Khador is not a gentle land, the North swathed in snow for most of the year and the Southern borders ever ragged with the press of war. But it's people are strong, presenting a stoic jaw and firm resolve to all of the hardships that Immoren heaps upon them. But the Khards are proud also... perhaps too proud.
For the glory of the Motherland, all men and women of age must serve. It is this that brings strength to her armies and allows the machine to roll Southward in conquest. Those that are left behind, the weak, the crippled and the old do as they must to endure... but sometimes pride stands before reason.
Such is the case in Pokhva in Khador's south. Near to the Ordish border and on the fringes of the Thornwood forest, the agrarian community lives to serve - literally feeding the Motherland's war machine. But times of late have brought ill...
Strained as they are with the Cygnaran war continuing to rage - the border grows porous and filth finds it's way through. The Thornwood grows both ominously quiet and at the same time screams with depraved rage. But for too long the Soviet of Pokhva remained unbowed, beliving this merely another hardship that must be cast off to show that they remain strong.
But then Srodnik Petravik was taken... plucked without word from the heart of their community. Back finally broken, the Soviet called for aid... but who would answer? - who would risk life and limb for the fate of a simple rural town?...
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Sasha stands silently observing his home town. The years have been hard but his father trained him well. Scars of distant battle mark his body beneath the heavy armor of an Iron Fang. Although his rank is symbolically covered to denote his current status, it is clear he is an officer trainee.
Returned now to find out his fathers fate the determined set of his shoulders as he marches down the hill would give any who knew him before pause.
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Inside of the Traktir Kol’tsa a bull-necked trollkin holds council at a large table by the glowing hearth. His battered equipment and rough shod attire clearly mark him as an outdoorsman, perhaps hailing from the Thornwood. His battered and marked features shrouded in сигара smoke further mark him as a scrapper, no stranger to brawls nor battles.
Seated before him several hard bitten locals contribute to the growing number of upturned shorts of wodka upon the table. As they do tales of fiery valour and songs of cold love are regaled by the mighty trollkin in hard accented Khandorian, whilst retorts and banter are met with booming laughter.
Hung over the back of his creaking chair is a pack holding worn equipment and a Kossite crossbow. In one heavy hand the trollkin presents an amber coloured bottle of potent Kriel uiske. The other taps the leather bound handle of his heavy warhammer with a grin.
”Óengus Mac Gairm” he calls himself.
“Gus” tae my frien..."
Cracking his slab neck with a wry grin the trollkin shouts towards the youthful inn-keep;
"Erika! Mair Wodka if ye will please lassie, ye Soviets are thirstier than a pack o’ pyg trolls! HAR!”
Sitting quietly in the back of the rough tavern, Milo watches the trollkin drink glass after glass of the hideous drink called Wodka. A cup of the vile stuff sits before him, hardly touched. He adjusts his 'borrowed' cloths and slouches further into the gloom as more people enter the commons room. A hand on his pistol, he keeps a very low profile. It has been three weeks since he crossed the border into Khador. The last two days has been spent in this fly-speck of a village, listening to the locals complain about their hardships and some sort of 'difficulty' coming from the nearby forest.
For now, he will lie low and keep to himself until things die down and he can try to decide what to do about the CRS.
The day grows long in the tooth as you find your way into the Grand Ploshchad. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the well at the plaza's core - a defunct Berzerker warjack that has been mechanized to pump water from an underground spring and feed the well. The patriotic might suggest it is a metaphor for the success of Khador's armies allowing the fruits of the earth to be plundered... but in truth it is merely born of pragmatism and a desire to salve thirst.
Scanning the spartan shopfronts and buildings that circle the open area, you find the Traktir Kol’tsa at one side. It was here that you have been bid, by either desire for a paycheck - or the need to discern what foulness has beset the village of Pokhva. You are not challenged by man or beast as you make your way across the cobbles... the work day is not yet done, and so the hard working comrades of Pokhva are yet to converge upon the area. The man you spoke with Comrade Bekhterev bid you attend the meeting of the Soviet tonight - where opportunities would be laid out and offers made.
The Traktir is a simple stone building with a few wooden shuttered windows and a heavy oaken door that lies open. Within you see the warm glow of alchemical lights, occasionally stuttering and creating a somewhat ominous display. Entering the room you see Erika Ostrovsky behind the bar drying glasses, but no other souls are yet in attendance. She gives you a warm but distant smile and indicates a couple of corner tables with her chin. It already groans under the weight of a clay pitcher filled with chilled pivo, a clear glass bottle of vodka, glasses, mugs and a large platter of flatbread with cheese and ham.
It would seem that you were both expected, and also have some time to spend before the Soviet meets. Perhaps you will have chance to see any others that would offer service and take their measure.
Sasha makes his way to the table, the weight of his armor seems little burden to the large man, though he is careful not to hit anything. Lening his shield and pike against the wall he sits so they are within reach, little good should it do him within the cramped quarters.
Taking some bread and cheese with ham but eschewing the alcohol for now, he waits for any others to find their seats.
Sasha gets a more friendly welcome as he enters and Erika glances behind him to confirm he's alone before sidling up for a whispered word "Watch yourself tonight Sasha... there's all sorts due to come." before she slips back to the bar before any others enter the Traktir.
A tall slight figure is framed in the last of the late afternoon light as he enters the Traktir Kol’tsa. Slowly and carefully he moves into the main room, walking with a slight limp. Eyes churning with the color of frozen seas tighten in the glow of the harsh alchemical lamps. Long snow white hair partially obscures a blue tinged porcelain face and the pair of tapering ears. The elf is garbed in odd armour; blue black leathers dotted with small studs of silvery white metal and a strange symbol upon the chest and pauldrons. The armour is very worn but carefully tended; leather freshly oiled and studs a deep lustrous shine.
Head glacially nodding in acknowledgement to the young woman, he pours a mug of the pivo and takes a small plate of food with him to sit on a bench along the wall opposite the bar.
Alcyr finds the eyes of the barmaid lingering upon him of occasion, demeanor not threatening or scared... but genuinely intrigued by the elf of the North. She does not move to approach though, maintaining a distance.
Kassilus sauntered into the bar like he owned the place. Though he got many stares as he entered, after all Iosan's were not common sights here. He, with a glance took in the vodka pounding Troll spawn, the weary armored soldier, and... wait. Was that one his barbaric, savage kin over there. Seeing more and more of them outside the north. Maybe they were finally getting some civilization...about time.
He then stepped to the bar and in a low voice full of vibrato ordered a simple ale. He gently placed his large carpet bag on the ground beside him, and seated himself on the barstool facing backwards, towards the open room.
Sasha nods.
"Thank you Erika."
Watching the others enter the soldier finishes his share of the meal before eyeing the open chairs around him.
I wonder how many are coming? And does Erika know anything of Father?
Erika considers a snide retort to the Iosan who asked for something that was freely available on a table in the corner... but held her tongue. She furnishes him with an ale wordlessly.
I did not write an introduction as Milo is trying to slip in undetected. I do not know if I need to roll anything to accomplish this or not.
Seeing everyone to cowardly to sit at the obviously prepared table, Kasslius approaches with a sneer, and sits down directly across from the troll spawn, and reaches to refill his glass.
As you wait disparate and singular, the traktir begins to slowly fill with the common folk of Pokhva. Craftsmen mainly, coming in as the sun dips below the horizon. They do not seek to warmly greet any but Sasha among you, and soon retire to ale and hearty soup served by Erika.
Also entering is a self-assured dwarf with well made leather armour and a rifle across his back. He swaggers into the room and sets a dismissive and critical eye on each of you in turn.
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary Sasha returns all greetings while anxiously awaiting the beginning of the meeting.
Many fighting men here. I wonder if they are worth it or will break like the mercenaries I knew?
Turning to the Trollkin, Sasha puts forth his hand.
"Well met. Many I saw like you on the field of battle, men of honor and courage. You say your name is...Gus?"
The pretty one is not worth my time but this one has the look of a brawler.
I was thinking it might be more a deception then sneak...as he is walking in with a group, not trying to hide he is there, but rather trying to blend in...hmmm..might be a bit of disguise as well thrown in. Sorry, not trying to be difficult, just not too sure what fits best.
For nearly a quarter of an hour the elf seems absorbed in eating the meager fare he brought with him from the table. He sets the plate down next to him and infrequently takes small sips from the mug. It is some time more before he notices the barkeep's furtive glances. He stares back at her for several long moments before owlishly blinking and rolling his eyes over the other occupants of the room. His scan comes back to the young female human and stops. His look is simultaneously centered on two points; one somewhere between he and she, the other thousands of miles to the north.
Detection
Kassilus notices the dwarf and meets his gaze without expression. His eyes then dart to the doorway, and his eyebrow rises just a bit.
The burly trollkin turns from his table of wodka and flashes a toothy grin as he meets Sasha's hand with his own paw;
"Óengus Mac Gairm... Indeed frien... Gus'll dae nicely..."
The scrapper drags his chair closer towards the armoured warrior and the strange assembly of folk around him.
"... ye lookit like a fichter yersel my frien... Fit be yer name, and those o' yer companions?"
Looking at the depleted stock of wodka around them, the bull-necked Óengus winks and whispers in a voice rough like gravel;
"Dinnae worry lads I've a wee dram o' the "good stuff" fae the auld country in my sporran... enough fer one an aw..."
As the door opens to let the dwarf enter, Milo notices the others waiting outside, and his brow goes down in concentration. He decides to keep his eye on this dwarf and those waiting outside. He also look for a back entrance to this building, and maps his way out it.
"I am Sasha. Sasha Petravik, Мла́дший лейтена́нт in Iron Fangs. I am not known to these others, I am from this town. I seek my father here. What brings you to my home?"
Kassilus' gaze is met evenly before the dwarf chuckles and shakes his head gently. The self-assured dwarf then moves to take a seat at one of the empty tables, slumping into his seat with a casual look of boredom.
Another group that aren't locals arrive soon after - a trio of Gobbers with fire scorched and tatty equipment. All three have pistols at their side, and you notice the telltale gas mask of an alchemist with one, and the runic markings of the arcane on another's pistol. They chatter among each other in their native tongue before taking bread, cheese and ale to eat messily at the same table as the dwarf. Given the look of palpable disdain on the dwarf's face though... it's clear they aren't friends.
The common room is now filling further with the common folk of the village, though the long trestle table that the Soviet sits at remains bare. The low rumble of idle talk fills the air and the sharp tang of cheap tobacco also as pipes are lit by some.
When Alcyr meets the barmaid's eyes, the lass quickly looks away before shivering as though a suddenly drenched with ice water. She moves away from the bar to tend a couple of coal burning stoves in the kitchen that bear more hardy fare cooking slowly upon them.
A tall pale man walks in. He wears armor that nearly doubles his size. It is the color of graphite and prominently displays the symbol of Cygnar on the pauldrons.The integrated greatcoat is high quality leather and well oiled. The armor bears arcane symbols giving it away as a telltale mechanikal suit. The sword slung on his waist is similarly engravedvwith mechanikal runes. A small trail of grey smoke and steam trails out of a small valve on his back. He looks around, dismayed at the density at which the patrons are already packed. He looks for an empty stool and sits there, orders some hearty food and some grain alcohol.
Milo continues to look over the crowd, marking those individuals who seem to stick out from the locals.
What the heck are all these people doing here? They certainly cannot all be looking for me...can they?
Sasha starts when he notices the markings on Alcyr. Knowing no true son of Khador would touch his weaponry without permission but loathe to leave his pike and shield out of sight with so many strangers around, he moves a chair out from the table and motions towards the Nyss to sit.
Oengus sniffs the air appreciatively as baccy smoke wafts his way. He nods towards the assembled strangers seated with him;
"'cuse me a wee minute lads... Need tae drum up a light..."
The trollkin packs a large clay pipe with baccy and draws his bulk up to seek out a spark from a fellow smoker.
A tall pale man walks in. He wears armor that nearly doubles his size. It is the color of graphite. The integrated greatcoat is high quality leather and well oiled. The armor bears arcane symbols giving it away as a telltale mechanikal suit. The sword slung on his waist is similarly engravedvwith mechanikal runes. A small trail of grey smoke and steam trails out of a small valve on his back. He looks around, dismayed at the density at which the patrons are already packed. He looks for an empty stool and sits there, orders some hearty food and some grain alcohol.
The arrival of a warcaster brings out stares both curious and warding as Mulheer enters the room. The hubbub of conversation dims to quiet for a span of seconds before resuming along it's original cant.
The arrival of villagers ebbs out to nothing, and it occurs that the only table left unfilled is that of the Soviet's. Dark has descended outside and only the warmth of the alchemical lights keeps the cold of the night air out of the traktir. The smoke in the air thickens, ably assisted by the Trollkin's fist sized pipe bulb.
It is then that the Soviet makes their entrance, the elder statesmen and women of Pokhva walking with surety and purpose into the Traktir Kol'sta. One by one they enter and offer nods of greeting to the townsfolk before moving to take their place at the trestle table that has been left clear for them. Ten khards (two female and eight male) as well as a solitary dwarven woman... Six living from the fruit of the land and the other four children of industrial or scholarly pursuit.
However when only eleven enter to fill the twelve chairs... the mood of the room grows dark and quiet. Mutterings germinate in the corners before sprouting to rumour and imaginations are let run into the void.
The chatter is short lived though, as one of men of the Soviet stands and slams an open palm into the table with a crack. A world weary expression lies on a face half hidden behind a bushy mustache "Peace comrades... talk will be made, answers given and questions asked... In time" before gesturing to Erika, who approaches with a platter bearing a bottle of vodka and twelve small glasses.
Sasha moves a chair out from the table and motions towards the Nyss to sit.
The slight of frame arctic elf pulls himself to his feet and carefully limps his way over to the proffered chair. He barely inclines his head to the Iron Fang in acknoledgment before beginning to lower himself into his new seat. Sitting heavily, as though the weight of years rest upon his shoulders, Alcyr lays his arm on the table and quietly sighs.
Milo watches the proceedings with some interest. While his studies told him of such meetings, this is the first one he has even seen. He wonders what is wrong, that the whole council is here. Perhaps that is the reason for all the military-types hanging about....he hopes.
Kass relaxed a bit as familiar ceremony of 'recognize threat', 'gather resources', 'Plan response', and 'execute said plan', began to play out before him. He had been here before, in this same situation many times. The faces and names were different, but the results would be the same. And he would take part...he always did...he had a "Unique" set of skills.
With a quick toss of his hand, he swallowed the remainder of his ale, and waited for the specifics.
Oengus hunkers down with his pipe and rolls his thick shoulders in anticipation;
Ho-ho. Should be braw... Room fullae folkies normally spells oot a rammy... least does where I come fae...
Nodding at Alcyr as he sits, Sasha slides a plate of bread and cheese towards him, as well as some vodka.
"It is good to see you here, I would know more of it later."
************************
Watching the Soviet file in, Sasha's eyes narrow at the absence.
Now where is he?
Alcyr watches the band of humans enter the room and take their places.
Cephas consumes his meal ravenously. It isn't particularly delicious, but he had the feeling the honored guests would begin talking soon and it is rude to eat while another speaks. Then again, with a crowd like this, the talking might be done with bullets and blades. All the more reason to eat quickly.
"such a poor looking place... reminds me of home. The booze is tolerable, but this food could use some work. Have they even HEARD of spices?" Cephas thinks to himself.
The room suddenly became quiet for a few moments, and Cephas looked towards the door, expecting someone to enter. It was in this moment he heard the comforting whine of the conduit in his sword and the low rumble of the turbine in his suit.
Erika furnishes each of the Soviet with a glass full of vodka and with some hesitation also leaves a full glass at the empty seat at the table. She then retreats to the bar as the one who spoke before speaks again "Comrades, we drink to many things tonight. We drink to our motherland Khador, may her fields grow fat with wheat to fuel her people. We drink to Ayn Vanar, our Empress who stands atop our glorious nation. We drink for Menoth, the Lawgiver. To coal and smoke, that which signals the marching of our armies." and then he raises his glass and takes a sip, which is mirrored by the room. He then sits and a second man stands.
The second man is a lesser man... but more imposing and impressive for it. Clean shaven, though bearing a proud and almost regal countenance... an essence that is somehow underscored and enhanced by his crippling injuries. Though able to stand and command his left side to work, his right is a knotted mess of scar tissue and his right arm is missing below the elbow... at a guess you'd suspect that it was a liquid burning flame that ate away his flesh.
Continuing where the first left off, the second man continues in a strong, but rough voice "We drink for our Sem'ya, that they will not hunger. We drink for those that till earth, that their work will be rewarded. We drink for those who work in the Tri Kol'tsa, that spin cloth, mend mechanika and forge steel." taking another sip that is echoed around the room. He then sits and a third member of the Soviet stands.
The third is a woman, and the youngest of the soviet. She strains with pain as she stands and must grip the table to assist in keeping her footing. While some might call her beautiful, her pallor is faint and it is clear that she is beset by a great sickness.
She continues in a soft and halting voice "We drink for those that are at war, serving the motherland and hope that they drink also for us. We drink for those that lie sick, in the hope that they may rise again. And lastly, we drink for those that are not here that should be... those that are lost when they should not be." her eyes flicker both to Sasha in the crowd as well as to the empty seat at the trestle. She then drains the rest of the glass, coughing slightly afterwards, and the rest of the room drains theirs also.
Sasha follows, draining a small glass of vodka.
Now perhaps I will get answers.
With that he gazes about the room to see how the outsiders react to this ritual.
The Nyss hardly stirs at the entrance of the village elders. The first man's toast goes unheard. The second man's appearance leaves the elf of the north unfazed. His toast passes by without notice. The pale woman rises and still there is no reaction. Her words only seem to penetrate his fugue when she mentions those lying sick. With eyes so cold they freeze the tears that well up, he regards the sickly figure. At her cough his hand twitches, there is a faint flicker of light and a soft half murmur passes his lip before he blinks himself back to his surroundings. His head sinks back down and his eyes close to mere slits.
With the sudden speech breaking the quiet rather than an entrance, Cephas shifts his attention to the Soviet.
No stranger to drinking to ease the pain (an Ordite national passtime), Cephas drinks to all the toasts. He had rarely been on this side of the border, and definitely not this far past it, but he was seeing that life was tough for Khador, not just Ord.
At his seat the burly trollkin nods and matches the toasts with gusto, mulling the speeches as he does;
"Braw words... Strong words...
He eyes the toasting cup cradled in his large paw;
...an a damned tasty wee drop an' aw
Not being intentionally disrespectful...just not really caring, Kass drinks when he wishes, not when the worthless words are uttered. He has heard these rousing speeches, and toasts before, and determined that they usually mean a lot of good people are getting ready to die.