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[Insanegame27]

OOC

A group of cadets pass the outside of your barracks and chant to cadence. A drill Sergeant leads them in their PT. As the sounds of the cadets gradually fades away, the bugle sounds. If anyone bothered to check the time, it would be six o clock on the dot.
The tent the six of you share was put up for you the day before you arrived - that being yesterday - and your mechs are scheduled to arrive tomorrow. You didn't get much chance to talk with each other, but your CO was arriving with your mechs and as a result you have the day off (Aside from the routine PT later that day). Nobody so much as asked anyone else their names before crawling into the beds at around five minutes to midnight.


As the group wakes up, they start to take stock of the interior of the tent. There's three double-bunk beds which creaked through the night and as you got up. The beds were made from a solid wood, maybe oak. Set to the side of the tent was a series of wooden drawers, two of them - but there are six of you?
The tent itself is rather large, timber framed, ten meters long and five wide and four high, more of a tiny cloth-walled dormitory than a tent.


There's a table in the middle of the tent and a set of playing cards ((Missing the Ace of Spades, upon closer inspection)). There's a pen and lined paper in the open drawers of the table and the table itself is slightly askew. You can recall someone walking into the corner of it last night, but all of you were dog-tired to care. There's even a small fridge in the room, but it's completely empty.


The three people in the top bunks all bonk their heads harmlessly on the timber frame as they get up. You wouldn't want to be in this in a storm from the swaying even that caused.


Assign yourselves a bed - bed one, bed two or bed three - and either the top or bottom bunk of that bed. No need to get changed into BDU, you didn't bother changing out of it when you got in bed.

Possessions
Each character has a small travel bag and one firearm sized to be on their person while in a mech - an SMG or pistol, for example - and three clips of ammo for it. In each of their bags are three personal artifacts, two sets of casual clothes and three BDUs. There is also a set of clothing to each player's specifications as a further set of casual wear. Everyone has a set of dress boots and a dress uniform as well as a set of joggers/sneakers and day-to-day boots. Please specify.

Also, figure out how you're going to store stuff - those two drawers are small. Two rows and two columns of drawers about 40cm wide, 10 high and 50 deep.

[Insanegame27]

reserbed

[Twinwolf]

Annette wakes up in the bottom bunk of bed 1- tall people and top bunks don't mix- and yawns as she goes to confirm her possessions are still present.

Annette's travel bag is at the foot of her bed- she'd used it to prop up her feet. It only contains her clothing and weapon, however; her personal possessions (a large writing notebook, a set of pens and pencils, and a novel) were stowed in the desk, neatly separated from the other's.

Annette's casual clothing is rather simple; one set being a shirt, a jacket, a skirt, and comfortable shoes, and the other being a more fancy affair of a dark-blue dress and shoes.

[IamanElfCollaborator]

Joachim also wakes up, on the bottom bunk of bed 2, going over to check his possessions.

[Chevaleresse]

Chiara has been sleeping in the top of bunk 2, and curses irritably upon her head impacting the timber above her. She slides out of bed and double-checks her bag, ensuring the large, powerful pistol (imagine one walked into a gun store and asked for the biggest pistol available) was unmolested.

((Also doing the rest of her possessions later. What's a BDU, again?))

[Insanegame27]

((Battle Dress Uniform. Normal military uniform))

[Dwarmin]

Osrios had taken the bottom bunk of bed 3, claiming the last of the bottom beds for the beanpoles of the squadron.

His possessions were stored neatly in two sturdy dufflebags that he had over his career fashioned into a makeshift pillows-it perfectly fit his style of sleeping (hands folded behind his head, legs crossed neatly), ensuring at least his head and legs were comfortable. Also, it sent a not so subtle message to others about how he viewed his personal possessions. He hadn't used the drawers at all-experience he had earned had told him you couldn't be sure of carrying anything away, except what you had on your person...after more than a few months of panicked fumbling after being woken in the night by surprise attacks.

...

His personal items were a journal (Quite a hefty one, by the look it), a set of recording tapes (neatly stored in a watertight case), and a bulky personal audio recorder to use them on-he was often seen making notes and keeping records, no doubt to be used after the war, which at least implied he had a strong desire to survive it. A wiser man might even assume it was one of the things he did to keep from falling into despair-writing for the future.

He kept his fine looking pistol (a gleaming revolver with an engraved hilt) on a belt holster usually-said holster was often hanging in hands reach of wherever he was sleeping at the time. Though he had not actually fired it many times, he kept it in immaculate condition.

While he was sleeping in his BDU's, he had a few pairs of more than decent casual clothing, a nod to his life-his family at least made sure his boots never had holes, and his socks were always fresh-and he had longed stopped feeling bad about it. The one thing he refused to be parted with, however-was his jacket, one he slept, ate, and rode to battle in-said jacket emblazoning the 'Sharkteeth'-A somewhat popular Terralban sports team who played Gearball. The jacket was originally blue-denim (a common enough material, quite affordable), but over time it had been faded, torn and beaten to Hell and back-it shows signs of having been mended by unsteady hands many times. The jacket doesn't even seem to fit him particularly well, being somewhat shorter in the wrist than he might be expected to enjoy...

...

Osrios does not, in fact, wake up at all. He has also found that sleep is almost as important as fighting in war-every minute is precious, and unless roused (by an ally, a surprise attack, or a superior officer-in reverse order of importance) he's apt to keep snoring for a few hours. He might, in fact, sleep all day. That being said, he's also learned to be a very light sleeper...

He often dreams of the feel of a wide warm sea enveloping his skin, the scent of a strikingly bitter perfume on an icy cold wind, and the lingering aroma of chimney smoke, or pine needles-fresh sausage, and melted cheese on toast-long, dark black hair tickling his chin. The sound of a steady and sane rain over his head, striking metal. The feel of a slender, yet calloused finger placed on his palm, reading his lifelines, telling his future, making him smile. And, much worse things-burning steel, melting lead, and cooking fat. Plaster dust, and the rank scent of blood, the brief snap of a bone. A scream in a single pitch, wavering up and down like a air-raid drill. The winds of explosions past buffet him, the sound of shrapnel ringing like church bells off the hull of his mech. He is in the storm, yet the storm does not touch him...he has found as much peace, as he could ever have hoped for.

His dreams are these fragments. No substance, or deeper meaning-wild sensory topothesia, that he scarcely remembers upon waking, yet they keep him and hold him-leaving him sane enough, anyway.

[GiglameshDespair]

Tam Barl Daar, as the last of the squad to arrive, had unfortunately had to claim a top bunk - and she'd done so of bed 3, it being the last one available when she arrived. She was draped across it, one tattooed arm hanging down, the other clutching her bag to her stomach. She had a habit of twitching in her sleep, and making loud, incoherent sounds - perhaps to the great irritation of her new squad. Her eyes opened with great distaste for the idea of doing so, and she slid to the ground with a remarkably boneless motion, landing on her feet. She knelt and traced a pattern in the dirt, before standing and brushing off her hands.

Her personal items were her great bronze helmet - immaculately polished, with a dark cloth cover for protecting and camouflaging it in the field; her thick, wedge shaped dagger, similarly of bronze, and useful for all sorts of things - (an antique by its own right, her great grandfather had stabbed three Sarapulians with that knife); and a heavy metal flask of a mead potent enough to slay an ox, never mind a man.

Her gun was no modern pistol or SMG - but a brutal-looking, sawn-off bolt action rifle, grossly powerful, monstrously loud and with merciless recoil. The battered wood had swirling patterns, similiar to her tattoos, dyed into the wood, and a charm on a small chain was wrapped around the barrel and foreend that remained after the saw's tender mercies. It was strapped to the side of her bag, the ammunition clips in a pouch affixed to the same.

She had terralbian clothing in her bag, but she also had a set of traditional Karliovan clothing - a brightly dyed blue tunic and floor length skirt, with a crimson shawl and copper brooch. Still, such things weren't generally worn in the modern age, but Tam liked them - a link to the homeland she'd never seen. For all her otherwise lack of feminity, Tam had always preferred a skirt to trousers.

[Chevaleresse]

The contents of Chiara's bag, other than the pistol (something like this), were left in the bag. The revolver immediately went to her side, holster and all affixed with a practiced motion, and the bag was zipped shut and slid beneath the bunk - her bunkmate would just have to deal with it - before she pulled her boots on with a somewhat irritable look at the noisy Karliovan.

Her casual clothes consisted of a simple set of denim overalls and a sturdy overshirt, though the sleeves on the latter were fraying and permanently creased from being rolled up, and the former was faded and veritably coated in a variety of small and large stains that had accumulated over time, and wouldn't come out despite her best efforts to remove them. They were reliable clothes, holdovers from her life as a farmer's daughter.

Her personal items were a favorite set of wrenches that she had always considered somewhat of a good luck charm, a set of letters from home, and a small black box, almost looking like the ones used to make the mechs at first glance, though closer inspection would reveal the obvious hinges and bits of rust showing through the paint as it chipped away slowly. It was secured with a small lock.

After getting her boots on, she stretches, and starts to head out of the tent.

[Dwarmin]

Osiro was also wakened by the thumping of Karliovan's stomping right next to him, which his half wakened mind likened to an artillery strike.

"...Morning already? I thought it would hold off for a few more hours." He commented dryly, breaking the silence in the room. He closed his eyes once more.

[USEC_OFFICER]

Michela Benenati is not much of a morning person, as evidenced by her curses and grunts as she is awoken by everyone else. Being on the top of Bunk One, she had left her trenchcoat hanging on the bedpost the night before. Without bothering to get up she finishes around in its sizable pockets and produces a bundle of cigarettes and a lighter. A puff of foul-smelling smoke indicates that she has started on her first cigarette of the morning and thus can finally start the day.

Her possessions were rather meagre. Michela's pride and joy was the SMG assigned to her for personal defense. It was one of the new-fangled weapons developed during the war. The sizable drum magazine and dual triggers were the best indicators that it was actually a SMG and not a carbine, for it was built along the exact same lines as a rifle. As such it was heavy and overengineered, yet at the same reliable and deadly. Chances are that Michela would never fire the weapon in anger. Mechs ruled the battlefield and so, aside from a few nighttime raids, infantry were always deployed on the defensive. If Michela wasn't in her mech while she was under attack by an enemy soldier, then something must have gone extremely wrong somewhere.

The rest of her personal possessions were minor and uninteresting in comparison. She had her cigarettes and lighter, of course. The cigs were army-issue and thus of poor quality, while the lighter was bought before the war started. It was mass-produced and designed to be as cheap as possible. At some point Michela had her named scratched on the side, in case anyone decided to steal for themselves. Tucked away in the bottom of Michela's bag were several books on various topics and many journals with her scribbling in them. The condition of the books, dog-eared and often missing part of the cover, suggested that they were frequently consulted and roughly treated. The state of her writing is hard to tell without a detailed study, especially as it is in her cramped and messy handwriting. Cushioning the books and writings was a layer of clothing, both military and civilian. Her casual wear was a plain brown dress with a thin belt around the waist to give it some shape. The dress was obviously mended and patched a couple times and so it's certain to say that Michela wasn't it's first owner.

Michela descends to the ground and puts on her jackboots and trenchcoat, becoming more or less presentable for duty. Without bothering to remove her cigarette from between her lips she declares, "Well? Anybody know what's going on with breakfast? How much do you want to bet that it'll be rice and eggs again today? Or maybe rice and fish, if we're not having that for later. Shit. I'd kill for some good noodles right about now. Not the overcooked kind that comes with the soup sometimes either. I'm talking about the good stuff, like you'd get off of the vendors on Strado Cavallo." After a thoughtful pause, during which she carefully moves her cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other, Michela adds, "Now this is why I don't like mornings. All I can think about is food until I get something in my stomach. We should be thinking about higher things than the next meal. At least they feed us well here, even if the meals aren't that good."

[Dwarmin]

Osiro swung himself out of bed, yawning. Food was always a good topic for soldiers. He carefully picked up his boots and shook them out roughly on the floort, before slipping them on-well aware that various poisonous creepy crawlers loved to sleep in warm boots, and he did not wish to disturb their rest.

He gave Michela a sideways glance, after. He didn't know much about her, though the rumors he had heard painted her as a nothing more than simple girl, pretty but essentially only lucky, a glory seeker with no pedigree, with the implication she had been sleeping her way into promotions (how else could someone like her manage such decent postings, the logic went), but Osiro didn't put much credit to the rantings of what he assumed was men (or possibly women) she had turned down because they were drunk, or just natural boors. She seemed far too enthralled in books to be the sort to 'play politics' as it was snidely called, at least to him.

He thought for a moment and responded in kind.

"....I think we should eat fairly well here. Assuming you like meat on the hoof-from what I've read, these islands have not been inhabited, for a long time. Which means, the lands are as of yet un-pillaged by hungry armies-or hungry civilians...or hungry civilian armies. The fighting hasn't yet gotten bad enough to chase away all the game.

There will be various sorts of Boars, Birds, Deers-and likely some Throckens, Carabos and Crocolas. As much as you can shoot and eat, really.

Ah, such a state of bliss won't last forever-it wouldn't be bliss, if it did-but, if we want to lace up our jackets, and wheedle some hunting rifles from the armory master, we can catch our own dinner tonight.

Might be a good use of the daylight, you think? We might even line it up nicely with our PT-if we're hiking up and down the island anyway to keep ourselves dutiful and puissant, ready in the service of Great Terralba-and something bothers us, well, it'd be a shame if the meat went to waste..." He says, sounding at ease, though he stopped for a moment and stroked his chin. He chuckled soundlessly.

"...Hah. If we run into any Edonese soldiers, though that is unlikely-I admit this comment will seem in very poor taste, retrospectively." He finished.

Throckens: Small, cute rodents who inhabit all the islands. Highly intelligent, and capable of learning speech and clever tricks. Popular as pets before the war, during the war they have become more popular as brunch.
Carabos: Similar to an Ox, though much larger and slower. Very tasty.
Crocolas: Reptilians similar to crocodiles, who live in trees and spring down upon prey. Quite stupid and easy to kill with firearms at range, however. Meat is tough and dry. Good for jerky.

[GiglameshDespair]

The tribeswoman shrugged at the rising conversation. The general plight of Karliovan immigrants had always tended towards that of hardship, as they tended towards lacking in the kinds of material wealth desired in their new homeland. Still, hunting was a traditional food source, as it was rare to find a Karliovan without a gun - even if they were old enough to still need musket ball and powder.

"Better somethin' to eat than nothing.

I've naugh' agains' a plan to scuttle up a wee tad more victuals fro' th' beasts o' th' fields, Keta b' praised for th' 'unt, bu' maybe it's worth cranin' a brain roun' breakfast itself first. Any 'unting can wait 'til after, we gettin' rice or no. Ain' no way to feed any army, rice. Need beef an' bread. Source of strength, beef an' bread, Gullarn knows."

As she spoke, she checked her own gun, and retrieved her helm, placing it securely on her head. Her sawn-off loaded, and safety on (Gods be merciful, but no need tempting fate), she unclipped the strap with the ammo pouch from the bag and slung it round her neck. Thus ready for the day, she kicked her bag under the bunkbed.

[Dwarmin]

"...I'd be happy with a nice cup of coffee! Lots of cream, a bit of sugar, and cinnamon. Very nice.

I enjoy Cafe Karliova is the best, you know." He confided to Tam Barl Daar, his tone somewhat humorous. He didn't know what to make of the Northern stranger at all, which her strange ways-all he knew was that Karliova wasn't known for it's bulk comestibles-what it exported (what little it did, at least for now) was metals, minerals, and a few cash crops that could be grown in it's harsher, heavily forested Northern climate-such as sugar, coffee, chocolate, tobacco, and exotic fruits. A market that had grown, since Sarapul had cut off trade with it's enemies...though Cinnamon was grown in greater abundance further South, in Sarapul itself. Which explained that.

[GiglameshDespair]

Tam made a face, at the suggestion of milk-based products.

"Cream? Pah! No way to ruin a drin' in eyes o' gods, than excretion o' some beast. Milk o' mothers for babes, an' milk o' beasts for beasts. Said so by Keta, it were, bless upon 'er. 'll make yer sick in th' gut."

It was relatively common for Karliovans to be allergic to milk; something in them couldn't stand the stuff, and the small cows they raised tended to be for nothing more than meat and hides.
She leaned slightly towards the man as she laid down what a proper drink was.

"You wan' a Karliovan drin'? Then you wan' honey in yer coffee, plen' of it, an' yer cannamon, an' make sure it's hot enough to scald a crow. Then yer add a drick o' rum, or jus' mead if you're feelin' gentle, an' you chop up a bit o' gulk and boil it 'til it's red. Tha's a drin', to dye the teeth."



_{Drick: "Mouthful", the smallest measurement of alcohol in Karliova
Gulk: a herb that produces an intense red colour when boiled, used as both flavouring, dye, and antiseptic. Long term has tendency to turn the teeth red.}