Darknes: The Darkest Hour
- Thread starter ~Darkening~
- Start date
Lucky Moose, please confirm that you got a pm from me. Strange doings when I sent it.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
i d i d y o u k n o w
TerrisH
Mischief?
Darkling, How far can navies move in a turn? there is no legend for it on the map, nor any mention in the rules.
LittleBoots
The Bloody Banner
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2006
- Messages
- 1,979
There is a legend for it on the map, in the upper left hand corner.
TerrisH
Mischief?
That's for the Army, not the navy. there is none for the navy.
~Darkening~
Weep, Mother.
Don't expect to make it from England to Egypt in one turn.
das
Regeneration In Process
Abstract designs don't count; the gulai-gorods were the first tanks in the world, and that's final (I know wagenbergs were earlier, but the Hussites were cheating and using time travel)!
Kal'thzar, The Strategos, ThomAnder, your hasty replies would be appreciated.
Symphony D.
Deity
Considering a Tank is by definition a treaded vehicle, Alex is in fact correct that the first applicable vehicle (deployed specifically for combat) was in fact British. One can say that Gulai-Gorods, Wagenbergs, and Leonardo Da Vinci's ideas were Armored Fighting Vehicles, which certainly encompasses Tanks, but are not necessarily Tanks themselves. All squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares, and all that.
One can say that Gulai-Gorods, Wagenbergs, and Leonardo Da Vinci's ideas were Armored Fighting Vehicles, which certainly encompasses Tanks, but are not necessarily Tanks themselves. All squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares, and all that.
das
Regeneration In Process
Basically, yes, its rather similar to a Wagenberg (at least, as far as I know; my knowledge of wooden AFVs isn't very good, sadly).
Hmm...pre war ocean travel between Liverpool and New York was 5-7 days depending upon the ship.~Darkening~ said:
das
Regeneration In Process
Yes... In general, I think the movement rates should be changed radically; in three weeks, an army can advance quite far unless properly opposed (another issue entirely is the logistical problems of such an offensive - but theoretically, it is possible).
Symphony D.
Deity
Generally agree on the movements issue...
So, uh, where's the new map? Deadline is... when?
So, uh, where's the new map? Deadline is... when?
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Symphony D. said:
Map is on Page 14 or 15. He told me on AIM deadline is Wednesday.
das
Regeneration In Process
He did post a map a while ago, though without fixing the Romania/Bulgaria issue.
In the other news, where is the Strategos?
In the other news, where is the Strategos?
Symphony D.
Deity
Yes, I know it's there, and know it isn't fixed; hence "new," which there was some comments indicating would be up on 09.30.
Wednesday seems kinda soon... but eh. If that's the way it goes.
The Strategos
Thanatos
- Joined
- Jul 21, 2002
- Messages
- 1,175
I have found I cannot sleep now. All around me I hear the low moans of dying men. Did I say men? Nay, I meant boys. Beardless boys whose balls havent even dropped yet. And yet, like youth everywhere I suppose, they think they are men. And so, because they think they are men, they try to act like men. During the day theyll pretend they dont feel a thing, laughing with each other, flirting with the pretty nurses, acting for all the world that they were in a hotel on some grand vacation instead of in a hospital.
It is at night when their pretences are crushed, evaporated like the morning dew before the sun. I think it is the darkness that gets to them. The light fades, leaving them in an inky blackness. Friends become shadows, and shadows become monsters, as the darkened fiends of nightmares populate your mind. And as people begin to be isolated in their own dark world, you hear a slight cry, a low moan, a soft sob. They are isolated at first, small islands of sound in the sea of silence. But after a while they get more numerous, or perhaps just louder, as, for a moment, they set aside their mask of bravery. And the cries continue all night, like the mating calls of crickets in a country field
I do not reckon time by the weeks, days, or hours, anymore. Instead, I keep track of the time by counting the number of bodies they carry past my bead. It has been one hundred since Ive started counting, by the way, an unending stream of death, as if the River Styx flowed past my bead on its way to the underworld. In will come a broken doll, a grotesque parody of a human, a ghoulish Frankenstein held together by bloody rags. And they will pass by again, their eyes looking vacantly at the ceiling, theyre mouth slightly opened as if expressing its surprise at its own mortality. And then another one comes to take its place, the bearers almost running into each other, the beds fill up so fast, until I wonder if they arent secretly glad when someone dies, because that means another bed is open.
I dont even bother learning their names, the ones who are placed near me. It would do me no good. By the time my mouth would open in greeting, they would be gone, another sacrifice straight from the slaughter pen in the last ones place. And yet, the doctors tell me, the soldiers placed near me derive great comfort from the fact of my presence. All the other soldiers clamor to be placed near me, I am told and look with jealousy at those who gain this honor. I would laugh, if I had the strength left to do it. What am I? I am an empty title, haunting the corpse of a man long dead. The king says I am the commander, and so I am the commander, never mind the fact that I have to have an aide to read the map to me, an aide to write up my orders, an aide to do my paperwork. I am not the commander, I am just an observer, a god who bemusedly stands aside watching as its creation lives without him, only giving him the most token of acknowledgments
I have the most sneaking suspicion that the war is going much worse than I am told. Every day a subordinate will come up to me. How would you suggest attacking such-and-such a place. They would ask me, or how would I defend so-and-so. And if I believed their questions represented reality, I suppose we would be in Berlin by next week. But of course, they would ask, offhandedly, as if the answer existed merely to satisfy their curiosity, just on the off-chance this particular scenario would occur, what would you do, but of course, this scenario isnt occurring, but better safe than sorry. And these questions would always involve Belgrade surrounded, with Austrians pouring across the border like some biblical plague of locust.
But of course, I only have suspicions. One day we are at the North Sea, another we are down to our last man. The truth is undoubtedly somewhere in between. But I will, I am sure, never know, because, I think, they feel that my body cant handle the truth, that my heart would give out at the slightest hint of truth. And perhaps they are right. My life is Serbia, and if Serbia is gone, would not my life go with it? Ah, but General Misic is wise, and General Stepanovic is steady, and General Yankovich would fight until he ran out of bullets and then he would charge the enemy swinging his gun like a club. These are my war-hounds, who have fought beside me, and lost beside me, and won beside me. They are, I can only hope, wiser than me, and certainly wiser than the swarm of buzzing officers who surround me. They think war is merely a bunch of lines drawn on a piece of paper, and whoever can think of the cleverest use of those lines wins the war. God help us all! Who knows what sort of bumbling idiocy they write in my name. I can only pray, for that is the last thing left my body will allow me to do
It is at night when their pretences are crushed, evaporated like the morning dew before the sun. I think it is the darkness that gets to them. The light fades, leaving them in an inky blackness. Friends become shadows, and shadows become monsters, as the darkened fiends of nightmares populate your mind. And as people begin to be isolated in their own dark world, you hear a slight cry, a low moan, a soft sob. They are isolated at first, small islands of sound in the sea of silence. But after a while they get more numerous, or perhaps just louder, as, for a moment, they set aside their mask of bravery. And the cries continue all night, like the mating calls of crickets in a country field
I do not reckon time by the weeks, days, or hours, anymore. Instead, I keep track of the time by counting the number of bodies they carry past my bead. It has been one hundred since Ive started counting, by the way, an unending stream of death, as if the River Styx flowed past my bead on its way to the underworld. In will come a broken doll, a grotesque parody of a human, a ghoulish Frankenstein held together by bloody rags. And they will pass by again, their eyes looking vacantly at the ceiling, theyre mouth slightly opened as if expressing its surprise at its own mortality. And then another one comes to take its place, the bearers almost running into each other, the beds fill up so fast, until I wonder if they arent secretly glad when someone dies, because that means another bed is open.
I dont even bother learning their names, the ones who are placed near me. It would do me no good. By the time my mouth would open in greeting, they would be gone, another sacrifice straight from the slaughter pen in the last ones place. And yet, the doctors tell me, the soldiers placed near me derive great comfort from the fact of my presence. All the other soldiers clamor to be placed near me, I am told and look with jealousy at those who gain this honor. I would laugh, if I had the strength left to do it. What am I? I am an empty title, haunting the corpse of a man long dead. The king says I am the commander, and so I am the commander, never mind the fact that I have to have an aide to read the map to me, an aide to write up my orders, an aide to do my paperwork. I am not the commander, I am just an observer, a god who bemusedly stands aside watching as its creation lives without him, only giving him the most token of acknowledgments
I have the most sneaking suspicion that the war is going much worse than I am told. Every day a subordinate will come up to me. How would you suggest attacking such-and-such a place. They would ask me, or how would I defend so-and-so. And if I believed their questions represented reality, I suppose we would be in Berlin by next week. But of course, they would ask, offhandedly, as if the answer existed merely to satisfy their curiosity, just on the off-chance this particular scenario would occur, what would you do, but of course, this scenario isnt occurring, but better safe than sorry. And these questions would always involve Belgrade surrounded, with Austrians pouring across the border like some biblical plague of locust.
But of course, I only have suspicions. One day we are at the North Sea, another we are down to our last man. The truth is undoubtedly somewhere in between. But I will, I am sure, never know, because, I think, they feel that my body cant handle the truth, that my heart would give out at the slightest hint of truth. And perhaps they are right. My life is Serbia, and if Serbia is gone, would not my life go with it? Ah, but General Misic is wise, and General Stepanovic is steady, and General Yankovich would fight until he ran out of bullets and then he would charge the enemy swinging his gun like a club. These are my war-hounds, who have fought beside me, and lost beside me, and won beside me. They are, I can only hope, wiser than me, and certainly wiser than the swarm of buzzing officers who surround me. They think war is merely a bunch of lines drawn on a piece of paper, and whoever can think of the cleverest use of those lines wins the war. God help us all! Who knows what sort of bumbling idiocy they write in my name. I can only pray, for that is the last thing left my body will allow me to do
~Darkening~
Weep, Mother.
Sorry about the delays. The updated map/casualties and other fluff will come later today. Deadline is next wednesday (not the upcoming one.)
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