Basically this is a test bed for an idea about introducing more of a story aspect to the site, using characters to introduce the ideas and concepts in a sort of framed narrative effect and make the site more accessible or readable. This piece will be used to introduce some key concepts about moose rebellion naval technology, and I'm interested to know people's opinions on whether this will work or not. It will also use the concept of the Bon Homme Rhapsody to make a joke about the queen song where all the lines of the song will be used in some manner or other on board - that part's still a work in progress, and it might get abandoned due to feeling forced.
Comments welcomed, btw does anyone know what a standard rank for a pilot on a carrier would be? google said it would be airman, but it seemed a bit vague.
Thoughts? Any naval types, please feel free to tell me how bridge communications and intercom announcements should go, all I've got to go on is a handful of hazy memories from Hunt for Red October.In a fit of moose obsession, I wrote:
All I ask is an inflatable ship. (first chunk)
The day began as many days out on the ocean have begun, the sun was hidden by cloud and the waters were a dark, murky colour as they rolled below the overhanging cloud and the fine mist of rain which was swept in all directions by the wind, which gusted erratically at almost any angle save those predicted by the weather forecast that day. This was an act of defiance on the part of the wind, sick of being stereotyped as a cherub faced cloud simply because it was a member of a maritime weather system, after a union meeting on the previous night, all north atlantic weather systems were determined to pay absolutely no attention to the shipping forecast for the rest of the day. On the west coast of Scotland, union action was marred by violence, as winds classified as moderate or good became decidedly right-wing and threw leaves and twigs at police officers and stole maps from scout troop orienteering missions.
Out in the gyres of the north atlantic however, the wind was opting for a less violent and more indecisive behaviour, deciding instead to settle for making the day moderately grey, wet and miserable for as many creatures as possible. This would have included the crew of the caribou class attack-carrier making it’s way back to harbour, had they not had slightly more important things to worry about. The carrier lilo was running at half of it’s full speed, and moose crowded the sides of the ship, eyes watching for the tell-tale pink-and-yellow food colouring staining the water. In recent months, the Elephant Remnant had begun seeding the North Atlantic with battenbergs, and the destructive cakes lay sodden, just below the surface, waiting to clog the engines of the Moose Rebellion’s Atlantic fleet and leave even the mighty caribou class warlilos helpless and vulnerable to attack.
The carrier was the MRCL Bon Homme Rhapsody, returning from a successful engagement in Icelandic waters against a small remnant fleet which had assaulted one of the Rebellion’s naval bases several miles off the coast of the black basaltic islands. The Bon Homme Rhapsody had joined a taskforce lead by the MRCL Victory, supported by the bewilderbeest class cruisers Indomitable, Indefatigable and Indejungle. It had been a hard battle, which had resulted in the loss of the Indejungle after a group of manatees bombarded it with armour-piercing mortar-rockets. The warlilo had gone down with all hands, but since ninety six percent of the ship’s population had hooves, this was only a minor tragedy. As with all manatee attacks, despite the ferocity of the salvoes, the survivors of the wreck, floating in their lifeboats, were treated to a spectacular pyrotechnic display of brilliant colour, thunderous noise and at least three violations of international firework safety regulations. It was a strange quirk of the manatee combat and honour system, and the only point of disagreement in the otherwise solid alliance between themselves and the elephant warlords.
The manatees were eventually dispatched by aerial attack from Chaos and Galileo Squadrons operating from the Victory and the Bon Homme Rhapsody respectively. Depth-hogs launched from the Indomitable and Indefatigable had dealt the final death blow to the last of the armoured sea-cows. The Bon Homme Rhapsody had then moved to engage an Orlang Dubloon fish which had been sitting out of combat range, reinforcing the manatees with squadrons of Adiabats which had brought down a Kri Kri interceptor from Galileo squadron. The Orlang Dubloon had been equipped with a ballistic mountaineer launcher and was maneuvering into firing position against the seaport facility whilst the Adiabats swarmed over the Moose Rebellion carrier. Captain Nyriad of the Rhapsody had wasted no time and had brought the warlilo alongside, perilously in range of the flailing tentacles and deadly anti-personnel darts of the Orlang Dubloon and bombarded it at point blank range with high yield, delayed fuse hedgehogs artillery launched in a classic giraffe-trebuchet broadside maneuver. The hedgehogs had sailed through the air and holding their breath, embedded themselves in the almost-wooden skin of the great fish, and as soon as the carrier threw it’s throttle wide-open and accelerated out of the immediate blast zone, they detonated with full force, searing the flesh of the Orlang Dubloon and destroying the ballistic emplacement and the supplies and landing pads of the Adiabats. Outwardly, the great fish showed no sign of it’s pain and the fatal wounds inflicted upon it, burning amidst the fuel and wreckage the fish sank back beneath the waves, doomed to drift to the wide abyssal plain kilometers below to become a ghostly thriving ecosystem in a desert of ooze and mud. There was no salute to the loss of the mighty foe, in the eyes of the Rebellion, Orlang Dubloon had no honour, and the last of it’s Adiabat cargo was felled by the bursting fire of a flak-hog from the Victory without ceremony.
The battle was over. Smoke drifted over the cold waves and the acrid smell of fireworks, bakeron radiation and burning hedgehog lingered for many days after the last of the debris and corpses of the fallen had sank beneath the waves. There was no thrill of victory, despite the fact that the true naval powers were still very much the Crustacean Alliance and the Moose Rebellion, the Elephant Remnant was gathering strength. Attacks like this were becoming more frequent, and more costly with each passing moment.
That had been twelve hours ago, and now, even though the fleet was dispersed and enroute to their respective home ports and patrol routes, the flotsam of war was still floating, burning, over the battle zone – providing an apt but brief home for a Portuguese Man of War and a filming location for a group of pirate video retailers. Now crusing slowly away from the battlezone amidst the hidden pink and yellow battenbergs, the Bon Homme Rhapsody had repaired most of it’s battle damage and was returning to the home port entered via the swirling maw of the Corryveckan off the Island of Jura. Unbeknownst to the natives raiding tankers full of whisky nearby, the whirlpool was a disguise of Moose Rebellion science and theatre props departments, and through the portal, the lilos-of-the-line of the North Atlantic fleet passed into the shipyards of Jura.
Captain Nyriad was deep in thought in her quarters. Every now and again, her reverie would be interrupted by a dull thud and a following situation report from her executive officer as battenbergs were intercepted and destroyed by light puncannon fire from the moose lining the bow. Her quarters were deep in the bowels of the ship, in what had been a trade-off between her and one of the engineers. Somewhere behind the bridge tower, a small haggis from the night-shift maintenance crew quietly developed agarophobia as they found themselves absolutely unable to fill the colossal space available to command level quarters. She found the smaller quarters to be more comforting, and the rhythmic pulse of the engines was a noise that became part of her dreams as she slept. She roused her self and smoothed back her feathers, applied a hint of beak-gloss and began to hunt around for her uniform as the time for her duty shift drew near. She was one of the rare breed of penguins which had been born without the genetic abnormality which gave them the biological imbalances which imparted the secrets of highly efficient ballistics and a yield of several megatons, and was one of the even rarer penguins who had not let this absence stand in the way of their service to the Moose Rebellion. She had worked hard, and the absence of the highly destructive genetics had opened a pathway to strategic decision making, quooting elocution and had lead to her assignment to the Bon Homme Rhapsody, originally as the executive officer to Captian Le’Thanos. Le’Thanos had been killed several years ago in a sneak attack by a mariachi group operating in the Sea of Japan, and the body of the infamous giraffe captain had been commended to the waters where his skeleton would scare passing crustaceans for years to come. Nyriad had then led the fourth of the Caribou carriers through many battles and had come out triumphant, the ship was her home, and the crew were her family, in as much as they occasionally gave lousy x-moose presents and persistently told all and sundry embarrassing stories about her at the Naval functions.
The uniform had turned out to be at the bottom of the recess she had been sitting in, just under the cup of coffee she had been keeping warm in preparation for the watch. She tutted to herself and smoothed out the creases as best she could, most of them would wrinkle out when she slid herself along the floor anyway. The good thing about being a penguin was that a lot of the time, you were your own ironing board. She checked the ships chronometer, damn. She was going to be late for the shift. She downed the coffee, grimacing as the hot liquid burned the back of her throat, and threw herself out of the door on her belly. Whilst waddling is a lot more dignified, and looks much better on parade, the penguin slide is much more functional for emergency situations. Nyriad had been a roommate of Quoot Router, one of the members of the rapid urban reaction force, a cavalry of penguins on specially designed skateboards which could carry hedgehogs and equipment into a dangerous situation virtually undetected, and he had taught her much about the art of sliding in a hurry.
As she slid along the corridor to the access lift, her executive officer came over the intercom.
“Attention all decks, this is conn. sweepscan, we’re almost clear of the hazard area, we see two little silhouettes of the ‘bergs, and aerial recon squadrons have been dispatched to sweep the way ahead. Personnel are to remain at battlestations until we reach the channel of the maw. Conn. sweepscan out.”
The channel of the maw was a clear path swept by patrol lilos and aerial forces out of Corryveckan Naval Base, and no lobster or elephant forces could come within striking distance of the path without triggering alarms across every relay station in Scotland.
Nyriad slid towards the bridge door, righting herself to a more captainlike waddle as she entered. [/size]
