In a sort of inversion on the design quest, play as a military commander in charge of sourcing and choosing equipment while dealing with bureaucracy and politics.
Board of Ordnance
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1.0
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You have just been promoted.
When you were a child, you always displayed an aptitude for mathematics. You acquired interest about technology, and when you were older, you wanted to go to college. Unfortunately, the country was not in a stable economic state, and as such you were unhappily consigned to a life of community work and laboring in a factory. That is, until the Marines came. The Corps offered to pay for the college tenures of those deemed the best, as long as they agreed to serve in the force. You were one of these individuals.
Your degree proved useful in the marines; you quickly became a rising star among the combat engineers for your various ideas. The rank of private led to corporal, then to sergeant, then to lieutenant, and so on until this weekend, when you found yourself facing a promotion to general, part of the Ordnance Branch.
Gender:
-[] Male
-[]Female
-[]CLASSIFIED
Where does this take place?
-[] Prytannia, an arrogant empire with horrendous racism, serious debt from previous wars, and wishy-washy figures in every echelon.
-[] The Ravennan Reformed Republic, a fascist state with egoist leaders who deeply fear foreign products, stinting growth.
-[] The Federated State of Usania, a mediocratic republic undergoing a decade-long depression with statesmen who don't do anything about it and instead invade random islands.
-[] Wellsland, a mostly rural island country with little industry, urbanization, or military experience to speak of.
-[] Belyosovia, a ufologist monarcho-socialist dictatorship with poor unity and other similarly strange states bordering it.
When you were a child, you always displayed an aptitude for mathematics. You acquired interest about technology, and when you were older, you wanted to go to college. Unfortunately, the country was not in a stable economic state, and as such you were unhappily consigned to a life of community work and laboring in a factory. That is, until the Marines came. The Corps offered to pay for the college tenures of those deemed the best, as long as they agreed to serve in the force. You were one of these individuals.
Your degree proved useful in the marines; you quickly became a rising star among the combat engineers for your various ideas. The rank of private led to corporal, then to sergeant, then to lieutenant, and so on until this weekend, when you found yourself facing a promotion to general, part of the Ordnance Branch.
Gender:
-[] Male
-[]Female
-[]CLASSIFIED
Where does this take place?
-[] Prytannia, an arrogant empire with horrendous racism, serious debt from previous wars, and wishy-washy figures in every echelon.
-[] The Ravennan Reformed Republic, a fascist state with egoist leaders who deeply fear foreign products, stinting growth.
-[] The Federated State of Usania, a mediocratic republic undergoing a decade-long depression with statesmen who don't do anything about it and instead invade random islands.
-[] Wellsland, a mostly rural island country with little industry, urbanization, or military experience to speak of.
-[] Belyosovia, a ufologist monarcho-socialist dictatorship with poor unity and other similarly strange states bordering it.
1.1
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Wellsland has barely changed. Whether it was the time of the Prytannian colony, or the beginning of independence, or even the Great War, the sun has shone down on doddering sheep and the green grass below. That is, with the exception of rain.
Water flowed down above the sheep, now in their shelters. The grass was like a thick carpet, trodden upon by the feet of giants. A thick and palpable fog hung in the air, seeping through cracks and noses alike. The day, to be short, was miserable. It was also the day in which you had the lamentable responsibility of moving to Eden, the country's capital. With your tan messenger bag slung over your shoulder and a small dose of heat tucked into your pocket, you had set out for the journey, and found it thoroughly unpleasant.
The train station was a hazy mess, with hustle and bustle obscured by the morning fog. The ticket booth, a black box embedded in the wall and maintained by a mousy, bowler-hatted man, was only barely visible in the mist and smoke of the station. Nevertheless, for better or for worse, it was still open despite the conditions. Above it, a wet and dripping sign read Placid Station-Coastland Provincial Rail. As you watched, one end slipped from the mount, leaving the board hanging sideways.
Up close, the man was a distinctly less pleasant-looking fellow, and that he hadn't been from afar. His breath reeked of beer, as he mumbled under his breath about the Liberals. However, to get on the train, you had to interact with him. With a little hand-wave, you cleared your throat, attracting his notice. He straightened his slouch, causing his bowler hat to slip down the back of his head, and then, in a slurred and coarse voice, he responded.
"Where are you headed to?" He took a conspicuously exaggerated look at the clock while you responded.
"That would be Eden, sir."
"Huh," he said, shaking his head slightly. He passed you your ticket, albeit slightly smeared with some alien substance, and so you were stranded walking around for a bit, before the train arrives. With nothing to do, you cast an eye towards a newspaper stand.
The simply-named Herald was the main paper in circulation. Unfortunately, despite its commonality, it suffered from what some might term alarmism. And on the front page of this week's issue was a great big headline, reading in all capitals.
HAWAIIAN POLICE EXECUTE WELLSLANDER FOR ESPIONAGE! REVENGE MUST BE HAD FOR OUR NATION AGAINST TYRANNICAL POLYNESIANS!
The article went on to read about the story of Harper Kells, an innocent Wellslander electrocuted in the Hawaiian-controlled Marshall Islands for reputedly committing mass industrial espionage and sabotage, which the Herald fervently denied.
You shrugged, and put it away, as the calls for boarding had begun.
The train was a rather antique thing, with aged wood all around and a vintage engine that would have been phased out in any other country. Despite its status as the only train to the capital in the month, only a few had boarded.
You opened the door to Cabin 6, and were greeted with a pair of tan benches and a window made opaque by the rain. The train started to move, and you found your seat on the left.
You retrieved the Herald from your bag, and inspected the other headlines.
"Newly crowned First Comrade Anastas II gives speech in Vladivostok, wants Belyosovia to bring the revolution abroad. Labour uncharacteristically quiet. Pg. 6 "
"Usanian Depression hits all-time lows, President Winthrop declines to comment. Top Wellslander economists weigh in. Pg. 8"
"Labour win dozen seats; major upset for Social Party. Is our country safe from the threat of socialism? Pg. 10"
"STICK IT UP YOUR GENERAL-ORD. BRANCH GENERAL ANDERSON FIRED FOR GROSS INCOMPETENCE! WILL HIS SUCCESSOR BE A BETTER MAN? Pg. 12"
The rain is still going on outside. You hadn't had some rest in a bit. Why not take the time to sleep?
The rain subsides into a quiet tapping, and then it disappears entirely, as you slip into unconsciousness, lengthwise on the tan bench with feet against the door.
-----
"We have now reached Eden, sir. please exit the train.
At the feet of your cabin, an attendant wearing a pained smile stood, licking his lips.
"Sir, we have reached Eden. Please get up-"
Heeding him, you abruptly sprang up, shocking him into backing up into the train wall. With your bag, you left before he could say anything. You walked through the hallways, out of the door, and onto the platform.
Although the station was much larger then the provincial one of earlier, it had both the same construction, fog, and traffic. Few individuals weaved about in the concourse. You took one look back at the train, mentally checking to see you had forgotten anything, and proceeded to the entrance.
At the door, a booth had been set up, handling traffic between provinces. At the booth, sat an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, resting her head against her hand in a gesture of exhaustion. Again, like with Placid Station, it may not have been the best time to approach, but you needed to to pass, and so you did, walking up and clearing your throat in the same manner as earlier.
The woman glared at you with a pair of dagger eyes. Still holding her stare, she produced a form from somewhere under her, along with a pen.
"Anything to declare?"
All you were packing that would need declaration was your pistol. Everything else had been shipped here already.
"I have in my possession a .22 revolver."
The woman raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.
"Permit?"
You produced your military identification card, and was rewarded with a terse nod.
"So, Mr. Soldier, what's your name? Last and first, in that order?"
-[] Write In
Sorry for the delay in the update-I had a bit on my plate. I assure you, this is the last prologue before it begins. As the vote for plans was tied, I defaulted to the total number of choices for each, resulting in four votes for male and a tiebreaker.
Water flowed down above the sheep, now in their shelters. The grass was like a thick carpet, trodden upon by the feet of giants. A thick and palpable fog hung in the air, seeping through cracks and noses alike. The day, to be short, was miserable. It was also the day in which you had the lamentable responsibility of moving to Eden, the country's capital. With your tan messenger bag slung over your shoulder and a small dose of heat tucked into your pocket, you had set out for the journey, and found it thoroughly unpleasant.
The train station was a hazy mess, with hustle and bustle obscured by the morning fog. The ticket booth, a black box embedded in the wall and maintained by a mousy, bowler-hatted man, was only barely visible in the mist and smoke of the station. Nevertheless, for better or for worse, it was still open despite the conditions. Above it, a wet and dripping sign read Placid Station-Coastland Provincial Rail. As you watched, one end slipped from the mount, leaving the board hanging sideways.
Up close, the man was a distinctly less pleasant-looking fellow, and that he hadn't been from afar. His breath reeked of beer, as he mumbled under his breath about the Liberals. However, to get on the train, you had to interact with him. With a little hand-wave, you cleared your throat, attracting his notice. He straightened his slouch, causing his bowler hat to slip down the back of his head, and then, in a slurred and coarse voice, he responded.
"Where are you headed to?" He took a conspicuously exaggerated look at the clock while you responded.
"That would be Eden, sir."
"Huh," he said, shaking his head slightly. He passed you your ticket, albeit slightly smeared with some alien substance, and so you were stranded walking around for a bit, before the train arrives. With nothing to do, you cast an eye towards a newspaper stand.
The simply-named Herald was the main paper in circulation. Unfortunately, despite its commonality, it suffered from what some might term alarmism. And on the front page of this week's issue was a great big headline, reading in all capitals.
HAWAIIAN POLICE EXECUTE WELLSLANDER FOR ESPIONAGE! REVENGE MUST BE HAD FOR OUR NATION AGAINST TYRANNICAL POLYNESIANS!
The article went on to read about the story of Harper Kells, an innocent Wellslander electrocuted in the Hawaiian-controlled Marshall Islands for reputedly committing mass industrial espionage and sabotage, which the Herald fervently denied.
You shrugged, and put it away, as the calls for boarding had begun.
The train was a rather antique thing, with aged wood all around and a vintage engine that would have been phased out in any other country. Despite its status as the only train to the capital in the month, only a few had boarded.
You opened the door to Cabin 6, and were greeted with a pair of tan benches and a window made opaque by the rain. The train started to move, and you found your seat on the left.
You retrieved the Herald from your bag, and inspected the other headlines.
"Newly crowned First Comrade Anastas II gives speech in Vladivostok, wants Belyosovia to bring the revolution abroad. Labour uncharacteristically quiet. Pg. 6 "
"Usanian Depression hits all-time lows, President Winthrop declines to comment. Top Wellslander economists weigh in. Pg. 8"
"Labour win dozen seats; major upset for Social Party. Is our country safe from the threat of socialism? Pg. 10"
"STICK IT UP YOUR GENERAL-ORD. BRANCH GENERAL ANDERSON FIRED FOR GROSS INCOMPETENCE! WILL HIS SUCCESSOR BE A BETTER MAN? Pg. 12"
The rain is still going on outside. You hadn't had some rest in a bit. Why not take the time to sleep?
The rain subsides into a quiet tapping, and then it disappears entirely, as you slip into unconsciousness, lengthwise on the tan bench with feet against the door.
-----
"We have now reached Eden, sir. please exit the train.
At the feet of your cabin, an attendant wearing a pained smile stood, licking his lips.
"Sir, we have reached Eden. Please get up-"
Heeding him, you abruptly sprang up, shocking him into backing up into the train wall. With your bag, you left before he could say anything. You walked through the hallways, out of the door, and onto the platform.
Although the station was much larger then the provincial one of earlier, it had both the same construction, fog, and traffic. Few individuals weaved about in the concourse. You took one look back at the train, mentally checking to see you had forgotten anything, and proceeded to the entrance.
At the door, a booth had been set up, handling traffic between provinces. At the booth, sat an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, resting her head against her hand in a gesture of exhaustion. Again, like with Placid Station, it may not have been the best time to approach, but you needed to to pass, and so you did, walking up and clearing your throat in the same manner as earlier.
The woman glared at you with a pair of dagger eyes. Still holding her stare, she produced a form from somewhere under her, along with a pen.
"Anything to declare?"
All you were packing that would need declaration was your pistol. Everything else had been shipped here already.
"I have in my possession a .22 revolver."
The woman raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.
"Permit?"
You produced your military identification card, and was rewarded with a terse nod.
"So, Mr. Soldier, what's your name? Last and first, in that order?"
-[] Write In
Sorry for the delay in the update-I had a bit on my plate. I assure you, this is the last prologue before it begins. As the vote for plans was tied, I defaulted to the total number of choices for each, resulting in four votes for male and a tiebreaker.
Last edited:
1.2
- Pronouns
- He/Him
31st Tay Street is not an impressive building by any metric.
Constructed in 1878 for use as a brothel, 31st Tay Street used huge quantities of red bricks in its construction. Twenty rooms on each of its four floors made it an excessively large and imposing building, but the size came at a cost, namely, the building being repossessed after the brothel's owner was shot and killed during a riot. The building served multiple roles for a few decades after the sordid affair; as an office building from 1879 until 1898 when the owners sold it off; as a warehouse for the Polynesian Shipping Company in 1899 until 1901 when the corporation went out of business; as a low-cost hotel for visitors in 1902, until 1908 when the hotel manager was arrested for murder; as a Nazarene boarding school for boys in 1909, until 1911 when rather frivolous allegations of satanism forced it to shut down; and finally another brothel in 1912, operated by the original owner's son. When a police raid in 1913 took down the red light establishment, the building was up for sale once more. And it just so happened that in the late summer of that year, a fire devastated the previous headquarters of the Ministry of Defense.
And so, for the next twenty years, 31st Tay Street has been the headquarters of defense for all of Wellsland.
You had arrived at the building early that morning, at around 8:00. The taxi had been rather exorbitant, charging you twice the amount you'd normally have seen at your old provincial area, but as of yet you were still waiting on your car, and as such you had been reduced to a beggar when it came to the matter of transportation. On the way there, you had picked up a copy of the Wellsland Sun, a distinctly more quality paper then the Herald, and had learned that the business with Hawaii had not died down, after a Wellsland Coast Guard boat had boarded a Hawaiian troopship meant to quell riots in the Cook Islands, which were governed by Hawaii but had a large population of Anglian speakers. The affair did not look like it would end well. Furthermore, Anastes II had not yet quelled his urge to further damage foreign relations, seeing as he had recently condemned the Anglian-speaking world in front of all of Belyosovia.
The door of 31st Tay Street was a large and grand thing, being constructed of black wood and standing twice your size. However, opening it was not your business. As soon as you had ascended the stairs in front of it, a soldier, his rifle at his side, extended his arm across the side of the door, and pulled the handle, yanking the great entrance open. As you walked by, he saluted.
And so, you began your work as General James Wolfe, Wellsland Board of Ordnance, Head of Acquisition and Supply Management. And for that day's agenda, you were to meet your fellows.
General Leander Dungett had been in the service for fifty years, more than half of his life. Through this illustrious career, he had penned many a document on the matters of warfare, in which he had espoused the glories of cavalry and their supreme importance to combat. He was mostly responsible for the retaining of horsemen as a major contingent of the force until the great War, and even when their weaknesses in modern combat were put on full display, Dungett had repeatedly insisted on keeping them in service. Then, in 1917 he saw the first application of vehicles in combat, and his equestrian fondness was promptly crushed under the power of a diesel engine. Dungett was the leading proponent of the adaptation of the Canting armored car, and had later unsuccessfully campaigned for taking in some old Prytannian tanks. His office was on the second floor, third door to the right, and so off you went. The guard at the door's side opened it for you, and you were immediately greeted by the man himself, sitting at his oak desk.
Leander Dungett's most distinctive feature was not his bushy grey mustache, or his improbably tall form. It was not the plethora of medals stuck to his chest or his weathered white peaked cap. No, General Dungett's most prominent feature was his breath. Smelling of used cigars and coffee, a thick wind blew out from his cavernous mouth, carried about the room til a gust of air from the window outside mercifully carried it away.
Dungett surveyed you for a moment, and spoke, his hands still poised like a praying mantis.
"So you're my new colleague? James Wolfe, was it?"
You nodded.
"It is good to meet you. Unfortunately, I have business to attend to of the matter of some reports on the effectiveness of the B1 rifle, which as a matter of fact, you should be looking at as well. Goodbye."
And with that curt response, the conversation had ended.
General Kate McCabe was certainly a novelty among Wellsland command, namely, being the first woman in the job. It had been viewed as a political appointment by the Labour government at the time, and many commanders looked down upon her, despite being lower themselves in the hierarchy. McCabe responded by dealing a good drubbing to said problematic commanders, and attempted to revitalize the Wellsland Marine Corps, with varying success. She had espoused a doctrine for the corps in which they would serve a specialised role involving decisive strikes and assaults, followed by the juggernaut of the army. Unfortunately, the Marines had assumed a jack of all trades role, after the army decided to focus on home defense.Her office was on the top floor, twelfth from the stairs. Just like Dungett's office, a soldier opened the door for you, and revealed McCabe staring right at you, from a desk of the exact same make and model that Dungett had.
"James Wolfe?"
Again, you nodded.
"I'm General McCabe. I hope to have a cordial time working together. Now, please let me be. I need to read some reports."
And, just like Dungett before her, McCabe swiftly ended the conversation.
The third general on the board was a different matter then the other two. For one, you barely knew anything about them. Their name, age, sex, race, or even nationality was unknown to you, and to anyone else for that matter. They didn't have an office in 31st Tay Street, and if they did, you didn't know about it. From what you had heard, they communicated entirely through telegraphy, and even that didn't leave any clues, the writer being very careful to use a bland, neutral form of Anglian. Their military doctrine could not be gleaned through their votes, but they seemed to favor a somewhat balanced force.
And the fourth general was you, James Wolfe, and your office was on the third floor, ten steps from the door. And you had reports to read.
Alright, it's turn one, part one of two. I say this because after you complete this, you'll have a meeting with the other board members. However, that's off topic for the time being. Now, you have two bars. One is what we'll call "Workload," and the other is what we'll call "Exhaustion." Each thing you do in the pre-meeting phase costs a certain amount of Workload which goes up to 1000 maximum. At the end of the pre-meeting phase, 10% of the total Workload cost is transferred onto your Exhaustion meter, which also goes up to 1000. As the Exhaustion meters rises, it gets harder to do stuff, and if you hit 1000, you will be taken off duty and left out of decisions for a week. Exhaustion can be lowered via down time, and it goes down naturally every week. You are currently at 200 Exhaustion from moving, and 100 Workload due to settling in.
[-] Armored Vehicles Report (100 Workload) Reports and surveys among armored vehicle drivers. Will give insight into performance.
[-] Assorted Infantry Reports (400 Workload) Like the above, but with infantry and their equipment.
[-] Command Report (300 Workload) Opinions of commanders.
[-] Intelligence Reports (400 Workload) Reports on the militaries of nations currently deemed important.
-[-] Hawaii
-[-] Belyosovia
[-] Inventory Review (800 Workload)-requires roll of 1d100-2% exhaustion Get a full overview of everything in service, with additional information such as quality and battle readiness.
Constructed in 1878 for use as a brothel, 31st Tay Street used huge quantities of red bricks in its construction. Twenty rooms on each of its four floors made it an excessively large and imposing building, but the size came at a cost, namely, the building being repossessed after the brothel's owner was shot and killed during a riot. The building served multiple roles for a few decades after the sordid affair; as an office building from 1879 until 1898 when the owners sold it off; as a warehouse for the Polynesian Shipping Company in 1899 until 1901 when the corporation went out of business; as a low-cost hotel for visitors in 1902, until 1908 when the hotel manager was arrested for murder; as a Nazarene boarding school for boys in 1909, until 1911 when rather frivolous allegations of satanism forced it to shut down; and finally another brothel in 1912, operated by the original owner's son. When a police raid in 1913 took down the red light establishment, the building was up for sale once more. And it just so happened that in the late summer of that year, a fire devastated the previous headquarters of the Ministry of Defense.
And so, for the next twenty years, 31st Tay Street has been the headquarters of defense for all of Wellsland.
You had arrived at the building early that morning, at around 8:00. The taxi had been rather exorbitant, charging you twice the amount you'd normally have seen at your old provincial area, but as of yet you were still waiting on your car, and as such you had been reduced to a beggar when it came to the matter of transportation. On the way there, you had picked up a copy of the Wellsland Sun, a distinctly more quality paper then the Herald, and had learned that the business with Hawaii had not died down, after a Wellsland Coast Guard boat had boarded a Hawaiian troopship meant to quell riots in the Cook Islands, which were governed by Hawaii but had a large population of Anglian speakers. The affair did not look like it would end well. Furthermore, Anastes II had not yet quelled his urge to further damage foreign relations, seeing as he had recently condemned the Anglian-speaking world in front of all of Belyosovia.
The door of 31st Tay Street was a large and grand thing, being constructed of black wood and standing twice your size. However, opening it was not your business. As soon as you had ascended the stairs in front of it, a soldier, his rifle at his side, extended his arm across the side of the door, and pulled the handle, yanking the great entrance open. As you walked by, he saluted.
And so, you began your work as General James Wolfe, Wellsland Board of Ordnance, Head of Acquisition and Supply Management. And for that day's agenda, you were to meet your fellows.
General Leander Dungett had been in the service for fifty years, more than half of his life. Through this illustrious career, he had penned many a document on the matters of warfare, in which he had espoused the glories of cavalry and their supreme importance to combat. He was mostly responsible for the retaining of horsemen as a major contingent of the force until the great War, and even when their weaknesses in modern combat were put on full display, Dungett had repeatedly insisted on keeping them in service. Then, in 1917 he saw the first application of vehicles in combat, and his equestrian fondness was promptly crushed under the power of a diesel engine. Dungett was the leading proponent of the adaptation of the Canting armored car, and had later unsuccessfully campaigned for taking in some old Prytannian tanks. His office was on the second floor, third door to the right, and so off you went. The guard at the door's side opened it for you, and you were immediately greeted by the man himself, sitting at his oak desk.
Leander Dungett's most distinctive feature was not his bushy grey mustache, or his improbably tall form. It was not the plethora of medals stuck to his chest or his weathered white peaked cap. No, General Dungett's most prominent feature was his breath. Smelling of used cigars and coffee, a thick wind blew out from his cavernous mouth, carried about the room til a gust of air from the window outside mercifully carried it away.
Dungett surveyed you for a moment, and spoke, his hands still poised like a praying mantis.
"So you're my new colleague? James Wolfe, was it?"
You nodded.
"It is good to meet you. Unfortunately, I have business to attend to of the matter of some reports on the effectiveness of the B1 rifle, which as a matter of fact, you should be looking at as well. Goodbye."
And with that curt response, the conversation had ended.
General Kate McCabe was certainly a novelty among Wellsland command, namely, being the first woman in the job. It had been viewed as a political appointment by the Labour government at the time, and many commanders looked down upon her, despite being lower themselves in the hierarchy. McCabe responded by dealing a good drubbing to said problematic commanders, and attempted to revitalize the Wellsland Marine Corps, with varying success. She had espoused a doctrine for the corps in which they would serve a specialised role involving decisive strikes and assaults, followed by the juggernaut of the army. Unfortunately, the Marines had assumed a jack of all trades role, after the army decided to focus on home defense.Her office was on the top floor, twelfth from the stairs. Just like Dungett's office, a soldier opened the door for you, and revealed McCabe staring right at you, from a desk of the exact same make and model that Dungett had.
"James Wolfe?"
Again, you nodded.
"I'm General McCabe. I hope to have a cordial time working together. Now, please let me be. I need to read some reports."
And, just like Dungett before her, McCabe swiftly ended the conversation.
The third general on the board was a different matter then the other two. For one, you barely knew anything about them. Their name, age, sex, race, or even nationality was unknown to you, and to anyone else for that matter. They didn't have an office in 31st Tay Street, and if they did, you didn't know about it. From what you had heard, they communicated entirely through telegraphy, and even that didn't leave any clues, the writer being very careful to use a bland, neutral form of Anglian. Their military doctrine could not be gleaned through their votes, but they seemed to favor a somewhat balanced force.
And the fourth general was you, James Wolfe, and your office was on the third floor, ten steps from the door. And you had reports to read.
Alright, it's turn one, part one of two. I say this because after you complete this, you'll have a meeting with the other board members. However, that's off topic for the time being. Now, you have two bars. One is what we'll call "Workload," and the other is what we'll call "Exhaustion." Each thing you do in the pre-meeting phase costs a certain amount of Workload which goes up to 1000 maximum. At the end of the pre-meeting phase, 10% of the total Workload cost is transferred onto your Exhaustion meter, which also goes up to 1000. As the Exhaustion meters rises, it gets harder to do stuff, and if you hit 1000, you will be taken off duty and left out of decisions for a week. Exhaustion can be lowered via down time, and it goes down naturally every week. You are currently at 200 Exhaustion from moving, and 100 Workload due to settling in.
[-] Armored Vehicles Report (100 Workload) Reports and surveys among armored vehicle drivers. Will give insight into performance.
[-] Assorted Infantry Reports (400 Workload) Like the above, but with infantry and their equipment.
[-] Command Report (300 Workload) Opinions of commanders.
[-] Intelligence Reports (400 Workload) Reports on the militaries of nations currently deemed important.
-[-] Hawaii
-[-] Belyosovia
[-] Inventory Review (800 Workload)-requires roll of 1d100-2% exhaustion Get a full overview of everything in service, with additional information such as quality and battle readiness.
Last edited:
State of the Wellsland Marine Corps
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Budget: $15,000,000
50,000 total personnel.
40,000 combat personnel.
Total Wage Cost: $10,000,000 per year
Total Expenses: $11,200,000 per year
50,000 total personnel.
40,000 combat personnel.
Total Wage Cost: $10,000,000 per year
Total Expenses: $11,200,000 per year
The B1 Rifle is the main weapon of the marines, and the military as a whole. Produced in 1913 as a Prytannian bolt-action infantry rifle, it's seen some modifications in the service. Most are now locally made in the country, although are sourced elsewhere.
Cartridge: .303
Rate of fire: 25-35 RPM
Range: 550 yd effective, 3,000 yd max
No. in service: 40,000
Produced by: Curt&Semple Arsenal Industrial (Prytannian, local factories)
Upkeep costs: $40,000
Cartridge: .303
Rate of fire: 25-35 RPM
Range: 550 yd effective, 3,000 yd max
No. in service: 40,000
Produced by: Curt&Semple Arsenal Industrial (Prytannian, local factories)
Upkeep costs: $40,000
When first produced at the turn of the century, the E22 Veyette was regarded as a mediocre semi-auto weapon with some good bells and whistles but overly complex firing mechanisms. That was more then 25 years ago. Although the E22 has gone through a pair of major updates, such as the .5 variant with a bigger caliber and an easier operation, and the MAX variant with a better frame and a faster fire rate, it is unknown whether the pistol still holds up.
Cartridge: .41
Rate of fire: 70 rpm
Range: 45 yd
No. in service: 5,000
Produced by: Veyette Arms and Armor (Gaulish, imported)
Upkeep costs: $10,000
Cartridge: .41
Rate of fire: 70 rpm
Range: 45 yd
No. in service: 5,000
Produced by: Veyette Arms and Armor (Gaulish, imported)
Upkeep costs: $10,000
The Moa SMG is a locally produced submachine gun, supplementing the B1. It is relatively old, being around since 1919. However, it has proven to be a popular design among the soldiery.
Cartridge: 9x19mm
Rate of fire: 400 rpm
Range: 180 yd
No. in service: 8,000
Produced by: Wellsland Arms Company
Upkeep costs: $20,000
Cartridge: 9x19mm
Rate of fire: 400 rpm
Range: 180 yd
No. in service: 8,000
Produced by: Wellsland Arms Company
Upkeep costs: $20,000
Another locally produced automatic weapon, the Emu is a middle of the road gun for infantry support and vehicles.
Cartridge: .30.06
Rate of Fire: 600 rpm
Range: 1,500 yd
No. in service: 2,000
Produced by: Wellsland Arms Company
Upkeep costs: $10,000
Cartridge: .30.06
Rate of Fire: 600 rpm
Range: 1,500 yd
No. in service: 2,000
Produced by: Wellsland Arms Company
Upkeep costs: $10,000
The Sheepscarer mortar, as it's been derisively nicknamed by soldiers, excels at making a loud noise that, well, scares the eponymous animal.
Shell: 465g 50mm
Rate of Fire: 7 rpm
Range: 530m
No. in service: 1,000
Produced by; Wellsland Arms Company
Upkeep costs: $10,000
Shell: 465g 50mm
Rate of Fire: 7 rpm
Range: 530m
No. in service: 1,000
Produced by; Wellsland Arms Company
Upkeep costs: $10,000
Another weapon named after birds, the Haast 20mm is an autocannon used for AA duties.
Shell: 130g 20mm
Rate of Fire: 325 rpm
Range: 900m effective, 4,200m maximum
Produced by: Wellsland Arms Company
No. in service: 400
Upkeep costs: $10,000
Shell: 130g 20mm
Rate of Fire: 325 rpm
Range: 900m effective, 4,200m maximum
Produced by: Wellsland Arms Company
No. in service: 400
Upkeep costs: $10,000
The Marine Corps also employs 500 6-lb howitzers, costing $80,000 a year, 210 47mm field guns, costing $50,000 a year, horses and wagons, costing $60,000 a year, and 7-second delay pineapple hand grenades, costing $20,000 a year.
The Canting armored fighting vehicle is a light armored car serving anti-infantry and troop carrier roles. It can't stand up to tanks, however.
Mass: 21,000kg
Crew: 2 crew, 6 passengers
Armor: 20mm
Armament: 6 x Emu MGs
Speed: 25 km/h
Range: 160 km
No. in service: 416
Produced by: Winthrop Heavy Industries (Usanian, local factories)
Upkeep costs: 600,000$ total per year
Mass: 21,000kg
Crew: 2 crew, 6 passengers
Armor: 20mm
Armament: 6 x Emu MGs
Speed: 25 km/h
Range: 160 km
No. in service: 416
Produced by: Winthrop Heavy Industries (Usanian, local factories)
Upkeep costs: 600,000$ total per year
The BT-1 is a transport and light bomber plane for the newly emergent marine aviation branch.
Mass: 6,250 kg
Length: 21m
Wingspan: 30m
Propellant: 2 wing-mounted propellers, one nose-mounted propeller
Speed: 309 km/h
Range: 3,500 km
Crew: 2 crew, up to 24 passengers
Armament: 910 kg of bombs.
No. in service: 42
Produced by: Talbot Aviation (Prytannian, imported)
Upkeep costs: 400,000$ total per year
Mass: 6,250 kg
Length: 21m
Wingspan: 30m
Propellant: 2 wing-mounted propellers, one nose-mounted propeller
Speed: 309 km/h
Range: 3,500 km
Crew: 2 crew, up to 24 passengers
Armament: 910 kg of bombs.
No. in service: 42
Produced by: Talbot Aviation (Prytannian, imported)
Upkeep costs: 400,000$ total per year
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