZQUES-CONTADOR, A.

+++Name: Andrea “Bullet-belt” Blázques-Contador
+++Age (18 at youngest): 24
+++Sex: Female
+++Sexual Orientation: “Anyone with breasts and a good ass on them, really”
+++Appearance: 1.70m, 68 Kg
+++Identifying Marks: Some whipping scars on her back

+++Rank (O-1 to O-3): “0-1, because the Marmarans certainly can’t turn down a good pilot, but they’ll be damned if they give me a rank”
+++Call sign: “Barricade”

+++Aircraft: Nieuport-Delage NiD-52
+++Aircraft Appearance: Painted normal camouflage, but with red/black details painted on the rudders
+++Emblem: Specifically NOT a Marmara roundel. The CNT-FAI logo painted on both sides and the wings the fuselage has a painting of Rosa Luxemburg on it.
+++Modifications: Slotted with a more efficient engine
+++Funds: All gone

+++Psychological Analysis:
“Miss Blázques-Contador has all shown to possess all the disadvantages of her own sex, but she seems to have learnt a vice or two from male compatriots through the ravages of war, the poor thing. She is hot-headed and prone to bouts of hysteria and anger, especially towards men her superior in rank, position and age. She is quick to overshare and show emotions, whether positive or negative, and seems incapable to the measured sprezzatura inherent to maleness. She is, however, also quite direct, and entirely unpleasant to converse with, showing no interest in sewing or poetry. Instead, she seems more interested in the stopping power of various munitions and the exact build-up of engine parts, while her knowledge of these things is naturally limited. All in all, a great waste of such a bright young woman, who could have achieved so much in life. Her unwomanly interests in the male sciences would have made her an interesting partner, but her sickly preference for her own sex makes that unlikely. I suspect penis envy”
+++Weaknesses: Andrea is an undiagnosed perfectionist, and asks a lot of herself.
+++Likes/Dislikes: Likes horseback riding,
+++Interests: Engines, horses, gun smithing, political and philosophical literature
+++Fears: Violent, drunk men, flamethrowers

+++Nationality: Spanish
+++Ethnicity: Caucasian
+++Languages Spoken: Catalan, Spanish, English
+++Religion: Atheistic
+++Birthplace: Calaf, Catalunia, Kingdom of Spain
+++Permanent Residence: Barcelona, Catalunia, Spanish Republic
+++Criminal History: Treason (pardoned), violence against a member of the clergy (pardoned), insurrectionism (pardoned), collaboration with a foreign power (pardoned), assault of a soldier (punishment suspended)
+++Skills: Engine repair and maintenance, firearm repair and maintenance, piloting, horseback riding and horse care

+++Bio: Carlos Blázques-Hidalgo was an old-fashioned Catalunian farmer, who wanted three things in life: A good Christian life on his farm, discipline of those working on his farm, and strong sons to inherit his farm. He never got much of that. His first wife married him when they were in their twenties, an affair arranged by their parents. At first she was apprehensive, but later on, she became miserable. She fell in love with one of the stable hands, and Carlos caught them in his shed. He threw both of them out and had the marriage annulled, seven years into it. His second wife was one of convenience, a young thing he had picked up during a night at the bar. She was destitute and in dire need of help, with no family. She too failed to provide him with a son, and after ten years, she disappeared without a trace. She was declared dead after her bloodied gown was found, shallowly buried in a ditch two kilometres from the farmhouse. Carlos mourned for three months, after which he married his third and last wife, Esmeralda Contador-Montagnas. She too was married off by her traditional family, after she had caused ‘quite a stir’ back in Barcelona. Her family was happy to be rid of her, and hoped good Catholic farmer’s discipline would ‘mend’ her soul. After three years of trying, she finally became pregnant, although not with the son Carlos had hoped for. The day after the girl was born he rode into the wood with her, intent on leaving her to the wolves. Some five hours later, though, he returned, baby still in hand. He named her Andrea, and though Esmeralda never bore him another child, she was allowed to stay.

Carlos was not kind to his daughter, growing up. His raising of her showed a deep disdain for her gender, while still adhering to the strict norms of their society. She was expected to learn how to sow and cook, but at the same time, she had to work on the farm from dusk till dawn. He expected her to be graceful and slender, and punished her when her biceps started developing from the labour. One day, he would give her books on religion and science and order her to get familiar with the subjects, but the next, he would take them all away again to be burned. A thing that got her some praise one day would earn her a lashing of Carlos’ belt the next, and every Sunday she would confess her wickedness to their priest. A priest who had to listen to her cry about completely contradictory sins every week, only to tell her that her true duty was to listen to her father, and that, as long as she did that, she was free of any womanly vice. That it was a matter between her and God.

She would surely have been broken, or gone mad with fear, had it not been for her mother and the other farm workers. While they didn’t dare anger Carlos for fear of retribution, they cared for Andrea. They raised her with love, helping mend the wounds from the lashing of Carlos’ belt and doing her mountain of chores behind his back. Moreover, her mother, who treated all the farmhands as her equal, told her stories about imaginary places. Of places where men and women were treated equally, where the seas were made of lemonade. And of places where a woman could strike back when struck, and be hailed a hero for it. Where women could be strong and broad and be admired for that, just as they would be admired in any way they themselves desired. To Andrea, it seemed all so distant, but it helped her not grow accepting of her conditions. The harsher Carlos became, the stronger she grew in her conviction that there was something to look forward to, something that could help her carry her burden.

After Andrea celebrated her 16th birthday, her father became set on marrying her off for a sizable dowry. Though she worked the farm the hardest, and was the best with the horses, he could simply not stand the sight of her anymore, and he often lamented ‘what he had created’. So, he invited every young (and middle-aged) bachelor in the region, and tried to get them to marry his daughter. Andrea, however, had one certainty in life: none of the dull boys and men interested her in any way. Even the kind ones she liked only in a friendly way. She didn’t know what this meant, but she knew that she was not going to marry any of them out of free will. The best conversation she had was with Alejandro, a boy of 17 who confessed to her that he was solely attracted to other boys.

This concept intrigued Andrea, and as she was supposed to be meeting some of the families from nearby towns, she began to spend more time outside the house. Just sitting on a bench on the church square of Calaf, she goggled the maidens that came by. Most of them didn’t pay them any heed, but she noticed one or two who would blush as they caught her eye. She would wait a few days to chat them up, invite them for a walk through the pristine countryside, while impressing them with her knowledge of all things agricultural and her citation of poetry, which she had taken up for this very endeavour. During her Calaf days, she kissed a girl once, but this was spotted, and immediately reported to both the town priest and her father, who was furious, and gave her the worst lashing she had ever received. She would have died if Carlos had been a younger man. Andrea was too beaten to cry, and she fainted as the farm hands cared for her wounds, her mother crying through all of it.

After a night resting in the barn, her bandages being replaced every few hours, Carlos barged in through the door. He came to finish the job, he said. Do what he should have done sixteen years before. He didn’t have his belt in his hand, rather, he had his cast iron hearth prod. Andrea couldn’t even scare back, so hurt was she, but her mother intervened. She buried a pitchfork into the man’s throat, so deep it came out the other end. Andrea was frightened, and had expected to feel some emotion. Maybe even some latent love for her father, as he lay there suffocating in his own blood. But he felt nothing, not even regret. Only some gratitude, and a twang of relief. Of course, she and her mother could not stay there. Her mother handed the farm over to the farm hands and took Andrea to Barcelona.

Maybe it was fate, maybe it was the rumblings that made Esmeralda take such drastic action, but just as the two travelled to Barcelona, the war reached Catalunia. Or, rather, Catalunia broke out. The Colonels’ Coup in Madrid was repelled by fierce action of the local working class, and Madrid was declared an independent commune in the vein of Paris in ’71. For a few days, the country held its breath, hoping the violence would not cascade. It was tough luck; the workers were sick of the conservative government, and the military that thought it was still not conservative enough. Barcelona was seized by the anarchist Union, the military leaders were executed, and capitalists were expelled from the city. This was fortunate, because it meant there were plenty of empty houses for Esmeralda and her daughter to move into, even if wasn’t for long.

Because as Spain became locked in a civil war, it became obvious that it was going to be a tough fight. The Republicans had aid from France and the USSR, but this immediately presented a problem, because of infighting between anarchist and Marxist-Leninist elements. The Nationalists, meanwhile, were supported by Italy, Austria, and the German Empire, and they managed to form a more coherent, united front behind the Kaiser-picked Carlist pretender and his royalist government. The workers’ militias that opposed them often clashed or even fought with the more regimented Trotskyist regiments, and they suffered high losses through spirited but costly charges against entrenched positions.

So, calls went out for volunteers. Andrea expected her mother to be against it, but if Esmeralda hated anything more than her late husband, it was fascist dogs. So, with her mother’s blessing, Andrea signed up. She was given the choice between navy, army or air force, the latter being the most dangerous because of the short shelf life of pilots. But pilots seemed to get the most interest from the ladies, and that intrigued Andrea, so she signed up with the air force as a pilot. Now, being a pilot in the CNT-FAI was dangerous, but Luxemburg Squadron (to which Andrea was attached) mainly faced off against German pilots. The combat veterans were hard to beat, but the noble sons who fancied themselves war heroes were easy to shoot down, and Luxemburg Squadron cared little for their ‘chivalric code’. Had no trouble shooting them while hanging from parachutes, too.

In 1929, towards the end of the war, the CNT-FAI was flying missions deeper and deeper into enemy territory, both for scouting purposes and for ground attacks. CNT-FAI pilots had to contend with their comrades from the Spanish Red Air Force, and because the end of the war would mean that the anarchists and Marxist-Leninists had to figure out the post war order, both groups were doing their best to take credit for winning the war. So too the pilots of the Luxemburg squadron, who were flying missions in the wilds of Extremadura, finding the last holdouts of Nationalist activity. It was then that Andrea’s airplane was shot from the sky by a lucky shot from a machine gun, perforating her engine block. She went down and parachuted, and luckily for her, she was found by Portuguese partisans, who handed her a rifle. It took them a week to make their way back to Republican lines, just in time for them to take part in the last push against the last holdouts. No plane was available, but Andrea was perfectly happy to engage the fascists hand to hand.

It was a mistake to take part. They had not expected the Nationalists to present such stern resistance, and the tactic of waiting in hiding and then opening up with machine guns, while tactically insignificant, helped mount casualties on the Anarchist side. Grenades coated in nails and iron made horrific shrapnel wounds that were impossible to seal, and the Nationalists did not eschew the use of some German flame throwers, which horrified the militias. On the fifth week of the offensive, with half of their squad killed or maimed, Andrea and her comrades charged the last holdout, which took out another two of their squad. There, out of ammo, out of grenades, with her knife list in the thick of it, she strangled the last Nationalist captain with an ammunition belt.

With the war over, the militias were free to return home. Many did, returning to lead the peaceful union opposition to increased centralisation of the Communist Party. Andrea, however, wanted no part in this. She would rather fight fascists, and her plane was no use in domestic affairs. She took to becoming a mercenary in 1930, at the age of 20. Specifically, she became a head hunter. When the Nationalists had collapsed, some of their pilots had deserted and gone into mercenary service. The same went for some French fascists. She committed herself to putting them all down.

Her travels brought her far and wide, but mostly in Africa. She flew missions in Angola for the Anarchist forces there against fascist Portuguese holdouts, although that revolt was eventually unsuccessful. Cut off from the coast, she spent the next two years flying from airport to airport, searching out fascists in the air as well as on foot. In the Belgian Congo, she shot down Michael Fortuyn, famed pilot in service of King Leopold. In Kampala, she caught up with an old adversary from the civil war. She had a few drinks with him, invited him to a date in a local park, and then shot him between the shoulder blades from a vantage point 300 yards away. And in Khartoum in 33, she managed to get her hands on a list of ‘Old Boys’, a group of fascist mercenaries who kept each other informed of ‘political intrigue’. She named it her ‘to do list’ and took it with her back to Spain.

In the late thirties, general Franco managed to rekindle the old war by uniting the former monied class in Spain, with a lot of foreign aid. Andrea quickly returned to Spain to fight out that war. Along the way, she did come across a certain French Chevalier, but she had only little interaction with him. She did help chase him to Gibraltar, but because he was just a spy and not actually a fascist, she didn’t care much for that. She just has some professional regrets about not catching the old dog.

Her fascist hunting eventually turned her up in Marmara. Now, the Marmarans are bad, politically speaking. But they are not fascists, or fascist collaborators. They are opposed to the Grey Wolves and the Golden Dawn, which is plenty enough. It means that every pilot downed is a Fascist she doesn’t have to chase to the ends of the Earth later.
+++Why You're Here: “Because there are still fascist dogs out there earning a neat coin off their banditry, and I will only rest once they have all fallen like lucifers.”


STAND-IN-THE-LINE-OF-FIRE (DO NOT REMOVE)

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

It is done.