Assault on the Mountains of Madness
Music. Read more background details about this in the recruitment thread.
“It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety of mankind, that some of earth's dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be left alone; lest sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests.” ― H.P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness
It is March, 1945 A.D. and World War II is nearing its conclusion. In February, the Soviets entered Silesia and Pomerania, while the Western Allies have penetrated Western Germany and begun to cross the Rhine. Nazi Germany has been pushed to the brink--and for all the world's stage, the noose appears to be tightening once and for all as a decisive military defeat looms. For the Allied forces, victory looms near--but after nearly six long years of war, forces are exhausted and stretched thin. The world, at large, is ready for the war to be over--and for efforts to rebuild and attending to mending myriad wounds to begin.
Unknown to most, however, is the secret war which has raged away from the public consciousness. Special intelligence organizations and their brave agents have fought tirelessly against a menace which threatens the very fate of mankind. While the Axis armies have waged battle on a global scale, behind the scenes secret societies and clandestine operations have been conducted to surface ancient, alien and terrible discoveries. Within Nazi Germany, the Black Sun have pursued dark sorceries and terrible monstrosities long forgotten--while their rivals the Nachtwölfe have tireless pursued twisted science and weapons of devastation at all costs.
With Germany's humiliating and near utter defeat looming close, desperation has driven men and women to terrible lengths. Their forces combined, the Black Sun and Nachtwölfe have embarked on one final journey of daring madness, hell-bent on returning with a resounding show of terrible force the likes of which the world has never seen--from which mankind may never truly recover. Now, more than ever, it is imperative that brave men and women seek to put an end to these wicked schemes--by whatever means necessary...
Book One: Tides of Turmoil
While conducting joint operations in the Mediterranean pursuing the remnants of Axis forces still withdrawing from the North African theatre, a submarine base was discovered with alarming levels of activity. What followed was a swift and decisive strike combining the aerial support of the No. 73 Squadron RAF with an amphibious assault by US Marine Raiders and Ranger Battalion, the US Army Engineer Corps and Z Unit Commandos--crippling the facility and cutting off a crucial supply line.
During the capture of the Mediterranean base, the presence of several unusual antiquities and anomalous materials within a transport vault swiftly summoned the attentions of the Allied Intelligence Bureau, who dispatched OSS Majestic and SOE agents to the location along with tasked specialists. Pilfered articles raised small concern--but another discovery was made within the submarine base: a submarine logbook which included entries with unusually heavy encryption. Unfortunately, a great deal of additional information had been hastily destroyed during the attack by remaining Nazi agents.
Thanks to the efforts of an auxiliary cryptography expert, the entries were deciphered: revealing a trail leading to an apparent hitherto-unknown submarine base deep in the Atlantic. Initial efforts to determine the actual location proved difficult, while the materials recovered in the Mediterranean were of considerable concern for the AIB. Ultimately, a joint effort was engaged with Soviet SMERSH agents--before together triangulating information to discern the location of this secret base: none-other than the notorious 'phantom', Saxemberg Island.
Among the Atlantic island chain of Tristan da Cunha and the Nightingale Islands is a naval operation conducted under British military jurisdiction. Following the appearance of German U-Boats and the battleship Graf Spee in the South Atlantic early in the war prompted the British to reassess the strategic importance of the islands--and in 1942, the Royal Navy established Job 9 on Tristan da Cunha, now known as HMS Atlantic Isle, serving as a station for Allied eyes and ears in the South Atlantic. Directed by Surgeon Lieutenant Commander Woolley, the HMS Atlantic Isle boasts a sizable military complex with an airstrip, workshops, weather station--and one of the most powerful radio transmitters int he Atlantic region.
On March 5th, 1945, a coordinate strike team and special joint operations group was assembled at the HMS Atlantic Isle following the discoveries made in the Mediterranean. In addition to a variety of support and logistical personnel, a multinational team has been established for field operations--counting among its number several key participants of the Mediterranean submarine base strike and subsequent capture and review. That Axis forces were somehow able to seemingly operate extensive U-boat movement right under the nose of one of the most potent listening posts in the Atlantic is of great concern to the AIB and SMERSH.
Due to the sensitive nature of the operation, coupled with limited available intelligence regarding the destination base, the joint operational command has determined to dispatch a strike team under secrecy--partly in hope of potentially securing crucial intelligence from the site without preemptive destruction of evidence and information. Because of the presence of articles classified as 'occult' in nature at the Mediterranean base, both AIB and Smersh have elected to attach a small team of multinational specialists to the strike team to ascertain and analyze any such materials, should they be discovered, on-site.
CLASSIFIED: OPERATIONAL PARAMETERS FOLLOW
Strike team is instructed to deploy to Saxemberg Island under cover of night, pursuing the presence of believed Nazi secret facility. Using covert action, the strike team is directed to make landfall and confirm the location of any present facility. Once this believed facility is discovered, the strike team is directed to gain entry to the facility by whatever means necessary, at their discretion. Every reasonable effort should be made to safeguard the auxiliary attachment to the strike team.
Upon gaining entry to the facility, priority one is he neutralization of any remaining Axis forces who may be present at the facility; should the opportunity to take prisoners arise, this is encouraged, but asserting Allied control over the facility is of the utmost priority. Priority two is the secure recovery of any and all intelligence data present. Priority three is the recovery of any and all 'occult' classified articles, artifacts or paraphernalia which may be present at the facility.
As this is a primarily British undertaking, Sgt. Richard Barton-Morewood will be deployed as senior command for this operation, following his involvement in the Mediterranean. Sgt. Barton-Morewood will be joined by Sgt. Theodore Willis, a member of the US Army Engineer Corps responsible for key demolitions in the Mediterranean, who will assist in a similar capacity for this operation. Leading the strike team's assault will be Sgt. Ronald Thomas of the US Ranger Battalion and LCpl Arapeta Manahi of the Z Special Unit. Serzhant Dmitriy Vasilievich will accompany the strike in to assist with landing and securing a beachfront.
Additionally, the strike team will include Lt. Irakliy Kuznetsov under the discretion of SMERSH operational interests, along with Krasnoarmeets Izoldah Rostov for scouting and reconnaissance. Attached to the strike team will be a specialist group under the direction of SOE operative Bradley Hewitt, including auxiliaries Gráinne Flynn, Sir Sebastian Taylor II and Dr. Yulia Khulanova on nomination from SMERSH. Finally, Victoire Doucet will be attached as the strike team's medic, under nomination for exemplary service and bravery in the field.
Sten Mk. I submachine guns and Webley .30/200 service revolvers may be issued, along with adequate ammunition; Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knives, as well as a limited supply of No.36M hand grenades (6). Strike team will be provided with all-black combat togs and black helmets; a mobile field radio is available. Sgt. Willis will be provided with 6lbs Standard Charge explosives.
Additional basic equipment available upon requisition.
March 6th, 1945 - Saxemberg Island, Atlantic
Setting out from the HMS Atlantic Isle, the strike team has been ferried by a small ship to within striking distance, due to concerns over the tenability of a Sunderland or PBY aircraft attempting a water landing with Atlantic currents this far south. After departure, it has taken a little over sixteen hours through patches of turbulent weather—until the mysterious Saxemberg Island has been confirmed nearby. Accompanying the operation as its escort is the HMS Spearhead, a Royal Navy S-class submarine tasked with monitoring for any U-boat activity and providing backup closer to the island once the base is secure.
Now, in the dark of night as waves crash and lap, eleven men and women board a pair of LCRSes (Landing Craft Rubber Small) in the cold waters of the Atlantic. Behind them, hatches clang shut—and there is little to do but begin rowing towards Saxemberg Island ahead.
Alright! Hello everyone, and welcome to the game, now live! I'll be including bits like this in regular text outside of the fixed-text style of the main post bodies as we proceed. Since we have a pretty sizable group, a number of whom are either new to Savage Worlds or perhaps a bit rusty, I'll be endeavoring to 'tutorialize' a bit as we go and new elements / mechanics are introduced for the first time. Since we're diving right into things, I'd like to leave it to each of you to provide what you'd like for your character's thoughts and whatever little vignette you'd like for the preceding span prior to this operation.
We're operating under the notion that most of you were directly involved in the off-screen operation in the Mediterranean which led to the discovery of Saxemberg Island's use by the Nazis--which has thus played into why you're the ladies and gentlement being sent at the tip of the spear to see what's what.
Our Soviet friends are newly involved, but no less important; nominally, the command structure in the group is going to be a bit malleable with ranks as we go, but for this particular operation Sgt. Barton-Morewood is technically the overall leader of the strike team. Ronnie should really outrank him, but Dicky was a hero in the Mediterranean flight and command passed it down this time!
For this operation, you've been deployed in two LCRS boats in secrecy; both of these boats can seat seven individuals. Since noncombatants are tagging along, they'll be arriving in the second of the two boats--but for our purposes, we're going to resolve the approach of both simultaneously. Here's the split of who's in which boat:
Sgt. 'Dicky' Barton-Morewood
Sgt. 'Ted' Willis
S/Sgt. 'Ronnie' Thomas
LCpl 'Harry' Manahi
Lt. Irakliy Kuznetsov
Krasnoarmeets Izoldah Rostov
Serzhant Dmitriy Vasilievich
Agent Bradley Hewitt
Sir Sebastian Taylor II
Dr. Yulia Khulanova
Since the only one of you with Boating is Harry, Dmitriy here is tagging along to provide Boating to LCRS #2--and to help safeguard your landing / round the strike team out to 12 altogether. Dmitriy will definitely not be rushing headlong into danger to get murdered.
Making the landing is considered a Dramatic Task. Dramatic Tasks in Savage Worlds are mostly meant for exciting sequences where resolving everything tidily with one skill roll isn't particularly appropriate or interesting; in this case, you're trying to make landfall at night covertly on a volcanic island with jagged rocks and crashing waves for a possible secret Nazi base.
A Dramatic Task is typically a series of checks where you're looking for a target number of successes in a number of attempts in order to be successful (for things like disarming a bomb, etc.) Harry will 'lead' the LCRS #1's approach, since he actually has a rank in Boating. Ordinarily, you can also pitch in via a cooperative roll. For every success (4) and raise (increments of 4 beyond the first) a character makes, they can contribute +1 to the Boating check to reach the island. This caps out at +4. However, the catch is that you can't actually contribute to a cooperative roll if you don't have the skill in question--which means we're relying on Harry and Dimitry for smooth sailing this evening. We'll handle that check in my second in-game update.
Before everything falls apart though, let's let everyone report in and get their feet wet up to and through getting on boats together here. Once everyone's in the thread, I'll follow up with the actual execution--and results--of our first perilous leg of this operation.
In the post to follow this one, I'll gradually flesh out useful links and other important details, including our roster of who's who and what's what, as it were.
GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at Sep 28, 2016 around 21:42
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 21:25|
|# ? Feb 16, 2019 05:10|
We are joined by a sizable ensemble featuring:
Izoldah Rostov, played by Shogeton, a Soviet Scout
Sgt. Ted Willis, played by Mukaikubo, an American Army Engineer
Bradley Gewitt, played by DocBubonic, a British SOE Agent specializing in the occult.
Victoire Doucet, played by Fathis Munk, former French Resistance and Medic
S/Sgt. Ronnie Thomas, played by Fraction Jackson, an American Commando of the 1st SSF Devil’s Brigade
LCPl. Harry Manahi, played by Oracle, a Maori Commando of the Z Special Unit
Gráinne Flynn, played by Razeam, a British MI6 Operative
Lt. Irakliy Kuznetsov, played by Redeye Flight, a Soviet Tank Commander
Richard Barton-Morewood, played by A Velociraptor!, a British Royal Air Force Pilot
Sir Sebastian Taylor II, played by animedragonfly, a British Affluent Antiquarian
Doctor Yulia Khulanova, played by Ambivalent, a Soviet Academic Conscript
GaistHeidegger fucked around with this message at Sep 29, 2016 around 02:26
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 21:25|
Starshiy Leytenant Irakliy Kuznetsov
After sixteen hours, Irakliy could confirm one thing he'd learned today.
He HATED boats.
Trains, he loved. Airplanes he admired, although long flying was something more to be tolerated. But if every ship in the world were to sink at the same time tomorrow, Irakliy felt, right now, that he would shed no tears. Certainly his drat stomach would rejoice.
It hadn't been hard to guess why he'd been wrenched off the Hungarian front and sent south on three planes and this hell-ship. What was still stumping him, as the lurching of the boat mercifully wound down, was why it had been HIM. There were clearly no tanks involved in this operation, and there had been other... experienced men who might have been more suited. So why him?
Second guessing SMERSH is like reading patterns in snowdrifts, his own voice chided him inside his head, and he straightened up, looking around the cabin for the first time since the first bit of chop had hit. Taking in faces, trying to lock them into his memory. He had spotted a few fellow Soviets in the initial briefing, but not many. Uniforms he didn't recognize... and quite a few people not in uniforms. Awful lot of civilians here. And of course, now the black togs obscured everything.
A call came from above, and he rose, a little shakily, grabbing up his Sten from where it had come to rest on the floor. Coming up top, the air was bracingly cold, thick with sea-smell, and as far around as he could see there was absolutely nothing but black ocean.
Save one. Off in the distance he could see an inconsistency, a spot of blackness that didn't reflect the moonlight back. That had to be it. But they were still far away from it, he realized as he was directed to the railing--and realized there was a ladder attached.
He peered down, spying the flimsy-looking rubber boat at the bottom, and looked up at the sailor with a dismayed expression. "You joke." He knew it wasn't, though, and resignedly climbed down, settling into a seat on boat 1. "What on Earth have I gotten into here..."
I think I'm the one carrying the radio, incidentally. Certainly I have the Communications skill for it.
Redeye Flight fucked around with this message at Sep 28, 2016 around 22:52
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 22:12|
Staff Sgt. Ronald "Ronnie" John Thomas
They'd let him keep wearing the patch when they had disbanded the Devil's Brigade. Ronnie had insisted on that, and at least some people up the chain had understood. Even if he'd spent the last few months being a Ranger instead, he would always be one of the Black Devils in his heart, and there was a nagging feeling in there that maybe, just maybe, he didn't want the war to end for a few more years.
Today he was getting his wish, and he looked the part again. All in black, and a little shoe polish on his cheeks just to be sure, just like they used to do at Anzio, raiding half the night away. The patch was practically the only thing with any color on his person, the little red USA-CANADA arrowhead tucked into a pocket, his own little good luck charm. He had never been a big believer in luck, at least not openly, but having the thing around made him feel just a little tougher, a little more ready. And it was appropriate: sneaking around at night, away from the main line, taking down Germans in the dark.
But this wasn't the First Special Service Force. Ronnie wasn't quite sure exactly what this unit was, what to call it. He didn't quite understand why the guy with the funny mustache got to have operational command just because they'd borrowed Her Majesty's Remote Ocean Rock. He supposed the one Russkie that seemed to be an officer was feeling the same way, but in the end it didn't matter much as long as it all got done. At least they'd made Ronnie responsible for clearing the beach. That was something he could do, anyhow. But it was gonna be a bit of a tall order to keep, by his count, five different nations moving the same way. It'd taken the Devils a year just to figure out how to keep the same commands making sense for Americans and Canadians, and they were neighbors that spoke the same language.
On top of that they were shepherding a good handful of noncoms too. It made sense with what he understood of the mission, but it still was an extra complication. Hopefully they could make quick work of it all before the second boat landed, or maybe they'd turn out to have a little skill.
Regardless, if this group spoke the language of killing Nazis, Ronnie supposed it would be all right.
"Well," says the Staff Sergeant as he follows closely behind, "look on the bright side: they remembered to give us boats." It's about all there is to be said for the little dinghys they have for the middle of the Atlantic. He works over his M1 in the bare minimum of light that they have, just to be sure it's ready to go. "Don't mean to step on any toes," Ronnie adds quietly, alluding to the strange command situation, "but I would suggest we all gear check now, get everything ready. They see us, we'll need to move hard and fast and clear 'em."
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 22:16|
The representatives of the Soviet Union Armed Forces were of one mind on the matter of sea-faring.
Boats and being on boats was not humanity's natural state. And the great sacrifice of their comrades in the Soviet navy should be all the more appreciated. For Izoldah, who was oh so proud of being oh so well acquainted with the terrain, being like a, hah, fish out of water was just about a worse sensation than the sea sickness. It was also, far, far too warm for her liking. Oh, she hoped the war to be over soon, and she could return to her village near the Urals and just leave a nice, peaceful and calm life. Well, the fascists were on their last legs anyway. Maybe this would be the final blow, right?
She looked at the others. A Red Army Lieutenant, she'd carefully saluted in case he was very strict on these things, and some others. Honestly, the Englishman who led them was almost walking caricature with his moustache, but if he was here, he was supposedly competent. Or at least hopefully. Regardless, they were all comrades against the fascists now, and political discussion interested her as much as deep see diving. More surprised was she with the presence of a non-soviet fighting woman. A French one. There hadn't been much time time to talk, but she wondered what story that might have been.
Then, there was the contents of the other boat. Something she really worried about. A bunch of soft city-folk, many of which non-military. Smart folks apparently, but honestly. Whatever ancient stolen art piece or artifact found there couldn't be that important they'd have to bring these people along. Shouldn't they be staying somewhere in their fancy cities waiting for fighting men to bring it to them? She respected their courage and all, she just worried they were going to slow them down something fierce. She figured perhaps there were some disputes about who was going to get these artifacts after the nazis were dead, and these people were there to keep track of what was found and keep careful notes.
Hah. There's the clear show fascism was dead. The vultures had stopped circling and came down to eat their meal. Well, she did not begrudge them any of their fancy things. As they approached their goal, she looked through her binoculars at the far island, keeping a good eye on it. It was time for the mission now. Another game of hide and seek with the fascists. No sniper support this time though, but this might be a bad place for it anyway. She climbed down the ladder, taking a position near the front so she could keep a good eye on their destination. She gave a wry grin at Irakliy. "Not quite as secure a place as a T34, eh, Comrade Leytenant? Hope we'll have good solid rock under our feet soon." She said in light-hearted Russian. If the guy was going to be very stiff about 'respecting rank' best fight out early.
Shogeton fucked around with this message at Sep 28, 2016 around 22:34
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 22:32|
Victoire Doucet, Maquisarde Medic
Victoire emerged onto the deck of the british ship lighting a cigarette. She just felt anxious in the cramped cabins below so after getting a couple of hours of fitful sleep she decided she had to get out. Staring at the choppy sea and breathing in the tangy air she was wondering what exactly had led her here. Her life seemed so predetermined and so easy only 6, admittedly long, years ago. She leaned on the railing and figured it didn't really matter. She fought the Nazis in France until there were no more Nazis in France so now she had to chase them to wherever they were still hiding. The things she had seen in the Maquis, culminating in Vassieux-en-Vercors made sure of that.
She took another drag of her cigarette, thinking about her new strike team. It was an odd mish mash of nationalities and specialties, to her a sign that whatever they were after was important. The only time nations fought each other for the privilege to be part of an operation was when they hoped it'd bring them glory. Or at least she hoped, the other option was decidedly less appealing.
Glancing at her watch she saw it was almost time to get the show on the road. She flicked the cigarette into the ocean and double-checked her shotgun. No way she'd go face combat without the reassuring weight of a shotgun in her hands. As she turned around she saw a couple other members of her strike team starting to get into the small boats they were supposed to take for the last stretch of their journey. Her stomach felt a bit queasy at the idea, these waters were not at all like the Ill she used to go swim in with her father.
She took one last deep breath and headed towards her comrades, putting on an air of bravado mostly to reassure herself.
"Well boys, what are we waiting for, I 'ear there's Nazis on that island zat have things zat we want. A comptely unacceptable situation, non? Allons leur faire la peau."
Fathis Munk fucked around with this message at Sep 29, 2016 around 14:53
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 22:41|
Starshiy Leytenant Irakliy Kuznetsov
Irakliy looked up at the woman, whose name he couldn't--Rostov. Like the city. Right. She'd been treating him almost like a commissar since they'd met, though in fairness, he hadn't exactly been TALKING much to dissuade the notion. He smiled weakly at her. "Sooner the better."
Redeye Flight fucked around with this message at Sep 28, 2016 around 22:52
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 22:40|
It's hard to tell for sure given the low light, but he raises an eyebrow as he looks over at Victoire. French. Not one of the civvies, but not regular army either? "Not too worried about what they got," says Ronnie. "Just another night. When I was at Anzio we used to do stuff like this all the time. A little raiding, little boats for crossing the river, sometimes. Didn't always have those." He smiles, laying his rifle across his lap in the boat. "We move quick when we land, take out any sentries quiet-like, then we can get the drop on the rest in the dark. Just another day in Paradise."
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 22:59|
Sgt. Ted Willis
Another goddamn boat, another predawn goddamn wait before assaulting another goddamn beach. They said this one wasn't going to be a hard target, but hell, the intel bastards said that pretty much every time you landed on a beach. At least this time they were confident enough to not have God's Own Armada of battleships hanging out in the area 'just in case' you needed some support- not that Ted would ever let a destroyer gunner buy his own beer, not after Omaha- or thousands of bombers overhead to completely fail to make his life an easier one. And this time, well, it was... a sideshow, wasn't it? The big one was going down in Germany, or already gone down, kicking in Hitler's door and setting the house on fire. This out here was periphery, but a bullet you stopped in the periphery would kill you just as dead.
Sergeant Willis stands first in line to get in the dinghy, outwardly wholly unaffected by the ocean conditions. "You should have seen," he finally says after a few seconds thought, "How bad the surf was before we landed in France." Reaching up, he scratches his stubble- he hadn't smoked yet this morning, and wouldn't until the job was done. Could never tell who was sniffing for him and would appreciate the help of a note of tobacco. Another long pause, the kind that people tended to fill or assume the worst, and then Ted volunteers, "Wasn't a fun ride. Wasn't fun on the beach either. This will probably be easier than that was." And less than half of them would die within 5 minutes of landing. Probably. That alone would make it 'easier', but Ted didn't much care to elaborate on that in case he started remembering again. After another pause, he gives the other sergeant a nod. "He's right. Check your gear, then have one of us who have landed on a beach in combat go over your things as well. I have enough high explosive to kill everyone here before we know what is happening, so the sergeant will double check me as well." He blinks slowly. "If I am running quickly away from something that might possibly be something we want blown up, assume it is about to blow up and do not be there, quickly. If your gear breaks, especially the radio, sir," he speaks a little slower for the Russian- odd bird but neither his momma nor his drill sergeant raised him to not give an officer all due respect. "I will fix it if it can be fixed before we have a break in combat." He lapses into silence at that, turning back to the ocean and staring fixedly into the night. Hell, the Russian was a lieutenant. Only folks who were lieutenants were either newbies who deserved tolerance or promoted up from the ranks who deserved pity. If he was any good and lucky he wouldn't be a lieutenant long, either way.
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 23:01|
Victoire Doucet, Maquisarde Medic
"Ah, nothing like ambushing some Nazis to start ze day, right?" Victoire smirks and scrambles down the ladder, deftly landing on the floor of the small boat and sitting next to Ronnie. "Don't worry about moving quick, just tell me when to start blasting" she says as she pats her shotgun. While this guy didn't seem to have the same approach as she did, she got the distinct feeling the end result was the same.
And hey, that's what counts right ?
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 23:05|
Bradley Hewitt - Special Operations Executive
"Take it easy, Serzhant, I would rather like not drowning before we get to shore."
The man took a position near the bow of the ship. He wore the uniform of the evening, all black. His gear had been stowed on himself with efficiency. Even though the ocean conspired to bring his mood down, he wouldn't let it. He refused to hide his face from the crashing of waves and the salt filled mists.
After the discoveries made at the Nazi submarine base, Hewitt enjoyed seeing that his time with the German Occult Studies Group had been well spent. The treasure trove of occult antiquities at the base proved the group's worth. And even better than that, it justified sending out a team of antiquities and occult experts out into the field with the strike team. Instead of having the experts merely sift through the wreckage after the soldiers were done with the fighting. The soldiers who carried out the mission in the Mediterranean did what they could with the antiquities, but it did require an expert's skill in handling them.
Hewitt looked at the passengers on the boat. Except for Serzhant Vasilievich, none were military. Yes, among them they did have some training in the fighting arts, but no one would confuse them with soldiers. If all goes well, then they would not have to test their combat training. He shook his head. There would be difficulties. The best one could do would be to work to minimize complications. Also keeping out of the fighting would be nice as well.
"Stay sharp everyone. The strike team should deal with any resistance we meet, but we still might have to do our share of fighting."
Bradley Hewitt - SOE (German Paranormal Study Group)
Name: Bradley Hewitt
Nationality: British (Swiss born, British Citizen)
Attributes: Agility d6, Smarts d12, Spirit d8, Strength d6, Vigor d6
Fighting (Agl) d6
Knowledge (Archaeology)(Sma) d8
Knowledge (Espionage)(Sma) d6
Knowledge (History) (Sma) d6
Knowledge (Mythos) (Sma) d4
Knowledge (Occult)(Sma) d8
Pace: 6, Parry: 5, Sanity: 5, Toughness: 5, Charisma: 0
Gear: Steel Helmet (+2), Ammo Pouch (x4), Backpack, Bandage, Bedroll, Canteen, Entrenching Tool, Gas Mask, Mess Kit, Pistol Holster, Socks (4 pairs), Spare Uniform, Suspenders, Web Belt, Winter Boots, Winter Gear (cloak/parka)
•National Identity: “Tommys” add +2 to Spirit rolls made to resist Fear, Intimidation, or arcane powers. It does not add to Spirit rolls made to recover from being Shaken
•Linguist: Begin play with a number of languages equal to Smarts; Smarts –2 to be understood in
any language heard for a week (English, Ancient Greek, French, Latin, Arabic, Swedish, Hindi, Dutch, Russian, Spanish)(native language is German)
•Bad Luck: One less Benny per session
•Cautious: Character is overly careful
•Vow: The mission comes first
Webley .38/200 Service Revolver 2d6+1 1 12/24/48 6 — 2 AP 1, Revolver
STEN Submachine Gun 2d6-1 3 12/24/48 32 — 8 AP 1, Auto
Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife Str+d4 Touch — 3 AP 1
Boost in spirit, d4 in Fighting and Stealth, Increase two skills (Persuasion and Shooting), Boost in Strength, Increase Fighting and Notice, Sanity -1, Knowledge Mythos, +1 Smarts
DocBubonic fucked around with this message at Jun 1, 2017 around 03:22
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 23:07|
"Easier before dawn," Ronnie replies a bit cryptically. "And don't worry - you'll know it's time when the shooting starts." After a moment he nods back at Ted - it was strange to Ronnie that there hadn't been more Americans on this job, but they were the only two. "I'll double-check everyone, easier that way. Anzio we already had the beachhead when we got there, but Port Cros we definitely didn't, so this ain't my first." He is about to ask Sgt. Willis where, then, thinking better of it from Ted's odd cadence, instead asks, "What unit? You know, before this. Whatever this is."
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 23:25|
He doesn't turn around. "Big Red One." He says simply, and then, "Omaha." That said about all that needed to be said. He looks up at the sky and then back to the noncombatants and decides to add, "Be sure you know how to cut yourself loose from your pack in case you get off the boat into water taller than you are." Scratching himself, he rechecks that he put the charges and the detonators on different sides of his body, because you could never be too careful.
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 23:31|
"Huh. No fuckin' way." He nods, and, to the others, "Listen to him about the pack, there. If you don't know one of us'll show you."
After a respectful pause, he volunteers: "They put me in the One when I enlisted before the war. Reassigned me in '42. Probably came within a mile of each other at some point at Benning depending on when you joined up. How about that?"
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 23:39|
Sebastian settled down on the small boat next to Bradly. he also was wearing the uniform of the night all black , a pack tossed over his shoulder with the gear he would need and a pistol strapped to his hip. He seemed pretty calm on the boat. He had been on plenty in his time and he leaned to quickly get over his sea sickness.
"I have been in plenty of dangerous situation, but never active combat. I do hope the point does their job " He breathed mostly to Bradly
Sebastian was brand new to the SEO the mission in the Mediterranean being his first one with the group and he was pleased he got to put his cryptography skills to use to actually give useful information. Useful information that they were using now to storm this little compound right now. He had some pride in that and that was why he insisted on coming along as well because he was intent on seeing this through
"What do you think we will find in there after they have cleared it.. " there was no hiding the tint of excitement in his voice. There was defiantly a rush in doing something like this
animedragonfly fucked around with this message at Sep 28, 2016 around 23:51
|# ? Sep 28, 2016 23:46|
3 Bennies; 1 Occult only Benny
Name: Gráinne Flynn
MOS: MI6 Operative
Attributes: Agility d6, Smarts d6, Spirit d12, Strength d6, Vigor d6
Skills: Fighting d4, Investigation d6, Intimidation d6, Knowledge (Cryptography) d4, Knowledge (Espionage) d4, Knowledge (Mythos) d4, Knowledge (Occult) d6, Knowledge (Psychology) d6, Notice d6, Persuasion d6, Shooting d4, Stealth d6, Streetwise d6, Taunt d6
Pace: 6, Parry: 4, Sanity: 7, Toughness: 5, Charisma: +6
Gear: Backpack, Bedroll, Canteen, Flashlight, Whistle; Normal Clothing, Winter Boots, Winter Gear; MAB Modèle D pistol, Utility Knife
•Charismatic: +2 to Charisma.
•Linguist: Starting languages equal to Smarts (Dutch, French, German, Irish, Italian & Russian) plus a chance to learn unfamiliar languages/dialects after a week of exposure.
•Strong Willed: +2 to Intimidation & Taunt rolls and +2 to Smarts and Spirit when resisting Test of Will attacks.
•Very Attractive: +4 to Charisma.
•Curious: To a fault.
•Enemy: Parapsychologist Dr. Horst Brandt.
•Vow: Uncover the truth behind her past.
Unarmed Strike d4 (Str)
MAB Modèle D (.32) d4 (2d6+1, 12/24/48, RoF 1, Shots 9, Semi-Auto)
Utility Knife d4 (Str+d4)
•Very Attractive and Linguist bought with the Curious, Enemy & Vow hindrances.
•Advances: Novice: Spirit d8; Investigation d4-d6 & Stealth d4-d6; Intimidation d4-d6 & Taunt d4-d6; Strong Willed Edge; Seasoned: Knowledge (Occult) d4-d6 & Knowledge (Psychology) d4-d6; Spirit d10; Charismatic Edge; Persuasion d6-d8 & Streetwise d4-d6. Veteran: Spirit d12.
•Knowledge (Mythos) d4 from the Pabodie Expedition, Sanity reduced to 7.
"Light, Nature, Truth."
Gráinne Flynn grew up hearing the motto of the Spiritualists' National Union. Dinner dialogues on life after death planted a seed in her heart. It flourished from aspirations extolling reunions and wisdom. When she wrestled with a foreign tongue as a child, it didn't manifest as mere talent. A roiling spirit was reaching out to her and she acted as a medium for its message. The girl channelled an increasing number of the dearly departed across Europe. However, Doctor Horst Brandt nearly ended it all in Germany. He smoulders to this day in the ruins of his career. The prodigy herself did not escape unscathed. She watched the world change during her recovery with nothing but infuriating questions. No epiphanies came between boarding schools and foster homes. The doubt she felt about her past festered when she met with prominent spiritualists of the United Kingdom. They kept secrets as she played poster girl and toured locales eliciting déjà vu and déjà vécu. War cast a long shadow on her travels among the Allied soldiers. Grace ambivalently mimicked a hazy memory by "channelling" their comrades. In time a photo of the doctor from her past broke the cycle of deceit and guilt. She identified Dr. Brandt to the MI6 before they revealed he'd never forgotten her. The thought "Light, Nature, Truth" came unbidden as she resolved to confront the present with all her heart. Thus, she joined the agency to discover the secrets buried in her past.
Gráinne "Grace" Flynn
She glances down at her drab jumper and slacks peppered with sea spray. "If everything goes well," Grace pauses to eye the phantom island, "Maybe we'll learn the truth." The young woman smiles at her peers. "Saxemberg's secret, I mean. Do you think they're behind it? I heard about it before… um, anyway, I'll stay sharp, sir."
Razeam fucked around with this message at May 25, 2017 around 02:38
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 00:24|
"Hard to say. The Jerries are getting pretty desperate. I imagine that we will find more of the same kind of antiquities we found at that submarine base. Given how remote this place is, they probably moved the more expensive pieces they looted to here." Hewitt adjusted his position in the boat to try to keep himself in a secure position. He then turned to Grace.
"You make it sound like this island is some kind of a great mystery. I think the only mystery is how they managed to keep it secret."
DocBubonic fucked around with this message at Sep 29, 2016 around 00:34
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 00:29|
Starshiy Leytenant Irakliy Kuznetsov
Kuznetsov looks up at the big American, offering him a nod. "Thank you. I believe I can handle it, but I will not turn down help." He takes the moment to go over his pack, double-checking the radio--an unfamiliar make, but similar enough--and making sure everything on his harness was able to be reached easily.
He pulls out his cigarettes, and almost gets one into his mouth before looking back up at the darkened ship and thinking twice about it. After a moment's grumbling, he resettles the pack and tries to focus on anything that isn't the ocean.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 00:47|
"But it's a secret base on a phantom island!" she leans towards Bradley with wide-open eyes. Grace spends a moment composing herself and adds, "I'm sure we'll find the answer to that." She quirks her lips. "Even if it's merely using its reputation."
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 00:53|
"Doubt it," he says to Ronnie. "Omaha was my first combat. Didn't start training until '43." He takes a long drink of his canteen, and then adds, "Spent four weeks in France. Stopped some shrapnel, nothing bad, but while the medics had me they took the chance to pull me because this outfit needed combat experienced engineers. Here I am." With that, he placidly starts counting rations in his pack for the third time. "Personally, I hope we don't find a good goddamn thing, there isn't actually some Nazi secret bunker or redoubt here, and we can all get back of burying every fascist six feet in the ground." By his standards, it was an emotional outburst. Not much of one, though.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 01:43|
Izoldah tried to follow the conversation the Americans had, figuring it was a good time to practice her English a bit. "I joined up just in time for killing fascists that were trying to send folk to Stalingrad. All men had gone to war, and I said. Fascists will kill women just as much as men. And I can track fascist as good as any man in my village. Was not at any big name battles though. Just walking after fascists all the way from Stalingrad back to Poland. But always made sure we knew where fascists were. I am... what is the word? Scout. I tell the men with the big guns were to shoot. They get all the medals, but ah, that is life." She nodded at the talk of specialities. "So I am good at seeing things. I am good at not getting seen. Good scout doesn't need to fire shot. I have become very good scout. Maybe not as good shot." She smiled wryly. "One of you maybe sniper? Maybe I make sure someone else gets medal again?"
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 02:34|
"Personally," says Ronnie to Ted, scratching his chin before gesturing along with his reply, "I'm just as fine putting them six feet under here as anywhere else. This remote, we still gotta be careful but they won't be set up like what you saw, that's for sure. But I don't think they'd have wasted what it took to get us here if there weren't some good hints that something's here."
To the Russkie, he nods twice. "Everyone's gotta do their part. It's a machine. You follow orders and do your best and it all works. I bet that's the same for you all as well as for us." He grins; even after years of war his smile was bright when he actually showed it, and it stood out in the dark and against his camouflaged face. "Sniper? No. I can shoot, though. That's for sure. But, you know, they give us these," he holds up the M1, "that go ping when they're empty. When I was with the Devil's Brigade, they gave us Johnson rifles, and the machine gun too...would love to have one of those back someday, for sure."
After a moment's contemplation, he adds: "And, well - either we're all gonna get medals for this, or they're gonna pretend this never happened and not give us a drat thing, so...no sense worrying about that until it's done."
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 02:57|
Dr. Yulia Naraantuyevna Khulanova
She squints her eyes, looking above at the sky, searching the gaps in the cloudcover that would grant a glimpse at stars or constellations - some vantage that she could use to orient herself. Or more accurately, place the island they now approached. Her eyebrows raise as she snags a glimpse of the arcing neck of Cygnus. Her pencil dots the page, sketching the already vanishing memory of the stars she'd mapped. Yulia happily snaps the journal shut before an errant wave can steal her triumph away. This was it - another expedition to a mostly uncharted territory.
Her heart sinks a little as her gaze finally takes in the things that are neither the stars nor her journal. Another expedition with some significant differences. The weight of her revolver is hard to forget, and the strange company is a fast reminder in case she does. She'd been worried she'd be stuck in in a bunker translating German communiques when they'd sent her West, with SMERSH at her side scrutinizing her every move. This was not expected but still not entirely the return to form she'd been hoping for. As the French put it, such is life.
If they were to be cooperating, she figured she'd oblige, so with apologies to the Comrade Sergeant at the head of the boat, she clears her throat and engages the Brits, "Phantom or not, all's the more pity the fascists put boots down, yes?" Her English is not entirely fluid, as most of her conversations have been written but more than serviceable, "It would have been a sight in the daylight."
Name: Doctor Yulia Naraantuyevna Khulanova
Nationality: Soviet (Ethnic Evenk)
Attributes: Agility d4, Smarts d10, Spirit d8, Strength d4, Vigor d6
Skills: Climbing d4, Fighting d4, Investigation d8, Knowledge (History) d8, Knowledge (Archaeology) d10, Knowledge (Occult) d6, Knowledge (Psychology) d6, Knowledge (Cryptography) d6, Knowledge (Soviet Doctrine) d4, Medicine d4, Notice d8, Riding d4, Shooting d4, Stealth d6, Survival d6, Knowledge (Science) d6 (25/25)
Pace: 6, Parry: 4, Sanity: 6 Toughness: 5, Charisma: 0
Gear: Ammo Pouch (x2), Backpack, Bandage, Bedroll, Binoculars, Mess Kit, Pistol Holster, Socks (4 pairs), Binoculars, Leatherbound Map Case (x2), Suspenders, Web Belt, Winter Boots, Winter Gear (cloak/parka), Leatherbound Journal (x6)
•Linguist: Starting languages equal to Smarts (French, German, English, Greek, Latin, Mandarin, Tibetan, Hieroglyphics, Arabic, Slavonic) plus a chance to learn unfamiliar languages/dialects after a week of exposure.
•College Girl (History): +4 Skill Points for Smarts Skills (History +2, Archaeology +1, Occult +1)
•Hot Blooded: +2 on any Vigor rolls to resist Fatigue & ignore two levels of Fatigue inflicted by cold.
•Slow: Draw two cards in combat & act on the worse of the two.
•Under Suspicion (Minor): -2 when dealing with Party Faithful, due to heritage & academic career
•Quirk: Constant Digression
Unarmed Strike d4 (Str)
Finka Knife d4 (Str+d4)
Nagant M1895 (7.62) d4 (2d6-1, 12/24/48, RoF 1, Shots 6, Revolver, can be silenced)
•College Girl & Hot-Blooded purchased through Hindrances.
•Seasoned advances: Smarts d10; History +1 & Investigation +1; Notice +1 & Investigation +1; Survival +1 & Knowledge (Archaeology) +1
•Saxemberg Advance: Tweaked stats, advanced Survival to d6, Cryptography to d6
•Jeremiah Advance: Science d6; Stealth d6
•Das Todtenbuch (2/2)
'Successfully reading does not convey Knowledge (Mythos) nor does it incur a Sanity penalty on the reader. It does, however, provide the reader with a special Benny that can only be used on Knowledge (Occult) tests.'
•Suta Milam Bar-Do (1/8)
'Chinese (-2) or Tibetan (0) with 8 successful rolls required to study. Successful study increases Knowledge (Mythos) by one step as well as reduces Sanity by one respectively. Additionally, readers may then attempt to study and learn spells including 'bring pestilance', 'implant suggestion', 'summon plague' and other incomplete rituals.'
Concept: Soviet Academic Conscripted For Adventure!
Ambivalent fucked around with this message at Nov 23, 2016 around 06:00
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 07:10|
Sgt. Richard 'Dicky' Barton-Morewood
He'd thought it a joke at first and a good one at that. A jolly good ruse from the brass before they gave him the real mission briefing. He had laughed. Actually laughed in front of superiors when they had given him the news. They were taking him out of the sky, putting him in command of a hodge-podge unit from all over the world -half of which barely spoke English or were civilians- and best of all they were putting him in a boat. Only when he saw that no one else in the room was laughing along did it sink in. The smile which so often seemed permanently attached under his trimmed mustache had faltered slightly then. They had listed off the reasons for his command with his heroic achievements in the Mediterranean, his efforts behind enemy lines in France during late May 1940 and his ability to give results in even the worst situations. They had told him only a hero could lead these people and that's what he was. He didn't mind the praise one bit, but it was clear that the real reason was a British undertaking such as this would not stand for anyone else in command of a strike force than one of their own. And they must have been desperate, so much so in fact that they decided to pluck an ace pilot like him from the air and put him in charge rather than any of the other seemingly perfectly qualified chaps on the roster. There is no doubt in his mind that he can do the job, but it had indeed come as a bit of a shock.
He had paid considerable attention in the briefing that followed, learning all relevant names of both locations and the people he would be working with. A lot of information was suddenly thrust upon him and there had seemed little time to take it all in. And before he knew it, he was in the small, rubber dinghy and now he sits with the rest of his comrades in arms who have been plucked from their various positions in this war. Nothing for it now, he thinks, but to do the best with what he has. After all, he always welcomes a challenge and they don't get more so challenging than this. That thought alone brings a smile to his face until a passing wave jostles the boat. By Jove, how he dislikes small boats!
He takes in the dark night and the surf as they make for Saxemberg, letting the others talk amongst themselves somewhat before he joins in. "Stalingrad, Anzio, Omaha and the Resistance in France. It sounds like you all have been through your fair share, more so than most." Everyone still alive to this day has been through their fair share to a degree, but these ones seem to have experienced the worst of ground combat. "I can hardly ask for more, especially when we have these auxiliary ladies and chaps to watch out for." He checks over his shoulder, making sure the other boat is keeping good pace behind them. Their involvement makes it all too likely that something of worth is indeed waiting to be found on this island.
"S.Sgt. Thomas, our chain of command is rather an odd one indeed, but have no doubt that it's your show as we make our arrival. I wouldn't want chaps like you and Sgt. Willis to feel a flyboy is telling you how to suck eggs now, would I?" He grins with a flash of white teeth under his trimmed mustache and then follows the man's advice and checks his equipment is all shipshape and as it should be. He has a Sten Mk. I submachine gun with him, the likes of which he hasn't used for some years but it's hardly different from riding a bike. All one has to do is point and shoot and he pities any Jerry who meets the business end of it. His flight suit may have been traded in for black army garb, but he still keeps his father's old lighter tucked into a pocket. No way is that leaving his person. "Wouldn't mind one of you experienced chaps giving me a once over as well, just to be on the safe side. Beach landings are hardly what I am trained for, not from a dinghy at least."
Name: SGT Richard ‘Dicky’ Barton-Morewood Nationality: British MOS:: No. 73 Squadron RAF Attributes: Agility d8, Smarts d8, Spirit d8, Strength d6, Vigor d8 Skills: Driving d4, Fighting d4, Swimming d4, Shooting d8, Stealth d6, Notice d6, Repair d6, Survival d4, Piloting d8, Knowledge (Navigation) d8. Pace: 6 Parry: 4 Sanity: 6 Toughness: 7 Charisma: 0 Gear: Leather flight helmet, Goggles, Oxygen mask, Spare uniform, Flight jacket, Boots, Electrically heated suit, Leather flight suit (jacket, trousers), Shoulder holster, Life preserver, Survival kit, Parachute, Backpack, Canteen, Bedroll, Bandage, Socks x4, Scarf, Pipe, Tobacco pouch and Lighter. Edges: Rank (NCO): +2 Toughness Combat Reflexes: +2 to recover from being shaken British Pluck: +2 Spirit to resist Fear, Intimidation or arcane powers Dodge: -1 to be hit with ranged attacks Brave (+2 vs fear) Hindrances: Loyal (Minor) Overconfident (Major) Quirk: Always carries his father's lighter and pipe (Minor) Armory: Unarmed d6 (Str) Knife d6 (Str+d4) Webley Service Revolver (.30) d6 (2d6+1, 12/24/48, AP 1, RoF 1, Shots 6, Revolver) Perks (2): Raise an attribute (Agility) Raise an attribute (Spirit) Advances (4): +1 Edge (Combat Reflexes) +1 Rank (NCO) +2 Toughness +1 Attribute (Smarts) +2 Skill increases lower (Navigation + Stealth) Seasoned (4) +1 Edge (Dodge) +2 Skill increases lower (Shooting + Notice) +1 Attribute (Vigor) +1 Edge (Brave) Veteran (1) +1 Skill increase at equal/higher (Piloting) Medals Distinguished Service Order (awarded from actions at Hoffman Base) ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~
A Velociraptor! fucked around with this message at May 24, 2017 around 07:06
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 09:11|
Victoire Doucet, Maquisarde Medic
Victoire couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in disbelief. Who decided to put this rosbif in charge even though he had no prior experience with this kind of mission. Say what you want about partisan resistance but at least you're free from the bullshit military command pulls. To his credit he was aware of it too and not too proud to ask for advice, a good sign she figured. She had heard horror stories of proud young officers leading their troops to certain death in an excess of self confidence, both during the Grande Guerre and the current war.
She tightened her grip on the satchel with the first aid supplies and hoped she wouldn't need them today.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 11:43|
"Who knows," he says to Ronnie after a pause. "You would think they could dig themselves in in a less remote place. I think it is damnably rude." After a few seconds, he nods to one of the Russians. "Not me. I have my submachinegun. It doesn't much do anything beyond a few dozen yards. But then, I should not be fighting much unless things have gone wrong."
When their leader begins speaking, Tim turns his eyes to the British sergeant, keeping his face blank as he talks. Well, he understood the Brits pride. If this was some jaunt into some damned hellhole in, say, central America he would be good and goddamned if anyone but an American were in command, and if the Brits considered this part of the ocean their personal playground- well, Tim didn't see much here worth arguing about it. "When we land," he says quietly, "if things get chaotic, all the advice I can give you is to know your job and do your job. If you are a civilian, your job is to stay alive. The medic's job is to make sure people stay alive. My job is to clear any obstacles and fix anything that breaks. The leader's job is to, uh, lead. If that job is taken care of, worry about everything else you can do." After that little speech, he begins cleaning his weapon in the darkness with long familiarity, waiting for the launch.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 13:04|
LCpl. Harry Arapeta
"Ka mate! Ka mate!"
The crew's quarters echo with shouts and slaps as Harry huffs and blows, eyes bugged. A few sailors of British extraction stop to watch, grinning, past familiarity with rugby perhaps piquing their interest, others avert their gaze and give him wide berth. Not much privacy on a sub. His bare feet slap the metal of the floor with a dull echo. After the events of the Med, coming back to the South Atlantic is a bit of a homecoming. The future mission is put out of his mind. Now is the time for preparation.
"Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru Nana ne I tiki mai whakawhiti te ra!"
Nostrils flare as he picks one of the observers at random to focus his ire, stomping towards him, tongue darting. The man's grin falters and he takes a few steps back.
"Ka upane! Ka Upane! A Upane Kaupane!"
He slaps, stomps, rotates his head, and hollers.
"Whiti te ra! HI!"
Pausing a moment, not releasing the man from his baleful gaze, he gives one last double-slap to his chest and straightens, cracking his neck swiftly left, then right.
"Hey mate, bum a fag?" He asks the man easily in his Kiwi accent as he pulls on his boots. A cigarette is soon procured and he goes topside, watching the movement of the waves, the clouds. Current is for them, wind against. Going to be hard yakka, especially in the balky dinghies. Welp, nothing for it but to get on with it. Least it wasn't pissing down. Small favors.
* * *
Once in the boats he's not much for talking, too busy watching wind and wave and driving for openings between the jagged rocks to jaw. "Have an eye on the coast, eh? Don't need to sally into the arms of a welcome party."
Arapeta 'Harry' Manahi
Nationality: New Zealand (Maori)
MOS: Commando, Z Special Unit, Services Reconnaissance Department (SRD), British Commonwealth
Attributes: Agility d8, Smarts d6, Spirit d6, Strength d8, Vigor d10
Skills: Boating d4, Climbing d4, Driving d4, Fighting d8, Intimidate d4 (from advance), Notice d6 (advance), Shooting d6, Stealth d8+1, Survival d6+2, Swimming d4, Throwing d6 (advance)
Parry: 6 (+7 with bayonet)
Gear: Steel Helmet (+2), Ammo Pouch (x4), Backpack, Bandage, Bedroll, Canteen, Entrenching Tool, Gas Mask, Mess Kit, Pistol Holster, Socks (4 pairs), Spare Uniform, Suspenders, Web Belt, Winter Boots, Winter Gear (cloak/parka), 50' silk rope
Brave: +2 vs Fear (from advance)
Nerves of Steel: Ignore 1 point of wound penalties
Commando: (+2 fatigue for environmental hazards/sleep/march, +2 survival, +1 stealth)
National Identity (NZ): Kiwis are well known for being hard men who do not give (nor expect) quarter on the sports (or battle) field. A character embodying this stereotype rolls a d8, not a d6, as his bonus die when he gets a raise on an attack.
Quirk: Has to do a haka before a battle
Overconfident: Believes he can do anything; Accepts all challenges
Stubborn: Always wants his way; Never admits he's wrong
Unarmed Strike d8 (Str)
Bayonet (as knife) d8 (Str+d4)
Bayonet (attached) d8 (Str+d6, Parry +1, Reach 1, 2 Hands)
Browning Hi-Power Pistol (9mm) d6 (2d6-1, 12/24/48, AP 1, RoF 1, Shots 13, Semi-Auto)
Grenade: Mk2 Pineapple d6 (3d6, 5/10/20, Medium Burst)
M1A1 Thompson (.45) d6 (2d6+1 12/24/48, AP 1, RoF 3, Shots 30D Full-Auto or Single Shot)
Lee-Enfield Mk.III (.303) d6 (2d8, 24/48/96, AP 1, RoF 1, Shots 10, Snap Fire)
"Lifebuoy" Portable Flamethrower, No.2 Mk.II (Cone template, 2d10 damage, 1 RoF, 10 shots, Min Str d8, weight 64, Ignores Armor)
Distinguished Service Order (awarded from actions at Hoffman Base)
Born in Ohinemutu, on the North Island of New Zealand to the Te Awara confederation of tribes in 1913 (he's not sure when) Harry was a scrapper from the word 'go.' With four older brothers it was probably self-defense. Fearless and self-confident, he was walking before he was a year old and fell and broke his arm when he was three trying to get his ball off the top of the house where one of his brother had thrown it. It took a week before his family realized it was broken. When asked why he didn't tell anyone it hurt, he said he didn't want to get into trouble for climbing on the roof.
He was never much for school work, preferring fishing, canoeing and rugby, and listening to stories as he worked in the pastures herding sheep with his uncle who'd served in 'the Great War.' He signed up in 1940 when it looked like an invasion of his homeland was imminent, and joined the 28th (Maori) Battalion, serving with distinction in Italy, Greece and North Africa until 1943 when he was transferred back home due to time served. His fearsome reputation as a hand to hand fighter (in Italy it was said his favorite phrase was 'fix bayonets') had him sent from Trentham at Wellington in winter of '44 to train with a special joint forces unit in Melbourne, Australia. A car accident while on a 48 hour pass gave him the dubious distinction of having been wounded (and killed) on three continents: Europe, Africa and Australia.
From there he went to Borneo and participated in guerrilla warfare and antipersonnel activities which remain classified. He added a fourth continent to his list. After Japan surrendered he was discharged and went back home to his village, where he languished, bored, until he was asked to participate in this latest effort in Antartica.
"Welp," he is reported to have said with a grin, "I guess I might as well add a fifth."
1 benny for not dying in antarctica so far
1 point of dementia from failing nausea roll then getting a 1 on shaken horror table gently caress YOU DICE
1 point of dementia from tentacled horror at end of Book One (passed Terror check)
35 XP total, 35 spent
Advance spent on raising Agility to D8
5XP Advance awarded on 11/22/2016 used to bump up Notice and Throwing to d6
10XP awarded on 10/18/16, spent on Brave and buying Intimidation d4
20 XP extra to start at Seasoned
Oracle fucked around with this message at Jan 2, 2019 around 19:16
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 16:24|
Saxemberg Island - Approach 01:14
As the last of the strike team and auxiliary accompaniment board the LCRS boats and shove off, a lilting wave roils beneath the twin crafts before oars slip smoothly into the dark, cold waters of the Atlantic. Above, intermittent clouds leave spans of inky blackness--yet so far removed from cities and civilization, the glimmer of starlight ekes through nevertheless to cast dimly across the ocean ahead. Stroke by stroke, the rubber boats rise and fall whilst ferried slowly nearer to that singular inky mass ahead: the way forward offers only dim and dreary clarity, while behind those twelve wayward souls the familiar comforts of the transport whence they came grows steadily smaller in the distance.
Maneuvering ahead in the lead, the first of the LCRS rides over the swelling crests of waves as Harry mans the oars. Laden with arsenal and adrenaline alike, the strike team braces tightly within their vessel, working their way nearer to the island with methodical efficacy. For Harry, whose namesake itself speaks to the waves--apart from the chilly waters and ominous phantom isle, the way proves to be a manageable one, navigating churning waters skillfully and making excellent headway.
Working the oars of the second craft, Dimitry casts periodic looks back to his passengers--before an especially large swell of waves lifts the LCRS high enough to set butterflies to flutter within bellies aboard. "Дерьмо..." The man curses tersely beneath his breath, jaw tightening as he maneuvers his oars to fight against the wave with little forward progress; as the swell subsides, the men and women among the auxiliary team can see that the vessel ahead of them has gained a more considerable lead.
Gradually, the island itself comes more fully into view for the passengers of both craft: a great pinnacle of volcanic rock jutting darkly from the water, surrounded on all sides by jagged rocks—massive Atlantic waves pounding against them relentlessly. Even without the looming threat of Nazi combatants lurking within, the phantom island’s ragged spires and black sands are hardly a welcoming sight.
With a great lurch, the second LCRS rises high on the waves--before barreling down as water crashes over top of the boat, sending a shock of chill over its passengers as all hands scramble to steady themselves. Again Dimitry curses beneath his breath as adrenaline bristles throughout--the island looming nearer as the rowing continues. From this vantage now, those assembled can begin to discern that Saxemberg's peak must rise more than a hundred feet above the waves.
Drawing closer still, the lead LCRS hits more difficult waters, oars shoved deep against turbulent waves as its passengers brace. Eyes scanning the ragged and perilous shores, Sgt. Barton-Morewood spies a particularly promising landing destination: a broad enough span of sandy beach scattered with rocks, but offering an alternative to the largely impregnable ramparts much the rest of the coastline seems to present.
Another lurching wave strikes the second LCRS, once more sending chilly waters over top of its passengers to swirl--and in the mix, Sebastian loses his grip with cold fingers against a slippery line, suddenly toppled overboard with a splash almost imperceptible among the crashing waves ahead. For an instant, the man is submerged in cold, dark waters, his soaked gear dragging heavily against his body; struggling to swim, he manages to keep at the surface despite the churning, deadly depths beneath him--clambering desperately in an attempt to regain purchase aboard the craft.
Sebastian is carried near to the craft as cold waters roil all around him; heart pounding and adrenaline coursing through his veins. Hands clasp and scramble against the slick side of the LCRS as Sebastian is nearly swept away--before Grace is able to lend a strong grasp, helping to haul the man back aboard: cold and soaked, but safe.
Saxemberg Island - Eastern Shore 01:28
With precarious maneuvering, the lead LCRS is guided toward the stretch of beach to make landfall, eyes peeled against the dim gloom ahead as cold fingers grip at weapons, rafts and oars. As the rubber boat slides to jostle over top of sand and stones, the strike team is able to swiftly disembark for a sweep of the beach while securing the vessel, senses peaked and hearts racing ready for action.
No immediate opposition is found, however. Tense moments pass, the second LCRS lilting nearer to the shore as Dimitry maneuvers to follow Harry's lead. No shouts of alarm, nor sudden gunfire--just the ceaseless crash of waves against volcanic rock. With a few further treading steps to fan out against the beach, it is swiftly discovered that most hard surfaces are slathered with a slimy mix of seaweed and bird guano, the stink of such against the surf every bit as overwhelming as its slickness proves treacherous.
Before long, once a signal is given to the clear, the second LCRS is brought ashore and secured without further incident, black sand and slippery rocks pervasive; chilly waves lap at the shore and nip at the heels of the men and women making landfall--the stench here dizzying while the chill inspires intermittent shivers. With check of gear and personal effects, apart from Sebastian's waterlogged belongings everything seems to be in order.
Taking stock of the beach's surroundings and their bearings, the teams are able to discern that they have made landfall on the eastern shore of the island with two notable paths. One follows the northern curve of the island's shore with a gradual slope leading up to what appears to be hilly terrain, the occasional jut of rocky outcroppings visible. The other path veers southwest, requiring the navigation of rocky steppes before trailing off into stones at a higher elevation.
I'll dial back the length of these asides as we go, but I figured it would be good to explain what's going on mechanically behind the scenes for folks unfamiliar with Savage Worlds. For this scene, we had two sets of Dramatic Tasks unfold for LCRS #1 & #2; Harry lead the Boating for #1, Dimitry for #2. In both cases, there was a secret target number of successes within five checks (for the record, that secret target was three). Additionally, you're dealt a card for each check--with any from the Clubs suit meaning 'something happened, probably bad.'
Dimitry busted on two of his five checks (natural 1 rolls), but also managed to still squeeze out three successes otherwise; additionally, LCRS #2 was dealt three Clubs cards. The first was a King of Clubs--which was nothing terrible, just the water getting difficult to work with and delaying the boat, which was what led to the second group lagging behind. Typically, higher cards are better--and conversely, a 2 of Clubs would have been disastrous for either craft, representing catching volcanic rock and tearing the rubber raft, scuttling and tossing everyone into the water. Yikes!
Dimitry -also- received a 4 and 6 of Clubs, however--two instances of waves crashing over the top of the LCRS and potentially sending the passengers overboard. This called for everyone aboard to make two Strength checks (default target number 4) which thankfully Dimitry made (or things might've really hit a tailspin.) Of the lot, everyone else made their checks until Sebastian failed his second and went overboard, getting soaked and alarming cold in a hurry.
Sebastian succeeded at the Swim check that immediately followed, before finally attempting an Agility check at -2 to get back on the raft of his own accord. Rolling a 3, he was 1 shy of his target--but fortunately, Grace got a success on a Cooperative Roll, proving her strength and giving poor Sebastian +1 to reach his target of 4 as she helped haul him back on board. Whew! Other than having a ride on Splash Mountain and getting wet, the rest of LCRS #2's passengers are alright and their gear is generally OK; Sebastian's stuff is waterlogged now, though (including his weapon, which any of the experienced combatants might helpfully point out if they noticed him going overboard.)
LCRS #1 was dealt only one Club in five checks--the Ace, which like the King just turned into being delayed a bit on the waves from choppy conditions. Harry, despite only a d4 in Boating, enjoyed the benefits of being a Wildcard (which all PCs are) in that his wild dice rolled well too--walking away from it all with more than twice as many successes as he needed, making LCRS #1's approach smooth, efficient sailing.
A Notice check was made by the passengers of LCRS #1 at -1 due to Dim light--prompted in order to spy a suitable landing spot. With a few successes on board, Dicky was a clear leader with compounding explosive dice leading to a whopping 14 by himself--spying an excellent place to hit the shore.
The strike team after making landfall finds no immediate signs of hostile opposition. They also discover fairly promptly that there is an awful lot of seaweed and bird droppings all over the place, making for slippery and treacherous terrain as you start making your way along the shore / inland; mechanically this means that anyone attempting to move at more than half pace or attempting strenuous tasks must make a successful Agility (-1) test or fall Prone and risk suffering Bumps and Bruises.
You have two potential routes to head deeper into the island, from what you have deduced: one will lead around the northern side of the island along comparatively 'gentle' slopes and seems to trail into hilly terrain. The other heads southwest up into craggier terrain and will very evidently involve some Climbing checks, leading to a higher elevation.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 16:26|
Ms. Flynn holds a handkerchief over her nose and mouth to dampen the island stench. She glances at Sebastian up and down for a spell before her brow furrows. "We'll have to dry you… first," she clucks through the fabric. Gráinne gives an obscured grin at the rest of the squad.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 17:01|
Victoire Doucet, Maquisarde Medic
Victoire hops off the boat and onto the sandy shore, anxious to feel solid ground under her boots. After scanning the surroundings she turns to Harry and pats him on the shoulder "Good steering, a midnight bath did not seem appealing right now". She directs her gaze towards the second boat, hoping there'd be no need for mouth to mouth resuscitation tonight. Just as she finds it amidst the waves she sees Grace pulling a very miserable looking Sebastian out of the water.
"Merde, poor guy." she says in her lilting accent, "Hope he wasn't carrying anything vital for ze mission." Reflexively she double checks her own gear to make sure everything is accounted for, especially in the first aid satchel. Reassured, Victoire carefully walks along the beach and spots the two paths leading towards the rest of the island.
"Listen boys, I do not want to perturb your oh so sacred chain of command but I vote for ze path over zere", pointing at the northern path. "With ze nerds in tow it might be better to avoid scrambling over rocks. Maybe we can just send Izoldah and a marksman to ze south to provide overwatch."
What she doesn't say is that she's not too hot on climbing herself, preferring the supposedly hilly terrain that is probably much more similar to the Maquis she used to fight in.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 17:12|
"Hah, I agree, Victoire."" The name somewhat bungled as the Russian woman did not speak French at all. "I don't think the city boys should try this one." Even as the discussion happened, once it was clear they were not immediately under any threat, she lowered her gaze to the poo poo covered ground. "Let's see if the fascists frequent one of these paths." Keeping low she eyed the ground carefully, wanting to get it done quickly before the boots of her comrades would spoil any traces. Could be good to know if they could expect patrols on the routes.
<Shogeton> !wild d8+2
* @AchtungBot rolled a (1d8+2) with wild die for Shogeton and got (9 4 ) Results: 9
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 17:24|
Saxemberg Island - Eastern Shore 01:33
With the team getting their bearings, Izoldah wastes little time in beginning to assess the vicinity around the beach. Among the dark sands and rocks caked with guano and seaweed, finding signs of passage proves fleeting in the dim light of the stars--yet in spite of such trying conditions, the Soviet scout proves to have a remarkably sharp eye for detail.
Some five yards onward, she manages to spy a telling clue so subtle as to be easily missed by most: the brown end of a cigarette butt discarded among the start of the northern path. Taking a closer look, she finds the barest hint of a boot print's heel not far from the cigarette--suggesting that someone had most certainly been down to the beach this way. As to when, even for Izoldah it's difficult to say for sure.
With Dim light imposing a -1 penalty, 9 becomes an 8--but that's enough for a hit with a raise. Nice roll, Izoldah!
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 17:32|
Victoire Doucet, Maquisarde Medic
"Just call me Vic" she tells Izoldah, smiling at the hilarious mangling of her name as she heads for the unfortunate Sebastian.
"Kind of fresh to go swimming, non? Did you 'urt yourself, let me see." Before he can react Victoire starts her exam. A quick check over shows Sebastian is fine. "Hmm, nossing seems amiss, lucky you. We should try and get you to somewhere warm though unless someone has some spare clothing. It is too warm to freeze but you will catch one hell of a cold."
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 17:40|
"And that is why smoking is bad for health." She said quietly, with a smile. "Bad news. This beach not so private. Germans come here sometimes. Not for fun I think, so there is likely patrols. Came by easy path. Clearly no taste for rock climbing. Maybe German city boy." She grinned, then looked at the difficult path. "Hm, I know climbs like these back home. You have climbs that are good challenge for someone who does not climb. You have dangerous ones. This is dangerous ones. If you're not trained, better not do it. But I could, if you like me and someone else keeping watch from up there."
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 17:41|
He had been on boats before. He would insist it, but he had never been on a small boat making its way through surf to a beach. The first wave caught him off guard the second he was in the water before he knew it, gasping for breath. The cold was a shock to his system and he almost struggled to comprehend where he was for a moment. Then in a moment of clarity he grasped onto the side of the boat. His hand curled around Ms. Flynn's as she helped him back into the small boat
"I bodged that one up eh?" He chuckled at that some stepping out of the boat as it landed.
He found a place to settle on a rock to pull his sopping boots off and try and dump some of the water from them.. his jacket was next as he tried to wring some of the water from it all the while cursing lightly under his breath. He dumped the continence of his pack on the rock to see how damaged things were. His fine leather bound notebook looked ruined all the pages dripping wet.
"Well this is useless now" he sighed and glanced up to the sky hoping that the sun would come out soon so it could chase away the chill that had settled into his bones.
animedragonfly fucked around with this message at Sep 29, 2016 around 17:44
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 17:41|
Starshiy Leytenant Irakliy Kuznetsov
When the rubber boat scrapes onto the beach, Irakliy scrambles out, helping to haul it up but more for the sake of getting back onto solid ground.
It takes a moment, but eventually he straightens up, rising to his full height for the first time since Edinburgh of the Seas. "Ahh." A quick shake-out, resettling his pack, readying the Sten gun. Finally, he feels like a proper Soviet again.
Life returned, he directs his attention back to the mission and Izoldah's discoveries. "Well, Comrade Rostov, I am certainly not climbing cliffs with this beast!" He unlimbers the radio pack with a quiet chuckle, turning his attention to the Englishman with the walrus mustache as he warms it up. "We can be in contact with Atlantic Isle at any time, commander. Your call."
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 17:58|
"Whew. Bit pong here, eh?" He waves his hand in front of his face after pulling the boat up and camouflaging it as best he can with some of the rotting seaweed. Ideally they'd be off before sunrise, but things always go cackhanded on these missions, don't they.
He nods to Victoire, teeth flashing a brief white in the dimness, then looks to Sebastian. Keeping his voice low, he hisses, "Rattle your dags an' get that gun cleaned and dried out if you want it to be useful, eh? Worry about your feet later."
He looks from one path to the other, then at Victoire again, nodding. Izoldah gets a considered look, the path to the cliffs a second one. He drawls, "Looks a bit of a tramp but I reckon I could accompany you." He looks to the leader for final orders. He had to admit the man's mustache was rather impressive.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 18:22|
If his face had been clearly visible when leaping off the boat to a grand old bunch of nothing, it would have shown both surprise and a bit of disappointment. So much for an assault. Ronnie scans the beach quickly just to confirm what he is seeing, but ultimately seems satisfied. As they plan, he keeps looking inland, as if he still doesn't really believe that there were no shore defenses at all. How far away from the actual facility did they land?
"We did climbs like that in Italy," he notes, keeping his voice low, "But probably not a good idea with this set." He resists the urge to point out the 'nerds'. "Don't think we should split, either. We get separated, don't get there at the same time, something happens, we got problems we don't need." He points towards the more northerly route. "Two groups, keep a distance of...ten yards or so. Keep a little ways off the shore, keep cover between us and the interior. Rocks, seawall, brush, anything." He looks to Izoldah and continues, "You said the patrols use that route; we catch up to one, we take them down quiet. Follow it all around until we get there."
"That would be my call." Authoritative, but it isn't quite an order, and the others seem to be looking to the Brit; and though said Brit had graciously indicated that the beach assault was Ronnie's show, there hadn't actually been one. Assumptions would be bad. So he too looks to Sgt. Barton-Morewood for confirmation, just to make sure they're on the same page.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 19:19|
The island's look is suitable enough that she can only imagine it chose it's occupiers rather than the other way around. Not a scant moment into her reflection on that irony before a wave ruins it all and sends an Englishman into the drink. Minutes later, when they're on the shore, after she's ensured the safety of her own pack and wrung her own belongings 'dry', Khulanova wordlessly takes up Sebastian's book from his hand and holds it over her head. She eyes it thoughtfully, then hands it back, tersely delivering her diagnosis, "Bind it, leave it in the sun. It will live." There's little enough warmth in the reassurance - possibly she's more concerned for the journal than it's author. Turning, the doctor eyes the island itself, taking a few steps off and up the sand.
Over her shoulder, she looks back to the soldiers discussing the course of action, and hesitates about speaking up, but finally decides, "I apologize if it need not be said but the harder path is the one less traveled, yes?" Or, the one with less Nazis, she means.
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 20:08|
|# ? Feb 16, 2019 05:10|
Richard 'Dicky' Barton-Morewood
They make landfall with relative ease, despite the choppy weather and poor Sebastian in the back getting thrown briefly in the drink by the sodden looks of him. "Throw a towel over the poor bugger." He takes stock of their surroundings, thankful that they weren't greeted to a hail of machine gun fire after he pointed out a easy enough landing spot. Aside from the discovery of a cigarette, it appears what Jerrys are on this island only make every-so-often patrols which is good news for them. It appears though that poor S.Sgt Thomas is left with no beach to clear, which he imagines puts the shoddy chain of command back in his hands given that most are staring at him for a decision.
He only has to look at each path presented to them before he makes his mind up with a decisive nod. "Couldn't have put it better myself, S.Sgt Thomas," he says looking back from the rough terrain to the southwest. "Let's not split ourselves further apart than we need, especially considering most of us may not make the climb so easily." He gives a brief look to the civilians in tow and those carrying more equipment. "We head to the northern side in groups and do as the S.Sgt said," he gives the man an appreciative nod, silently grateful for the bloke's experience here. "We stick to teams we had in the boats. Boat one up front, boat two behind. Everyone quiet and whispers only when necessary from this point. Eyes and ears open."
He looks to the comrade Rostov. "My lady, given your talents, you are best to take point." He gives his gear one last check for good measure and hefts the Sten in his hands. "Right ladies and gents, let's go. There's secrets to be found and Jerrys to be put in the ground."
|# ? Sep 29, 2016 20:21|