Name: Heinrich Zöhler, or just Heinrich
Have You Been a Admin or Mod on A Different Site?: Most definitely! Here are just a few URLs of active sites that I'm an administrator/moderator on.
islandinvasion.proboards107.com (Baron Karl von Fuchs)
s4.invisionfree.com/corsairs (Wing Pikepaw)
wildcatslegacy2.proboards76.com (Le Sabre)
Co-Admin Or Mod?:Co-Administrator, if possible, though I wouldn't say no to moderator if the need arose.
Why shoule we choose you?:I'm an experienced roleplayer and started playing nearly four years ago now. In addition, writing is my passion: I practice my favorite art nearly every day and read voraciously whenever possible. Great fun. On The Outsiders, I'm online nearly every day, usually respond to threads fairly promptly, and enjoy interacting with the wide variety of members. You're all so interesting here!
I've had much experience using forums and have in the past used Invisionfree, Proboards, Conforums, and EZBoards (don't try that one--bad hosting) to great success, though I am most adept at Invisionfree and Proboards. My familiarity with the Proboards administrating powers/rules is recent and accurate seeing as I currently administrate/moderate on three Proboards forums, and I'm particularly good at making new skins and working with graphic design, which I take in school.
A Sample Post:[OOC] Though I hope you're judging from quality, not quantity, I'm happy to provide a relatively long one--I'll keep it limited though since if I was to go as far as possible you'd have several hundred pages, which is evident in my two novels currently in process.
This is not actually an RP post: it's an excerpt from my largest novel, tenatively entitled
109, and is about Heinrich's escapades as a British POW in the early stages of WWII. However, it is told in the first person and could actually be used in an RP if the situation arose. Please let me know if this is all right: if not, I'd be happy to change it. Be warned there's a bit of language in it: this, also, can be changed, but it's not terribly bad.
[BIC] “Get through the d.amn line, boys!” yelled Oberleutnant Verhoff frantically as he broke off his attack on the Spitfire, spiraling downwards in order to fall back and rejoin the group as his damaged enemy struggled to retain its height, wobbling as the pilot fought the controls while his loosened left flaps banged wildly in the slipstream. I gritted my teeth as I lined up another fighter in my sights, flicking the firing knob into the correct position before sending off a furious burst. The Spitfire swerved easily within his formation, not giving an inch as he calmly returned the fire. It was so easy for these Englishmen now, holding a simple line in order to prevent our bomber escort from passing while our now-ragged squadron of Messerschmitts attempted to break past. Move yourselves, b.astards!
As I banked to avoid the spray of bullets, I heard the telltale patter on my tail and swore. My friend Erich Schneider, who had climbed above to get a few shots in at the Spits’ c.ockpits, asked anxiously, “Alright there, Zöhler?”
“I’m fine, Erich,” I said distractedly as I edged closer to the same British fighter at an attempt at revenge, ignoring the frantic calls emitting from my headset and focusing on his voice alone as I had learned to do over the course of several years in the Luftwaffe. “Just a bit banged up in the tail, I think. No problems.”
“You’re not leaking,” he reported assuredly before making another short charge at the formation. After being thoroughly reprimanded for his folly, he did a full turn and circled back to his original position above me, gasping, “Godd.amn, they’re good! We’re never going to get past there!”
“Enough, idiot!” came the crackle of the annoyed Oberleutnant’s voice through my headset. After a moment’s silence in which he was clearly trying to recognize the voice, he groaned, “That better have not been you again, Schneider the pessimist, or you’re going to be in serious trouble when we land—”
“No, sir,” Erich said quickly. I tuned their argument out, focusing on that same Spitfire. I could see the outline of the pilot’s helmet from here, could see his hand reach up to adjust his radio in order to better be heard. I was so close! Allowing myself to drop slightly so he would be exposed to Erich’s sniping if he nosed downwards to fire at me, I aimed for the underbelly and wings as I passed beneath him, corkscrewing my ME 109 onto its back for a last parting shot at the tail before pulling up. Bullets assailed my plane furiously, and my head lurched forward as a slug flattened itself between the canopy and the steel rim around it with a violent jolt.
“Dammit!” I swore again, rolling to dodge two Spitfires flying wingtip to wingtip that were charging aggressively at me. That had been a stupid mistake: I was now in the heart of the enemy itself with nowhere to go except down, under, and back, which would most likely shred my fighter as I fled to the relative safety of my squadron. “Erich, Armin!” I shouted into my radio, naming the first two people that came to mind. “I could use an escort out of here!”
“You brought this on yourself, Zöhler—I mean, sir,” grumbled Armin Falck, a lean, dark-haired man with narrow features and a fondness for thin Russian cigarettes who nonetheless was a friend and old comrade, albeit an ill-tempered one. I had heard that he used to be different once, but then he had been assigned to the Russian front…well, we had all been there, but Russia changes people in a variety of ways. Armin hadn’t had an easy time of it—he’d been a POW in a brutal Russian outpost and had lost two of his toes to frostbite when escaping. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his Messerschmitt gracefully ease itself out of our escort formation, its boldly painted red “eyes” near the c.ockpit glaring balefully at me in a manner that reminded me of their artist. Armin expertly crippled the nearest Spit with heavy fire as a distraction while Erich slipped underneath the wounded fighter’s belly and sped over to me, spraying a wide web of bullets towards my relentless attackers as I forged my way through the makeshift path he had bullied his way through.
Avoiding Armin’s fire with relative simplicity, I abashedly took up my position in formation again. Oberleutnant Verhoff skimmed across my nose, shaking his head as he looked over at me. “It’s been a long time since you’ve done something that stupid, Zöhler,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir,” I grumbled, avoiding his pointed stare as he climbed to circle back over the group. I knew full well that I could be in his position right now if it weren’t for my reckless stunts—knowledge that he, too, possessed. I had been in the 56th Fighter Wing a year and a half longer than he had and knew my First Group better than most, but Verhoff’s practical, defensive way of flying better appealed to our commanding officer, Hauptmann Koall, and so he had been the one who had gained the promotion while I remained second lieutenant.
“All right then,” Verhoff’s voice came in through my headset, clearly now directed at the entire squadron. “Break formation and fly around so we can break theirs—the four of you closest to the heavies drop back and defend them at all costs until we get back. Call if you need help.”
Gladly, I shot my Messerschmitt forward along with the rest of the Wing, looping crazily around the lead Spitfire that I had damaged previously and getting off a few shots through my swirling sight, most of them going wide but a few probably hitting the mark. “Kähn, on your tail!” I called as a warning to the ME who had recently gained a shadow on my left. Knowing he had gotten my message, I concentrated on the maze of Spitfires and bullets all around me, crouching over the stick, poised, tense, on the edge of my seat as I navigated through the obstacles.
Suddenly, a flash of gray below me caught my eye: it was the enthusiastic new boy, Franz Brönnt. The idiot was plowing through the line right into the thick of things at top speed, not even bothering to drop up or down to get out of the channel of Spitfires. I shook my head, horrified: he was going to get eaten alive if he didn’t get out of there!
Oberleutnant Verhoff was throwing a fit inside his c.ockpit. “Brönnt, you idiot!” he howled, apparently pounding his control panel from the noises in the background. “Come back!”
But the boy disregarded the order: full of excitement and adrenaline, he was practically leaning on the firing button as he cut a path for himself. A loud whoop came over the radio as a white streak of coolant emerged from a Spit’s tail and the fighter plunged earthwards, failing engines screaming. After a moment, a white parachute appeared, hiding the explosion far below from view. Still, Brönnt was in grave danger: the furious British swarmed all over him in an attempt to cut him off, barreling down on him.
“Heinrich, go and bring his sorry carcass back!” growled Verhoff with exasperation, now out of my peripheral vision.
“Which one, sir?” I asked, already edging my ME into position, for there were two Heinrichs in the unit.
“You, Zöhler, you’re closest! Hurry up before the fool gets himself killed.”
Yanking on the stick, I sent my fighter rocketing upwards, gaining altitude before leveling myself off a good ways above the battle below. Angling myself so I was flying out of the sun, I dived suddenly, tongue between my teeth as I struggled to keep the machine straight. All guns blazing, I plunged into the mix of Spitfires and Messerschmitt, appearing to the British pilots simply out of nowhere as I leveled off with an unconscious demented grin, chasing off the fighters and temporarily keeping them out of our range.
“Let’s go!” I urged him, drumming my fingers impatiently on the firing knob.
Thinking like the idiot he was that I had come to help him out, Brönnt rattled off a few rounds, shaking his head from what I could see through his c.ockpit. “I can handle these, Leutnant! Go find your own Tommies!”
“Move, stupid!” I roared, swerving violently left so my wing almost brushed his ME. Startled, he banked, dropped and was instantly escorted away by the furious Oberleutnant. I rolled my eyes. I had let him become far too familiar with me for his own good.
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Steve is still gone on her trip, and I found out she is with Skyye. X.x (All friends in real life) But Sodapop has been kinda inactive (Sorry if it sounds rude) and we need more help with the site. If you would like to become a mod or admin please just fill the form out. 
