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Server time: 2018-05-25, 05:26

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306 h Bean Bandit

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  1. You can always resort to typical trench warfare where you lay the line yourself and use a system like the one i've posted below, it uses a hand crank system to generate the power if you're really into this so if you wanna do a land line system this way, you can, all you need are two copper cables and the proper "phones". Edit: I had to come back and add something, after a recollection of information. Using a pizoelectic system is actually how these phones work, what happens is when you speak into them it causes a disk to flex and create energy. The receiving ends pizoelectic speaker then flexes to create sounds. Was just falling asleep when I recalled. The crank just makes the receiving ends ringer go off. Hope this helps.
  2. UncleB

    The Riptide Collective

    Eyey, welcome bbqs!
  3. It had rained the day prior, the senses of the nose overwhelmed by the soft blanket of dew that had kissed the grass. The sacred ritual of the dew and grass had made the air sweet, like sugar on the tongue. A gust of chilling autumn wind rushes over him, caressing his body. His ears come to life, twitching in all directions as the trees about him shift and sway with the air. The silence was naturally unbearable, it caused the ears to buzz, then react in succession to ever small sound. Shifting his weight, he focuses his elbow onto his left leg, his leg dangling down the turret hatch of the T-72. A slur of coffee in a canteen cup is nestled beside him, the steam from it twirling in the wind like that of a beautiful ballerina. Picking up an oval of gingerbread with his right hand, he interrupts "her" peaceful dance, dunking the gingerbread into the coffee. He allows the gingerbread to intertwine with the coffee, making the gingerbread soft and malleable. Inserting the baked good into his mouth, he smiles to himself, the taste as sweet as the air around him. Beginning to hum a tune to himself, he is quickly interrupted by the bark of a radio below, he allows the chatter to pass. A light distant hum tickles his eardrums, he looks up and around himself to find the source. The sky had darkened and the sun nearly put to bed for a good nights rest. The distant hum approached aggressively, the source of the noise becoming ever so apparent. Two Mig-25 fighters streak across the sky, twinkling in the remaining light. Their movements similar to that of birds in play, one strictly following behind the other. "Now entering Chernarus." He jokingly whispers to himself, pretending as if he was a flight attendant informing passengers. Thinking to himself for a moment he wonders "By united nation standards and recognition, if I'm correct, we as well are already in Chernarus." He loosens the strap on his map case, resting the case where his elbow had kissed. Flipping open the leather case he traces his finger along the map to find their current location. After moments of observing the paper beneath the plastic he ex-hails. He closes the leather case, returning it to where it had rested previously under his arm. Taking a swig of the now cool coffee he observes the nearly set sun, the night beckons. Night carried on just as it had started, cool calm and quiet with soft winds to greet him, like routine of the earth. Another pair of jets drew near, this time coming from the direction of Chernarus, they hiss towards him. Slowly he crawls himself into the turret cabin of the tank, uncaring of the passing jets. As the jets pass over, a whistle trails behind, it echos into the cabin from the open hatch. His eyes widen, the tank shudders, the howl of an explosion bursts his eardrums. He awakes in a sweat. "Another bad dream..." He mumbles to himself.
  4. CF8FB48DDCF011D2CD5443B2FF02EFDD84E9FD5A

    "Its hard to have a stare down with sunglasses" 

  5. The light "pitter patter" of rain echos off the tin roof. A butane lamp dimly lights the room of a small shack. If you were outside you would see the hum of the glow creep through the window. The essence of it lingering like a kiss in the dark. Within the room sits a desk, an old chair resting inches before it. The sound of foot steps on wood echo and creep towards the chair. A broad shouldered man, the source of the noise, poses himself onto the chair. The chair gives out a grunt in reaction to the change in weight. Settled, the figure flicks a piece of paper and a pencil onto the desk. A strike of a lighter and the crackle of burning paper fills the atmosphere. The man ex-hails letting a ploom of smoke fill the room. He places the lighter upon the desk, it emits a light thud. His fingers drift across the paper eventually meeting the pencil beside it. Thinking to himself for a moment, his fingers kiss the pencil with question. Eventually They intertwine with the graphited stick, the tip greets the paper. He begins to write, his voice fills his head, speaking in his mother tongue as he composes words onto the page. "Дорогая сестра...." He writes in cursive. "Сколько времени прошло с тех пор, как я в последний раз писал вам?" "Месяцы?" "Может, лет?" "Тем не менее, я скучаю по тебе!" "Я не знаю, что тебе писать." "Я не знаю, что вас спросить." "На самом деле, я пишу это себе." "Я чувствую, что это заставляет меня чувствовать себя ближе к тебе." "Наша старая традиция." "Эти письма." He would take another deep in hail of his cigarette, using his free hand to support it. "Если бы это письмо могло дойти до вас, я бы задал те же вопросы, что и раньше." "Но я знаю правду, этого никогда не произойдет." "Тем не менее, я пишу это для себя, но все слова для вас." "Как вы, моя дорогая сестра и наша мать?" "как наша собака, Аня?" "Как твоя учеба?" A tear would roll down his face and pierce the fibers of the paper. "Любые новые парни, от которых мне нужно избавиться, как старые времена?" "Или, может быть, вы наконец нашли хороший?" His eyes clouded, he would use his free arm to wipe them. Resting his pencil onto the paper, he collapses his face into the palms of his hands. For moments he sits in silence nothing but the rain to greet the static in his head. Then, a sob. The nearly finished cigarette falls from his mouth colliding with the desk. The light it once emitted quickly diminishes upon impact. Strength within his arms fade as fatigue from despair takes over. His head would slump onto the desk, the edge of the paper now part of his pillow. He would drag his left hand down to the paper he rests upon, slowly sliding it from under his cheek. The paper sits inches before his eyes, he would run his fingers along the words he has wrote, slowly closing his eyes as his fingers trace the paper. "Спокойной ночи, сестра." He hushfully whimpers to the paper.
  6. @Jman14102 @Lyca @-Chow- @TheEvilFlea @Honeybee @Shepard @KainHad a lot of fun with you guys tonight, its been a while since I've had to do something "tense" and on the spot in terms of text RP, I hope I can continue to assist your characters. cant stress the fun I had!
  7. UncleB

    The Riptide Collective Media Thread

    Sight seeing with mama-T @Taryn and little punk boy Pavel @-Chow-
  8. Ooggy boogy lemon snoogy 

  9. UncleB

    Ask the LMs about the Lore!

    Personally, I would enjoy that very much if you did make the transition to the more advanced oblast layout, along with the road maps. As "official" as the three oblast only lay out is, the more advanced road map and oblast layout seems to suit your lore threads more(hence why I asked). As well people like myself who role play going out of south zagoria can give more precise locations on where we went("I Followed the severno oblast border, till I hit the river that links severno to miroslav and the sea" .). I gladly will back your transition to the more advance oblast layout, it fits better.
  10. UncleB

    Ask the LMs about the Lore!

    Quick question, just trying to understand a bit more of chernaruses geography. are you going by this for the oblasts Or this.
  11. As long as borris stays alive and breathing, you and I both know i'll keep making depersonalized chapters. Thanks for the support, I really appreciate it!
  12. *He shakes his head in confusion to himself, then begins to speak in his Russian accented English.* "I'm sorry other listener, I don't recognize your voice, perhaps you are mistaken with another boris?" *He pauses,taking a moment to think then begins to speak in Russian* "Что касается вас, Наталья" ("As to you Natalya") "Я пошлю тебе привет." "Я делаю эту частоту общения!" "Я буду слушать на рассвете каждую ночь." "ожидая ваших слов, как мы сейчас!" "Спокойной ночи, Наталья!" "сестра?"He says with a drag. ("I will send your regards to pavel.") ("I'm making this our contact frequency!") ("I will listen at dawn every night awaiting your words, as we are now!") ("Good night Natalya!") ( "sister?" ) *He listens for any last minute input, observing the setting sun on the horizon.* *his cigarette has burned out in the crook of his mouth* >Borris would listen to any brief Replies to come over the radio, anything else would be disregarded till the proceeding dawn. below is an afterward. *Borris would flick the burnt out cigarette from his mouth, making leave for the cellar he squats within.* *The last things heard over the radio from him would be the clatter of boots on concrete and the echoing moans of a man in pain* -the radio waves would go silent-