1991 Role Play: Brainstorming and Planning

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    • Imperator Don wrote:

      Seeing as my pick was rejected, and it was stated that I 'will be relegated to a minor', one would have assumed there was a minor in mind.

      Like I said, I am fine with any of the available options. If I had to pick, how about Iraq?

      Also, you guys don't want samples anymore? How exactly are you going to decide if I am good enough? Gonna wait to see once the game begins?
      Certainly a change of opinion from me.
      President of The Forum.

      (As elected October 2023).

      Can be found on Call of War itself as "Zaktty".

    • If they decide so, sure. But they didn’t! It’s unfair to keep untrue info up there! Same goes with the Zak? Thing. That’s just gonna scare people from asking for those countries. I think Zaktty is rather locked in, if he wanted another he would say so.

      CarKing the 6th of the Abrahamic Caliphate

    • Canadian states of America, the successful invasion of America by Canada, and fixing everything with the country, including how American congress is a seniors home at this point
      …it’s silly time……….:3

    • Carking the 6th wrote:

      Make any situation you want. Be it the rise of the Neo-Ottoman Empire or the Iraqi-Turkish war, in any way you wish. Go crazy
      Any situation....

      Alright....

      -------------

      Home. It was less of a building, and more of something aspiring to be a building, but it was my home. The little puddles that seemed to cling to the cracked and broken roads would have grown to daunting lakes by now, the tiny rivulets of seeping overflow that fed them having matured now into full rivers of roaring rainwater. The downpour was both torrential and never ending. The ailing roof of my little home would be straining now to contain the fury of the storm, the cracked asbestos sheets failing their task as the rain leaked in to claim my last refuge for its own.

      I cared not. It was still my home.

      Every year, as the seasons rolled by, and the changing whims of the gods sent us scurrying about to scrape a living amongst the rocks and dirt, we tried out best to make this little hovel a place of safety and sanctity. When the harvests were good, and there was work to be had, we added a new roof, and built better walls. When we had strength in our arms, we ploughed the fields and filled the granaries. And when we had time for leisure, we painted the walls in bright colors, and crafted curiosities to decorate our living spaces. And when the rains came and the harvests failed, we huddled underneath that same roof, clutching ourselves to ward off the hunger, and pray for better days.

      Those days were few and far between now.

      Time was, when we were a proud people, mighty in arms and strong in spirit, unyielding on the field of battle and unbroken in pride and power. Even us simple folk, who had naught to do with the glory and prestige that came from the deeds of our betters in far away lands, grew proud and prosperous in those times. My great grandfather was an officer in the Sultan's Army, and my grandfather would speak of those days while I was still young, of watching our warriors March out to conquer the world, and do so with absurd ease. There was magic in the air in those days, and everything seemed brighter, from the colors on the painted walls to brilliance of the mornings light shining upon the Dome. I had never seen such days, but to hear my grandfather speak of it, I can almost see it in my mind's eye, and it makes me wish for another life, one in an earlier time, before death and loss besaddled my world with such misery that no man could hope to see the light again.

      In the near century since, the fates have scorned us. And just as my little home has whittled into a hollow shell, so to has the Empire fallen a long way from the glory days, struggling now to survive in a field of titans, too big, too slow, too old and too weak to hold our own. Every year we hear of a new savior who will change our fate, and bring about a resurgence that will revive our fortunes. To reclaim our future that now seems lost beyond the veil of fate. Once it was an Imam, a man of God, of the cloth, of great piety and standing with the commons and the court alike. Heralded as a messiah of the new age, he was celebrated as a second coming of the prophet, until he fizzled out in scandal and greed, and now no one speaks of him or even remembers his name. Another year it was a warrior, who seemed proud and strong and virtuous like our warriors of old, with regal bearing and strong body, and highly decorated to boot. His story ended with power and riches, and in the lap of comfort and luxury - who could remember the common man, when surrounded by uncommon riches?

      I had stayed far away from these intrigues, in the warmth of my home, leaving the fate of the world to better men. What could one man do, against the turn of history? It is not in my destiny to see the glory of my people - such is my fate. I can only pray that mine is not that ill fate to see the end of my people and our way of life. I had a home, a roof over my head, and in these troubled times, that was more luck than most had. I could feed myself and my loved ones twice a day, and that was more than most could dream of. I thanked the gods and went about my way, thinking of tomorrow and nothing else.

      All it took to end that was one stray shell.

      When I came home that evening, there was nothing left of the place where I had built my entire life. My existence was erased, along with everyone and everything I loved, by a single falling shell of artillery that had been misfired by a crew in training. It was not even war, which was raging in some far away land, that took everything from me. It was just fate. Just luck. Just the general ill fortune that had afflicted my people. We were losing everything, and everyone had to suffer. It was just my turn.

      Now I am homeless, destitute, and awaiting the arrival of my grandson. I do not know if he will be able to come, or if he will want to. I am nothing more than a burden to him, and he has struggles enough in his life. Some days I wonder what cruel mercy it was that spared my life and took everything else from me. Had that shell landed a few hours later, my toil would be ended now, and that would have been mercy enough. No more hungry days or starving nights. That would have been bliss enough. Instead, here I linger, waiting to foist my burden upon another soul, as so many of us do now, in this sick and dying nation. The 'Sick Man of Europe', they mock us now, and their scorn has been breathed to life in these desolate days.

      I can only hope that my grandson stays strong, where I could not. Ali is a man of the sword, and still full of that fire of youth and the vigor it brings, still ready to rally against the world and conquer it all. It is a long way from Gallipoli, but he promised to come back once Major General Kemal Pasha gave him leave. I can only hope he gets that chance soon.