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    [size=8]His name was Kaspar Fischer, and he was one of eighteen fighters accompanying the three big bombers on a sweep of destruction over the big industrial centre of the north-west (what was the name of the city? Kaspar couldn't remember- and, he supposed, it didn't matter much). From above he watched the bombs fall, and it was an awe-inspiring sight to see the shockwaves radiate out in perfect circles, reducing the orderly edges of walls and buildings to disorganized rubble. It was frightening, too, but he tried not to let himself be frightened. After his first flight, he'd realized that it didn't do any good.

    A crackle on the radio alerted him to enemy fighters on the horizon, and suddenly the bombers were not invincible machines of destruction but slow, vulnerable behemoths. And valuable targets. It was time for the fighters to do their job.

    Kaspar swung out to the side, away from the bombers, and saw the enemy fighters for a split second- at least twelve, at first glance, flying in menacingly perfect formation- before machine-gun fire erupted in the sky and the battle began in earnest. It was chaos. He hardly had time to breathe between dives and climbs, and hardly had a moment to fix his sights on an enemy plane and get off a quick machinegun burst before he was the one being fired upon. He slipped into fight mode without even realizing it; seventy years later, he might have said that it became like a video game, detached from the reality of death and destruction.

    Then an enemy fighter raked past, tearing a path of fire through his wing, and all of a sudden everything was real again. He screamed and pulled up on the control column; the body of the plane shuddered, and in that split second of vulnerability another burst tore into the nose, bullets ricocheting at angles off the glass in front of him and leaving a spiderweb of cracks. The engine screamed, the control column locked in his hands, and the sky turned upside down.

    He was going down.

    Gritting his teeth, fighting panic, Kaspar remembered Karl's words: get out of the spin. Then bail out. He pulled back on the control column with all his strength, and slowly- ever so slowly- the horizon stopped turning. He saw the countryside laid out beneath him in a patchwork of green and brown, the ground looming closer- then he reached beneath his seat and pulled the eject. Nothing happened.

    "Scheisse!" he exclaimed, returning his full attention to the controls. The plane was just barely under his control, tilting wildly upon its axis, trailing a streamer of black smoke across the blue sky. He was going to have to land it in one of those fields- and he had less than five thousand feet to correct his angle, or he'd be killed on impact. He pulled back- the damaged wing shook violently and for a moment he thought for sure he'd lose it, but it held steady. He was still going much too fast- the ground was rushing up at him- he could see the individual blades of grass--

    And then he was half-laying, half-sitting, crumpled against the instrument panel. His head hurt; the sun streaming through the shattered glass seemed much too bright, and he didn't want to move. He'd heard enough horror stories about what happened to pilots who went down in enemy territory. But I'm alive, he thought in wonder. That's something.

    With a groan Kaspar raised his head and pulled the window-release handle. The air that came streaming in might have been sweet were it not for the stench of smoke and oil. With the other hand he extricated himself from the belts. Then, on shaking legs, he climbed out, stepped onto the grass and blinked in the sunlight, one hand against the body of the plane for support. In front of him, the green pasture stretched away; beyond it, the farmhouse seemed very small and distant. Above him, a black plume of smoke drifted lazily into the clear blue sky; the plane had torn a deep furrow into the dirt behind it. The wing that had been damaged was now completely crumpled in on itself, as was the nose.

    He thought he could probably walk to that farmhouse- but he certainly wouldn't find a friendly reception there. His situation was not good. Something blurred his vision; he wiped his hand across his forehead and found it covered with red. He looked down, saw the blood running down his neck and soaking into the collar of his jumpsuit, and shut his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

    He fell back against the plane and slumped into a half-sitting position, gritting his teeth in a vain effort to fight off the wall of blackness that fell over him.


    PLOT;; pretty simple; my character is a German fighter pilot in the Second World War who crash-lands his plane in northwest England, behind enemy lines. But there's a twist; he's actually landed in the modern day, in the year 2016, where he is found by your character- someone around his own age who lives on the farm whose field he's crashed in. That's all the guidelines I have for your character- everything else is up to you! Don't let the darker tone of this first post fool you- this'll probably be a pretty fluffy romantic comedy style roleplay with lots of cute misunderstandings and stuff like that.

    Please only join if you're an advanced roleplayer- as long as your posts can at least match mine in terms of length, I'll be satisfied (and as long as you can write well and your character isn't a mary sue!). Please don't track unless you're planning to get your reply up within a few hours at most, and please don't post saying "can I join"- I'll answer that question right now. Yes, you can join.

    I don't have a faceclaim for Kaspar, but you can picture him: he's a skinny eighteen-year-old, 6'2" and 150 lbs, very German face, more cute than handsome, innocent-looking, longish curly blond hair, big blue eyes. His plane looks like this:

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    [fancypost=background: transparent; font-family: verdana; color: #A0B0A8; font-size: 10px; width: 500px; text-align: justify;]Nothing ever happened around the farmhouse. For the past year, Eames began showing signs of discontent with how monotonous life at the farm could be. Like anyone his age, he longed for adventure, yearned to explore the world in ways nobody before him had done. Of course, the reception differed between people when he spoke of the lavish plans, traditionally making him into a form of unimaginable eccentric who got over his own head.

    Steadily, the farmhouse grew to resemble a sort of confinement, by a thin margin more luxurious than some alternatives. It was slowly suffocating him, only prompting the unseemly ideas that crossed his mind. Already they were becoming achingly more frequent as they were surreal.

    Nonetheless, he was aware numbly that the likelihood of achieving any of his dreams were being worn down, unable to withstand the test of time and colder reality. That weren't to say that he entirely hated his own home, for he still recognized it as a place closest to him in memory and thought. Never having discovered much past it, it was difficult to think otherwise. He remained subconsciously drawn to the simple life it provided. The surroundings an eternal calm with the delicate smell of what could only be defined as nature itself woven into the air, uncultivated land stretching in an impressive radius around them. It was solitary and soaked in a desirable sense of peace.

    Provided until work had to be done, turning the household into resemblance of mayhem. The sun looked down at the area, a welcomed change to what British weather could be. Even if it could prove advantageous with the rain, being constantly stuck in a gloomy and unwelcoming outside could become exhausting. Hurriedly deciding to use the weather to their own favour, his mother didn't hesitate to throw him out of the door, speaking of work still to be done and the lack of acknowledgement of the better change.

    That being said, she never actually left him with any form of a task or chore to complete. Simply strew him outdoors like a cat that was beginning to toy on her nerves.

    Hands shoved into his pockets, he cast a glance at the doors that now stood closed as a sign for him not to return before he did what he's been told. Granted that being nothing in particular but he wasn't the one to argue, especially with closed doors. His posture slouched while he surveyed the somewhat empty lands in a search for anything to do. Proving to be fruitless, he abandoned the vain attempt rather quickly and began to make his way across unevenly cut grass. Beneath his feet, the ground was still soft and damp, easily recognizable as a thin layer of mud that in the short distance and time began to cake his shoes.

    Eames sighed. The sound was soft and carried away by the wind, failing to make an impact on an otherwise indifferent stretch of land. He moved on across wavering ground, forced to test some steps more so than others not to sink his foot too deep into the earth. Thus, the walk would take longer than anticipated. Perhaps enough so that he wouldn't be forced to go far before being able to swivel around, back in the direction of the farmhouse which was equally as uneventful but in the least a percentage warmer.

    Lost in thought, momentarily the event taking place in front of him hardly recorded in his mind. His muscles froze, halting him mid-step and refusing to budge. Similarly, overpowered by shock, his eyes grew wide, to an almost comical degree with only a thin colour was visible outside sheer blackness of his pupil.

    The unsavoury opinion that he held of the place would be squandered in a way too sudden to initial comprehend. He watched, awe-struck, as the strange shape burst through the clouds and crashed further from where he stood.

    Soon, without much thought, his feet began to carry him in the direction, far from difficult to find from the tall columns of dark smoke that began to climb into the somewhat clear day's sky. The patter of his footsteps sounded exaggeratedly loud in the vast openness of the pasture, carrying him nimbly toward the crash site with child-like curiosity. This couldn't possibly be happening. Not here. And yet, the closer he got, the more his certainty grew that this was as real as anything else.

    Eventually he was able to slow down and draw to a halt, looking much more disheveled than what he looked a couple of meters from the farmhouse itself, his hair tousled by the cool air as he cut through the grass that caught onto his pants, staining them with its gentle hue of green and darkening the material where water absorbed through. He studied the plane momentarily, scowling in setting confusion. The plane didn't look old -- although it did look like an old, giant kicked in tin can -- but the symbols painted over its surface were. The black swastika painted on the tail caught his attention the most, in spite of the scratched and damaged surface it belonged to.

    It looked like something taken straight out of the previous century, like what they'd show in museums simply lacking in the rust that would now be the most distinguishable feature on such a vessel. Eames tried to convince himself that he was dreaming. Truly tried since some part of him simply refused to concede to the thought this was happening. He was taught about planes like these, the ones that would belong to the fighters, about the people that would someday had flown in them in hopes of victory for their own country's glory back when the Second World War was still in its violent continuity. Both his school would speak elaborately about the topic, as well as his father who took pleasure in passing his knowledge of the past onto his only son, where he'd always listen carefully and intently to everything being said. Studying history, however, was by far unalike experiencing something as such.

    Walking around the plane, a gasp caught in his throat noticing a figure balanced against it. Shock returned to his body like a wave would roll back onto the shore and he hesitated to come closer. The pilot, presumably, looked in a state not much better than his own plane, causing nauseating concern to replace the initial surprise at the sight.

    Swallowing any of the emotion down, he trailed closer, reaching the side of the man that didn't really look much older than he would look himself. "Oh God," he whispered to himself, reluctant to come too close in case the pilot was conscious and would attempt to fight back. He forced away panic, shifting awkwardly. "Bloody hell. Hello? A-Are you alright? That's a stupid question, um, never mind that." He scolded himself with all the stuttering idiocy that he could apparently muster. "I'll go get some help." For the time being, he had no idea if he was even talking to anyone besides himself, but hearing his voice only slightly touched by what was happening was somewhat working to ease his nerves.

    He began to lift himself back to his feet, unsure of how to proceed but conscious of the fact that the pilot, like anyone in a somewhat similar situation, would need someone to tend to the external wounds. Catching on the thought, he grew jittery again with thoughts of internal injuries and somehow through not being able to help leading to the other's demise, deeming him a little above useless.

    -- tracking!! i love the idea ajhsj
    i'll get a reply going in another hour or so c:

    ;; done! i got a bit carried away and whatnot
    hopefully this works for you!
    gaha first posts are my worst enemy tho