Real men don't even use tents! :P Which means, of course, that I am not a Real Manô.
If a full on RV is cheating, what about a pop-up camper?
So, that time I went backpacking with my family the other weekend? I didn't set up my tent fully - just like crawled into it without putting up the poles. When I woke up, I was covered in slugs.
...Would not recommend.
First of a couple of little vignettes aimed at wrapping up the RP Leonism and I have been engaging in, focusing on the Loftegen 2 side.
The street in front of the Altenburg Grand Hotel
2nd Lt. Beka Hamlin, seated on the edge of a large concrete planter, surveyed the scene around her and shuddered. She'd seen combat in Brazilistan, but that had been amongst ramshackle mud huts and tin roofed shacks, and hadn't been anywhere near as intense as what she had just gone through. The NLOers had barricaded themselves on the third floor of the Owens Financial Group building and fought to the last. Every single one of them had been killed or wounded.
The survivors were now receiving care from the crews of the ambulances crowding the street, as were the wounded members of 3rd Platoon, the 1269th Sonderstaffel, and the civil militia. The dead were already on their way to the local morgue. Unfortunately that included two of her people: a squad leader who had thrown himself on a grenade to protect his men, and a grenadier who had chosen the wrong moment to cross an opening.
One of Marcus's men had been killed as well, a Quinturio named Klemperer. Beka didn't know the exact circumstances of the man's death, only that Marcus wasn't taking it very well. Which made perfect sense: she wasn't taking the deaths of her folks very well either. She found herself wondering if Imperial officers had a tradition of writing letters to the families of casualties?
Beka looked around. The street was like a movie set. A block away, everything was fine. Here there were burned out cars, debris littered the ground, and there were spent cartridge cases everywhere. In addition to the ambulances there were fire trucks, police cars, EOD vans, even an insurance agent arguing with a building owner about why the damage wasn't covered by his policy.
"Geht es dir gut?" Marcus asked as he sat down next to her. His expression was somewhere between numb and horrified. The blood soaking his uniform probably had something to do with that. Beka thought she could see little bits of someone's brain here and there as well.
"No better than you," Beka answered. "I have to write an after-action report, and account for our ammo expenditure, and recommend Sgt. Porter for a medal, and then call his wife and tell her he's dead." Her voice caught as she said the last. Marcus put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him. They both sobbed quietly.
War really was Hell.
Beer leader is exactly "still sore after lying on the ground camping 3 days ago" years old. Ugh. More beer.
This morning, a group of greatly pregnant mommies-to-be and their hefty hubbies are touring the palace. However, the Two Tubbies of Treadwellia are still asleep and unable to entertain guests. Well, They are asleep until Her Gravidity magically "tunes in" on all of the portly "preggies" toddling through the halls. Her Motherhood is in the middle of a rumbly snore that turns into a squeaky "HRM!" that wakes both Royal Roly-Polies when one of the visitors experiences a very potent kick in her tum-tum. Treadwellia's Fat Father yawns, barely opens an eye, takes to rubbing Her Bountifulness' belly, and then gives a few soft-spoken mmphs to persuade Her Fecundity back to sleep.
In the palace, the tour continues, tottering through the kitchens and dining room. Many tourists "Oooooh" and "Ahhhhh" at the sights. Many photos are snapped on cameras.