Twine Game

(align:"=><=")+(box:"=XXX=")[Content Warning: This story contains descriptions of violence, blood, and war. [[Continue->introcard]]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"=XXX=")[March, 1917] The war has not gone well for the Russian Empire. Initially making significant progress into Austro-Hungarian territory, Russia's crushing defeat at the battle of Tannenberg in 1914 heralded the swift German advance into Russia. The Empire had managed to hold onto a small fraction of its gains in Austria-Hungary at the cost of its hold on the Polish oblasts and over one million dead Russians, mostly peasants, their bodies left in their trenches like shallow graves. Now, almost three years later, nearly twice that amount lie dead. The Russian people are pessimistic. The idea of revolution has begun to smolder, threatening to burn Russia down from the inside out. Losses of farmland to the enemy and a famine had nearly halved Russian agricultural output, starving millions. The strained railroad network had turned necessary commodities into luxuries. Millions of Russian refugees flooded from German-occupied Russia into the cities that had not yet fallen to the Central Powers. Russia's economy, now blocked from the rest of the continental markets by the Central Powers, crashed. Inflation soared. Tsar Nicholas II has created a division that nothing short of a miracle could ever hope to repair. The flames have begun to rise. Germany now holds firm about forty miles outside of Minsk. Now, //Stavka//, the Russian Empire's high military command, plans to change this. The preliminary plans for Kerensky's Offensive and another, smaller offensive towards Vilnius have been laid and distributed to officers. This last-ditch effort to recover the possibility of victory is fragile, at best. Failure would certainly be the spark that fans the flames of revolution into a funeral pyre for the Russian Empire. (align:"=><=")+(box:"=XXX=")[[[Continue->C1P1]]]

You are a //frontovik//, a frontline infantryman. You were assigned to the First Army, but have recently been transferred to the Second Army. Your division has been allocated to reinforce the frontline outside of Minsk. (set: $nagant to true) (set: $hp to 10) (set: $mercy to 0) (set: $kills to 0) (set: $fear to 0) (set: $courage to 0) (align:"=><=")+(box:"=XXX=")[[[Continue->C1P2]]] Status: $hp/10

The afternoon air is brisk as the horse-drawn cart you're riding lopes towards its destination. The surrounding forest is quiet, with the sounds of nature disturbed only by the noise of an army column marching to its next battlefield. The trees are dense here, darkening the ground even with just their naked branches. You shiver, both from the cold and from the childhood memories of stories told of a child-eating witch who lived in woods like these, in a hut that stood atop chicken legs. You grip your Mosin-Nagant service rifle tightly as the memories of combat inrude, twisting the foreboding tales from childhood into a nightmarish horror of mud and blood. [[Clear your head->C1P3]] Status: $hp/10

You grimace and shake your head. The visions slowly fade. You lay back against the wall of the cart and close your eyes until the cart emerges from the forest, the meadow allowing sunlight and frigid wind to banish any hope of comfortable rest. Thankfully, the cart pulls to a stop next to the artillery line. Four 122mm howitzers sit next to small mountains of spent shells, gleaming in the spring sun. You hop out of the cart, shaking the feeling back into your limbs. You sling your rifle over your shoulder and make for the trenches with the rest of your division. The men report to the local officers, who hand out assignments to the squads. You and your squad are assigned immediately to the front lines, so the men there can return to the support lines. You and your squad make your way to a dugout, a cramped underground bunker which will be your home for the forseeable future. After a few minutes spent settling in, claiming bunks, and delaying the inevitable, you and the others leave for your assignments. [[Continue->C1Spawn]] Status: $hp/10

You jam your sheepskin //papakha// on your head, grab your rifle, and step into the cold afternoon. Your dugout is the last in a row. Ahead of you, there is a junction. There is a way ahead of you, and one that turns right. A wooden sign hangs at the corner, pointing to the passage on the right. It reads, "To the frontline" in faded white paint. The sign has probably seen more combat than you have. [[Go straight ahead->C1SpawnA1]] [[Go to the frontline->C1FL1]] Status: $hp/10

You find yourself outside another dugout. There are two armed guards flanking the door. The sign nailed over the entryway reads "Command Post." As you approach, one of the guards calls to you. "Sorry, you can't be here. Officers don't want any disturbances." [[Leave->C1SpawnAlt]] [[Ask why->C1SpawnA2]] Status: $hp/10

You turn down the passage to the frontline. The communication trenches branch out as they approach the frontlines. The zigzags, or traverses, as the sappers call them, are supposed to block enemy fire, to stop someone with a machine gun emptying an entire trench line in one magazine. To you, it just made the trenches even more claustrophobic. As you round the corner of one of the traverses, you're nearly knocked off your feet by two field medics carrying a stretcher. On top of the stretcher is another //frontovik// with a deep gash in his stomach. Two Gendarmes in light blue coats and feathered cuirassier helmets lead a third, dirty, ragged man away from the frontline in manacles. He hangs limp in their grasp as they literally haul him bodily away. [[Ask what's going on->C1FL1A1]] [[Continue onwards->C1FL2]] Status: $hp/10

"(text-colour:green)[Why's that?]" you ask, trying to peer into the dugout. The guard thinks for a moment, clearly weighing the consequences of divulging potentially classified information. He casts a glance about the trench, eying other passing soldiers. "Well," he whispers, leaning in closer. He smells of mud, old tobacco, and stale sweat. "I've heard //Stavka// might be planning somethin' big. Kerensky's been jostlin' for another offensive. He's still smarting from losing Lviv, you know. //Stavka// wasn't happy at all with losin' the largest city in western Ukraine. Very valuable target. They might be planning something similar out here, too. My money's on Grodno." The other guard speaks up. "Are you daft? Grodno? That's over a hundred miles away! Nah, we're goin' for Vilnius, you mark my words." "Will you shut up? We don't want the brass gettin' pissy with us. Anyways, you didn't hear this from me- uh, us. Now go on," the first guard replies, stepping back to his post and waving you away. The other guard shivers, focusing on looking as miserable as possible. [[Leave->C1SpawnAlt]] Status: $hp/10

You return to your dugout. Ahead of you, there is a junction. There is a way ahead of you, and one that turns right. A wooden sign hangs at the corner, pointing to the passage on the right. It reads, "To the frontline" in faded white paint. The sign has probably seen more combat than you have. [[Go straight ahead->C1SpawnA3]] [[Go to the frontline->C1FL1]] Status: $hp/10

You are back at the Command Post. The guard ignores you. It seems he has nothing else to say to you. [[Leave->C1SpawnAlt]] Status: $hp/10

The two Gendarmes stop. The one closest to you lifts an arm to stop you from getting closer. "(text-colour:green)[What's happening?]" you ask. "None of your business. Move along." The prisoner weakly lifts his head. He fixes you with a stare. His eyes are brown, but the light is missing from them. For a moment, you think you see recognition spark in his eyes, only to be swallowed by the abyss that is his pupils. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end, even under your coat. [[Stare back->C1FL1A2]] [[Leave->C1FL2]] Status: $hp/10

You arrive at the frontlines. Dirt is smeared over the wooden supports and frozen mud crackles under your boots as you step onto the duckboards. There are many more soldiers here, some milling about around makeshift tables and chairs, some sitting and chatting on the firesteps. Most peer cautiously over the sandbags on the wooden parapet. One soldier stands out from the rest. Many soldiers had lost weight with the famine, but this one is even skinnier than the others, looking as though someone had hung a //frontovik// uniform on a scarecrow. You recognize him from your division as Koshchey the Deathless. Despite his physical weakness, he always seemed to come back from every suicidal charge over the side. Bullets and artillery shells never found him. As such, the others called him Koshchey the Deathless, and the name stuck. Soon, his true name was forgotten, and for a moment you wonder if anyone ever knew his it. He sits on the firestep and greets you as you approach. [[Speak to Koshchey->C1FL3]] Status: $hp/10

When you don't move away, the Gendarme steps closer. His face is red, but you can't tell if that's from the wind or his anger. "//I said//, it's none of your business," he growls. You barely register him. Your heart pounds and bile rises in your throat. The prisoner keeps staring. His pupils have dilated. You can't distinguish his irises anymore, you're sure of it. His eyes are black. [[Stare->C1FL1A3]] [[//Leave//->C1FL2]] Status: $hp/10

The Gendarme draws himself up to his full height and balls his fist. He makes as if to strike you. The prisoner is still staring. He doesn't blink. He purses his lips, cracked and bloody, as if trying to speak. Panic claws at your throat. You don't know why, but the word his lips form inspires desperation in you. (text-colour:red)["''Warspite'',"] he whispers. (set: $metprisoner to true) [[//''Run.''//->C1FL1A4]] Status: $hp/10

You run. You sprint towards the frontline as if a pack of wolves is on your heels. There might as well be, as the fear inside of you screams at you to get away from that wild... thing. You hear the Gendarme laughing behind you, as if it was he who had driven you off. [[Continue->C1FL2]] Status: $hp/10

"Guard duty?" Koshchey asks. You nod. "(text-colour:green)[Yeah, what about you?]" Koshchey nods. "Yes, but I think your section could use tighter security, no?" Having someone to talk to would pass the time more easily. You agree, and Koshchey stands, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. As the two of you make your way to an empty stretch of the lines, you ask Koshchey about the wounded man, the prisoner, and the military police. Koshchey laughs nervously. "Must have been a misunderstanding, maybe? The crazy man was talking to the poor guy before he stabbed him. He suddenly stopped and took out his knife. It was like he was a whole different man." Koshchey stops and looks at you. "There is enough talk of death in this place. Let's let wounded men lie, hey?" He spits three times over his left shoulder. You agree, and the two of you continue. (if: $metprisoner is true)[Something twitches at the back of your mind, in that same place that screamed at you to run.] [[Continue->C1FL4]] (if: $metprisoner is true)[[[Ask about ''Warspite''->C1FL3B1]]] Status: $hp/10

The two of you arrive at your destination. You step onto the firestep and peer over the parapet. Afternoon sunlight glints off the snarls of barbed wire. Just over the prickly hedge, you see dead trees, mud, and shellholes, and a bloated corpse wearing what remains of a Wehrmacht uniform caught in one of the coils of wire. It lies near an opening in the wire, with a single, raw, red hole in its back. Despite your combat experience, you wrinkle your nose. No man's land is the same as it always has been. If church services included the desolation of no man's land as one of the circles of hell, your faith might have remained intact through the dead friends and agonizing wounds. Now, it seemed that the heavens were nothing more than a highway for another shell. [[Begin your patrol->C2FL1]] Status: $hp/10

Koshchey stops again, and fixes you with an uncomfortable stare. His eyes aren't blank like the prisoner's had been. His stare is appraising, as though judging you worthy. "(text-colour:red)[''Warspite''] is a new... tale, I suppose, that's been making the rounds," he says. "They say it makes you lose your mind, makes you become no more than a wild animal. Like the... berserkers out west. Some think it is a symptom of shell shock..." he trails off. "(text-colour:green)[Do you believe that?]" you ask. Koshchey winces. "Well, there is... a problem with that explanation. Shell shock only happens after combat, no? Well, these men, they go crazy all of a sudden. Some haven't even seen combat. Strange, yes?" You furrow your brow. "(text-colour:green)[Yeah, strange,]" you agree. Koshchey stays silent until you arrive at your destination. [[Continue->C1FL4]] Status: $hp/10

With Koshchey at your side, guard duty was much less monotonous. Your watch was undisturbed by anything other than the occasional joke or stray potshot one foolish soldier would take at the other side's sentries. Night soon fell upon the trenches. Unlike in villages or cities, no one lit lantern or torch. Any kind of light made one an easy target for enemy snipers. The only lights that lit the darkness were the spotlights installed on the machine gun nests and blockhouses. They rose from the earth like prison towers, guns trained on those lights to find and kill anything that moved in the blasted heath of no man's land. The night is dark, and after a few meters you can barely make out where the sky ends and the ground begins. The searchlights sweep over the desolation, momentarily solidifying the inky blackness into a muddy field, pockmarked with shellholes and scattered with battlefield debris. The night remained quiet. Until the soft //thump// of gas shells spread throughout the trenches. [[Masks!->C2FL2]] Status: $hp/10

You reach for your gas mask, fumbling with the buckles and clasps as the sickly green smoke curls around your ankles. You rip off your //papakha// and throw it to the ground as the miasma rises to your thighs. The smell of pepper and pineapple stings your nostrils as you force the gas mask around your face. Finally, the smell is gone as you breathe in a gasp of musty air through the filter. You are safe. The world is cast in an unearthly green glow. Chlorine. As your panic subsides to a managable level, you notice the other soldiers around you. Some weren't quick enough. They lie on the duckboards, adding stains of blood and vomit to the wet brown muck that already encrusted the half-rotted wood. There was nothing to be done for them when they started foaming at the mouth. You're sure of that. You realize Koshchey isn't with you. He had gone for a visit to the latrine a few minutes ago. You decide not to worry. He wasn't called 'the Deathless' for nothing. [[Get your gun->C2FL3]] Status: $hp/10

You grip your rifle in white-knuckled hands and peer over the side of the trench. That's when you see them. (set: $hp to 10) Dozens of dark shapes move through the wire and the mud, partially obscured by the gas. You sink to your knees, panic beginning to rise once again in your gut. A night raid. Night raids were usually stealthy. Bold tactics like these were usually reserved for //sturmtruppen//, the German shock troops, and even then, they only attacked in much smaller, quieter groups. The Germans were confident. You hear footsteps squelching through the mud and the rattling of wire. One of the Germans is approaching. There is a dugout nearby. Next to it is what looks like an old farmhouse door. That must have been extra reinforcement. It would cover the dugout well enough to hide. You only hear one set of footsteps, however. You might have a chance if you fight. [[Hide in the dugout->C2FL4H1]] [[Fight->C2FL4F1]] Status: $hp/10

You run for the dugout. There's already someone in it, covered by an old wool blanket. He looks like he was sleeping when the gas shells hit. He's dead. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) You squeeze inside, fighting the urge to be sick as you are forced to press against the still-warm body in a morbid embrace. You reach out and pull the old wooden door over the opening to the dugout. There's an impact outside as the German drops over the parapet and hits the duckboards. One of them crumbles under the soldier's boots, sinking him shin-deep in the muddy water. The soldier curses and pulls himself free, his voice and heavy breathing muffled through the gas mask. He inspects the corpses of the Russian soldiers, kicking them onto their backs and peering into their pale faces through huge, glassy, unblinking eyes. He grips a knife in one hand, and a P04 Luger in the other. Moonlight glints off the tip of the blade. You whimper. The sound carries farther than you expect. The soldier pauses at the noise. He casts a wary eye over the trench, bending down to peer into the other dugouts. The soldier steps towards your hiding spot. You grip the rifle. Your knuckles are white. Your heart gallops. You fumble in your belt for your bayonet. The soldier reaches for the edge of the door. Your hands shake. A gunshot breaks the silence, cutting through the smothering haze of the gas. The soldier's head whips towards the source. The noise came from the direction of the command post. "Scheiße," the soldier hisses. He turns to leave. [[Wait for him to leave->C2FL4H2]] [[Attack->C2FL4HBackstab]] Status: $hp/10

You press yourself against the trench as you fit your bayonet to your rifle barrel. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) ''The soldier drops over the parapet and hits the duckboards. One of them crumbles under the soldier's boots, sinking him shin-deep in the muddy water.'' The soldier curses and pulls himself free, his voice and heavy breathing muffled through the gas mask. He grips a knife in one hand, and a P04 Luger in the other. Moonlight glints off the tip of the blade. The wide glassy portholes of his gas mask scan the trench, until the soldier turns to face you. He recoils in surprise as you step forward into the moonlight, wielding your rifle like a spear. The soldier raises his pistol. [[Go for the pistol->C2FL4FPistol]] [[Charge the soldier->C2FL4FCharge]] Status: $hp/10

The soldier stalks away, towards the source of the noise. The trench is empty. For now, at least. Your heartbeat slows and you pant for air. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) You bring your knees to your chest and kick the door from the opening of the dugout. You crawl out and stand up. [[Continue->C2FLC1End]] Status: $hp/10

You explode from the dugout and throw yourself bodily atop the German, his helmet falling from his head with a //clang//. (set: $courage to $courage + 2) His pistol flies from his hand, sliding a few feet away, and his knife slips through a slat in the duckboards. You land on top of the German, forcing him to the ground. The man coughs and chokes as his hands scrabble for purchase, but the mud leaves him without leverage. He's helpless. [[Kill him->C2FL4HKill]] [[Spare him->C2FL4HSpare]] Status: $hp/10

You lunge forward, swinging the butt of your rifle to meet his arm. The butt slams into his wrist. His finger squeezes the trigger, firing the shot harmlessly into the air. The soldier groans and steps back. His hand hangs limp and the Luger falls from his grip. The German brandishes the knife. He suddenly leaps forward, thrusting the knife towards you. [[Block->C2FL4FBlock]] [[Dodge->C2FL4FDodge]] [[Parry->C2FL4FParry]] Status: $hp/10

You lunge for the German, but he quickly jumps backward, barely evading your bayonet. He counters with a punch that sends you to the floor. (text-colour:red)[HP -1] The two of you wrestle around on the ground as you desperately fight for the upper hand. The German finds another opening and punches you again. This time, his fist connects with your throat, and your head knocks a hole in the rotten duckboards. (text-colour:red)[HP -3] You choke and splutter into your mask as you gasp for breath through blood and saliva. Your head pounds and your vision blurs. The German presses his knife to your throat, the blade drawing blood against your neck. A gunshot rings out from the direction of the command post. The soldier flinches and looks about the trench in alarm. With the last of your desperate strength, you wrench a piece of wood free from the duckboards and swing it at his head. The man is hurled to the ground as the crumbling plank disintegrates on impact with his helmet. Before he can get back to his feet, you haul yourself onto his back, pressing the weight of your knee against him. You remove the bayonet from the barrel of your rifle. The man coughs and chokes as his hands scrabble for purchase, but the mud leaves him without leverage. He's helpless. [[Kill him->C2FL4FKill]] [[Spare him->C2FL4FSpare]] Status: $hp/10

You hold your rifle in front of you, crossed diagonally in front of your chest. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) The German's knife slams into the stock, but the tip glances off of the wood. Fire erupts in your right side as the knife tears through the fabric and into the flesh above your ribs. (text-colour:red)[HP -2] (set: $hp to $hp -2) The glancing hit unbalances the German, sending him past you. You take the opportunity, thrusting the butt of the rifle into the small of his back. The German gasps and falls flat onto his face. He chokes as the wind is knocked from his lungs. You kneel on his back and remove the bayonet from the barrel of your rifle. The man coughs and chokes as his hands scrabble for purchase, but the mud leaves him without leverage. He's helpless. A gunshot rings out from the direction of the command post. [[Kill him->C2FL4FKill]] [[Spare him->C2FL4FSpare]] Status: $hp/10

You shift your weight onto your back foot and push off to the left, but the duckboards give under your weight, plunging your boot knee deep into the muck. You jerk backwards. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) The knife misses, but the German's body weight slams into you, tripping over you and pulverizing more of the rotten duckboards. Fear grips you as the soldier's body pushes yours beneath the mud. Icy blackness fills your vision and pours into your gas filter, and you begin to choke. The German pushes his advantage, grabbing your shoulders and shoving you deeper. You reach up and claw at the soldier until your hands find purchase around his throat. Your feet touch the bottom of the pit and you push off the bottom, throwing your body forwards. The German flips over your shoulder and onto the duckboards. You scramble out of the pit after him. As the man flips onto his stomach to get to his feet, you drop onto his back, pressing your knee against his spine. You remove the bayonet from the barrel of your rifle. The man coughs and chokes as his hands scrabble for purchase, but the mud leaves him without leverage. He's helpless. A gunshot rings out from the direction of the command post. [[Kill him->C2FL4FKill]] [[Spare him->C2FL4FSpare]] Status: $hp/10

You thrust your rifle, knocking his bayonet out of his hand but missing with your own. His shoulder collides with you and the two of you fall to the ground. The German lands on top of you and lands a punch to your face. Your ears ring with the impact of the blow. (text-colour:red)[HP -1] (set: $hp to $hp -1) Pure instinct pounds through your veins as you jerk your head to the side and the soldier's next blow misses, punching a hole into the crumbling duckboards where your head had been a moment earlier. The German has lost his balance now, grunting as he falls forward, sinking his arm up to his bicep into the muck with a wet sucking sound. You struggle underneath his weight but scramble out from underneath him. Just as the man pulls his arm from the mud, you plant a knee on his back and remove the bayonet from the barrel of your rifle. The man coughs and chokes as his hands scrabble for purchase, but the mud leaves him without leverage. He's helpless. A gunshot rings out from the direction of the command post. [[Kill him->C2FL4FKill]] [[Spare him->C2FL4FSpare]] Status: $hp/10

The man stops struggling. You swear you can see fear flash in the darkness behind the gas mask's eyeholes. You place your forearm against the back of his neck and bring your bayonet to his throat, and with one quick motion the blade slices through the flesh. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) (set: $kills to $kills + 1) The man chokes and gurgles, then lays quiet, lifeblood draining into the murky water below the duckboards. Your bayonet's blade shines a dull red in the moonlight. You place the butt of your rifle against the duckboards and brace against it as you stand. (if: $hp is 8)[(text-colour:red)[You bring your hand to your side and gasp. Your palm is wet with your own blood.]] (if: $hp is 9)[(text-colour:red)[Sparks swim in your vision as you struggle to your feet. Your teeth are all there, though, and your nose isn't broken, which is more than you can say for most soldiers.]] [[Continue->C2FLC1End]] Status: $hp/10

The man stops struggling. You swear you can see fear flash in the darkness behind the gas mask's eyeholes. You place your forearm against the back of his neck and bring your bayonet to his throat, but you hesitate. (set: $mercy to $mercy + 2) (set: $courage to $courage + 1) You sigh, and grab your rifle again. A prisoner was better than a corpse, you suppose. You raise the rifle with both hands and bring the butt down on his head. There's a sickening //thud// and the German goes limp. You place the butt of the rifle against the duckboards and brace against it as you stand. (if: $hp is 6)[(text-colour:red)[You shudder as the musty air finally fills your lungs. You collapse to the floor again as you pant for breath, gritting your teeth as you fight to stay concious.]] (if: $hp is 8)[(text-colour:red)[You bring your hand to your side and gasp. Your palm is wet with your own blood.]] (if: $hp is 9)[(text-colour:red)[Sparks swim in your vision as you struggle to your feet. Your teeth are all there, though, and your nose isn't broken, which is more than you can say for most soldiers.]] [[Continue->C2FLC1End]] Status: $hp/10

You stand, head swimming,(if: $hp < 10)[breathless, and wounded] and stagger back towards the communication trench. Something was happening at the command post, and if what the guards had said earlier was true, then the offensives would surely fail, taking Russia with them. You pass more corpses, both Russian and German. Some without gas masks, and some with bloody wounds. To your dismay, most are Russian. You creep down the now eerily silent trenches. One by one, the blockhouse searchlights go dark, stars snuffed out in the night sky. The lampposts are still lit, however, and as you peek around the corner to the command post, your fears are confirmed. The two guards outside of the command post dugout lie dead, their rifles discarded next to them and blood leaking from thin red lines in their throats. The door to the dugout is thrown open, and light still flickers in the lanterns inside, painting alien shapes on the entryway. You hear movement inside, with the crashing of splintered wood and the clatter of canteens falling to the floor. A humanoid shadow sprawls across the doorway. [[Peer inside->C2CD1]] Status: $hp/10

The man stops struggling. You swear you can see fear flash in the darkness behind the gas mask's eyeholes. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) (set: $kills to $kills + 1) You grab the soldier by his wispy brown hair and yank his head back. You rip off his gas mask and throw it over the parapet into no man's land. You were right. Fear and dread fills the man's grey eyes as he gasps, inhaling a lungful of chlorine gas. He claws at his throat as he begins to splutter and choke. You hold him until foam begins to leak from his lips, as he coughs up his own liquefied lungs. You let him fall, lifeless. (set: $gaskill to true) You stand, horrified at what you have just done. [[Continue->C2FLC1End]] Status: $hp/10

The man stops struggling. You swear you can see fear flash in the darkness behind the gas mask's eyeholes. (set: $mercy to $mercy + 2) (set: $courage to $courage + 1) You sigh, and grab the soldier by his wispy brown hair. A prisoner was better than a corpse, you suppose. You slam his face into the duckboards with a loud //crunch//. The soldier lies unconcious. You rise to your feet. [[Continue->C2FLC1End]] Status: $hp/10

Another German stands in the center of the room, facing away from you with his hands on his hips. There's an overturned chair in front of him, and you can make out a figure tied to it with rope. Tables are placed around the room, littered with maps and papers. There are bodies strewn about the room, the ground and walls stained with blood. With horror, you recognize all but one of the bodies as Russian officers. All of them have stab or blunt-force trauma wounds. The only German corpse lies by the door, with a bullet hole in the center of its upper torso. That was the gunshot you had heard earlier. The living soldier laughs at the figure tied to the chair, a wheezing sound rendered otherworldly by the gas mask. He walks over to one of the tables and begins searching for something. The sounds of rustling papers join the coughing of the man in the chair, as carefully-formatted supply manifests and casualty reports flutter to the floor to soak in the blood of their ill-fated recipients. They, too, will appear in the next round of casualty reports. (text-colour:green)[//Rare//], you think, (text-colour:green)[//for officers//]. Finally, the German finds what he's been looking for. He grabs the sheaf of papers and lifts them to the lantern light. As he draws closer, he turns, allowing the lamplight to reach a single word painted on his gas mask in red paint: "''Mephisto''." [[Attack->C2CDC1]] Status: $hp/10

You stumble into the open doorway, rifle raised. You squeeze the trigger, the rifle kicking in your grasp. //Pop!// You twist the bolt handle and push, the spent cartridge ejected from the empty chamber. You pull it back and another round enters the chamber. //Pop!// //Pop!// //Pop!// //Pop!// The magazine is empty. The form of ''Mephisto'' stands, unaffected. You stare in disbelief. His edges are... blurred. He is wreathed in black smoke. No- not wreathed in it... he //is// the smoke. You can see //through// him. To the five bullet holes embedded in the wood behind where he should have been standing. ''Mephisto'' laughs, a hideous wheezing emanating from that black mask. His strangled mirth sounds more like the choking of a man with more chlorine gas in his putrefying lungs than air. He solidifies for a moment, stepping towards you slowly, deliberately. [["//What// are you?"->C2CDC2]] Status: $hp/10

''Mephisto'' draws closer, still quiet. He smells of blood and... //pirozhki//? You stand transfixed by those deep, dark pits behind the glass eyepieces of ''Mephisto'''s mask. He draws closer, until he is face-to-face with you. And then he steps //through// you, and the smell of blood and //pirozhki// pastry is joined by another scent. Smoke. The stench flows through your gas mask's filter uninhibited, reaching into your nostrils and choking out anything else, until the odor is so cloying you could swear it was coagulating in your nasal cavity, flowing like a river into your esophagus, burning your throat with the taste of iron and death and ground beef and mushrooms until your lungs threaten to drown you in it. And you are stuck there, suffocating in the scent of a child's memories and the stench of a war not even the strongest of men should suffer, the darkness of ''Mephisto'''s body enveloping you until you're not sure if the blackness is from the smoke or your slow, agonizing loss of consciousness. [[Succumb->C2CDCS]] [[Fight->C2CDCF]] Status: $hp/10

You go limp as the walls of the dugout fade away, replaced by a void, as dark as a starless night. As the choking dark pours into you, filling your throat, nose, eyes, and ears, you //know// it. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) The hazy form of ''Mephisto''. It floats in the darkness. You don't see it. You're not sure if it can even be seen. But you feel it. ''Mephisto''... no, that name doesn't sound right. It doesn't carry that same taste of gore and reverie as what the blackness forces upon you. Your mind tries to assign something to what floats in the void, but you can't think of anything beyond the inky death that cradles you. Several names and ideas come to mind, but none of them fit. They're too small, too weak, to fully encompass what it is. Then, it comes to you. A... concept. It is not a name, or even a word. And when your mind recieves it, your consciousness reels in revulsion and confusion. You try to be rid of it, try to clear your mind again, try to think of anything else. But it thrums somewhere, deep in your brain, more intense than the fear of combat or heights or the monsters under your childhood bed. It violates you more completely than the cloying dark ever could. ''//And it laughs.//'' It doesn't wheeze, like Mephisto had. The echoing vibration courses through your very marrow. When the numbness begins, you are grateful. To go quietly into the dark is a blessing. The void begins to fade, slowly swallowed by a different kind of void. Nothingness. [[Fade->C2CDCEnd]] Status: 0/10

You thrash and kick as the walls of the dugout fade away, replaced by a void, as dark as a starless night. As the choking dark pours into you, filling your throat, nose, eyes, and ears, you //know// it. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) The hazy form of ''Mephisto''. It floats in the darkness. You don't see it. You're not sure if it can even be seen. But you feel it. ''Mephisto''... no, that name doesn't sound right. It doesn't carry that same taste of gore and reverie as what the blackness forces upon you. Your mind tries to assign something to what floats in the void, but you can't think of anything beyond the inky death that cradles you. Several names and ideas come to mind, but none of them fit. They're too small, too weak, to fully encompass what it is. Then, it comes to you. A... concept. It is not a name, or even a word. And when your mind recieves it, your consciousness reels in revulsion and confusion. You try to be rid of it, try to clear your mind again, try to think of anything else. But it thrums somewhere, deep in your brain, more intense than the fear of combat or heights or the monsters under your childhood bed. It violates you more completely than the cloying dark ever could. ''//And it laughs.//'' It doesn't wheeze, like Mephisto had. The echoing vibration courses through your very marrow. When the numbness begins, you are grateful. To go quietly into the dark is a blessing. The void begins to fade, slowly swallowed by a different kind of void. Nothingness. [[Fade->C2CDCEnd]] Status: 0/10

You are not granted the reprieve of emptiness for long. You feel something cut through the void, and that something slams into your back. You're thrown free from the umbral hell back into the dugout, into a world of sight and sound and scent so vivid your senses feel like they've been set ablaze. Your body rolls over one of the tables as you collapse heavily to the ground beside one of the dead Russian officers. Suddenly, the rattle of a machine gun fills the air and smoldering bullet holes pepper the wall above you. Somewhere beneath the deafening gunfire a man screams in defiance of suffering and death and the incarnation of the two standing in front of him. And then, silence. Mephisto is gone, and with him, the plans for the Vilnius and Kerensky Offensives, and quite possibly, Russia herself as well. [[Try to speak->C2CD2]] Status: $hp/10

The man who crouches beside you isn't the one you hope for, though Koshchey the Deathless comes staggering through the door moments later. The black-eyed, ragged prisoner crouches before you, silent. He drops an empty Lewis light machine gun at your feet, its barrel still smoking. Koshchey leans against one of the wooden tables, panting. "Oh, thank God in heaven that you are safe, my friend," he says to you, before his eyes settle on the prisoner. Koshchey attempts to bristle with whatever hostility his skinny frame can muster, looking more like the cowed child before an angered parent than a real threat. "What are you doing here, (text-colour:red)[''beast'']?" Koshchey spits. The prisoner merely begins checking you for wounds. He places a hand on the center of your back and winces in apology at the bruise he gave you when he unceremoniously removed you from Mephisto's grasp. The prisoner stands. He kneels and cuts the figure in the chair's bonds. The figure wears a //kapitan//'s uniform. The wounded man staggers to his feet, clutching his bleeding stomach. The prisoner shuffles wordlessly from the room. "Please," the //kapitan// moans. "The Offensive. Someone must get the plans back." Another man stands in the doorway. [[Continue->C2CD3]] Status: $hp/10

The man who now occupies the doorway is hunched, almost bent double. Your heart slows when the lamplight shows his uniform, riddled with bullet holes and stained with mud and blood, is Russian. A French-bought Adrian helmet sits atop his head, cracks branching from a ragged hole in the metal. Was he another survivor of the gas attack? His eyes are black, glassy holes in a face streaked and burned with shrapnel scars and flecks of melted munitions. He scans the corpses one by one and regards you and Koshchey with caution. Bloody handprints and scars and scratches both young and old cover the young man's neck. The //kapitan//'s eyes widen, filling with fear. He flees the room, stumbling out of sight. He is small too, smaller than Koshchey. His smallness, however is more akin to a grenade than Koshchey's physical weakness. All that energy concentrated in a vessel so small is bound to be volatile, and the young man standing before you certainly fits both elements of that description. Koshchey pales at the young man's appearance. The young man speaks quietly. "(text-colour:red)[Wasn't //me//,]" he says, shaking his head. "(text-colour:red)[Of me.]" The statement is matter-of-fact, seemingly making a point of ignoring Koshchey's earlier insult. Your mind is racing, and the mixture of sounds and questions that pours from your mouth must have been nigh-incomprehensible. "(text-colour:red)[Brother,]" the man replies, gesturing to the bullet holes. "(text-colour:red)[Stopped brother.]" Koshchey's sudden obedient silence disturbs you more than the ghoulish man does. [["Koshchey, why are you so quiet?"->C2D4]]

Koshchey walks to you and helps you up. The young man's eyes follow him as he moves. "Come on, you need fresh air. It will clear your head, yes? I will tell you when we're away from that... thing. Now, come with me." You follow Koshchey to the door, but the young man's hand shoots out and grabs you by the shoulder. The familiar scent of blood stings your nostrils and you realize his hands are sticky with it. (if: $fear > 0)[The young man's eyes settle on you with an intensity you've only seen in men during charges through no man's land. "(text-colour:red)[You know,]" he whispers. "(text-colour:red)[Of fear. Of desolation. Of loss. Of desperation. Of //me//.]"] (if: $fear is 0)[The young man sniffs. "(text-colour:red)[Don't know. Not yet. You will too.]"] He reaches into his belt and produces a ''hunting knife''. The blade is paper-thin, with engravings that seem to shift as the lamplight flickers. It looks as though it could slice a man in two if he looked at it the wrong way. You hesitantly accept it. You aren't sure what else to do. As you close your fingers around the bone handle, rage and fear begin to bubble up within you. You quickly jam the knife into a sheath on your belt. (if: $fear > 0)[The (text-colour:red)[''Warspite'']'s voice is quiet, monotone, and tense. "(text-colour:red)[You will know me again.]"] (if: $fear is 0)[The (text-colour:red)[''Warspite''] pulls away, his expression once again guarded.] Koshchey grabs you by the wrist. You turn to look at him. Fear and disgust paint his features, and in the lamplight his face looks for all the world like skin stretched tight over a bare skull. [[Follow Koshchey->C3P1]]

The wind of the tundra has banished the pale green miasma of the Chlorine gas, but the smells of pineapple and pepper, blood, and earth remain. As you and Koshchey step over the guards' corpses into the support trench, your eyes are drawn to a flood of fresh Russian troops pouring in from the reserve trenches. Koshchey shoulders his way through the crowd and you follow in his wake towards the reserve trenches. Ordinarily, you'd report to an officer to rotate out, but with the amount of casualties, you're not sure where to start, and frankly, you're too tired to care. The door to your dugout squeals as Koshchey pushes it open, and the rats squeal back as they retreat to the shadowy corners of the earthen barrow. You drop your rifle next to your bunk and rip the gas mask from your face, and for once you're relieved by the scent of the dugout, the old tobacco, stale sweat, rotting wood, and gunpowder that clings to the other soldiers like the smoke that wreathed Mephisto. You collapse onto the straw-stuffed mattress and Koshchey tosses you a roll of gauze and a bottle of vodka. "(text-colour:green)[How'd you get this?]" you ask, turning the bottle of alcohol over in your hands. Koshchey chuckles. "The latrines are near the officers' quarters, so I decided to pay them a visit. For security reasons, you understand. Now, you have questions, no?" You raise your eyebrows and tend to your wounds. (if: $hp is 8)[You pull the prisoner's makeshift bandage off and pour some of the vodka onto the wound in your side. You grimace at the burning sensation. The gauze makes for a better bandage.] (text-colour:green)[HP +10] (set: $hp to 10) [["Who was that... demon?"->C3P2]] Status: $hp/10

Koshchey spits three times over his left shoulder. "The demon? Which one?" Koshchey asks. He doesn't seem to be joking. "(text-colour:green)[Th- the smoky one, the one with the gas mask.]" "The one with the gas mask...?" he repeats, knitting his brows. An abrupt realization dawns on him. "Oh. //Oh.// That's not good. No wonder you look so shaken-up." "That... is one of the ''Successors''. I call him the ''(text-colour:grey)[Sanguine]''. He is blood and joy made manifest. The satisfaction one might feel watching the light leave a sworn enemy's eyes. Only, his satisfaction is ceaseless." Happiness and blood. That might explain the //pirozhki//. You've loved it since childhood. It was a food that reminded you of the simple happiness of years past. Your face must have betrayed your confusion, because Koshchey sighs. "Look. Would... would you believe me if I told you that my name is true?" Despite your utter disorientation, laughter wells in your throat. You hold it back, settling for a derisive snort instead. [["What, you're telling me that you're Koshchey the Deathless?"->C3P3]] Status: $hp/10

Koshchey narrows his eyes. "Names have power, you know. So do stories. Do they not teach you this in schools nowadays?" When you don't respond, Koshchey shakes his head. "Your parents told you stories, yes?" You nod. "Well then, that should make this easier. When you were younger, you believed them, correct?" He doesn't wait for your answer. "Well, that's what makes me... //me//. And think about it. Have you ever seen me wounded? Once?" "(text-colour:green)[No,]" you reply. "(text-colour:green)[You're lucky. That's why we started calling you that. You had a name before Koshchey, I know that.]" "Yes, I went by Ruslan before. It's certainly easier to live in peace when there aren't brave youths trying to bring you your death for revenge for... highly exaggerated deeds you'd done hundreds of years ago." You nod. "(text-colour:green)[Yes, I can see how that might get annoying.]" "What's most annoying is that they keep sticking to the whole 'egg-in-duck-in-hare-in-coffer-under-an-oak-tree-on-an-island' routine. I did that once. //Once//." [["Then who was the man who gave me the knife?"->C3P4]] Status: $hp/10

"Oh, the (text-colour:red)[''beast'']," Koshchey growls. "Well, he told you already, didn't he? He is fear, anger, and loss. He is that desperation that wells within you and wears you like a skin when you know you are going to die. That, my friend, is what the (text-colour:red)[''Warspite''] is. It is another ''Successor''." [["You still haven't told me what a ''Successor'' is."->C3P5]] Status: $hp/10

Koshchey leans forward, resting his spindly arms on his knees. "You know, I'm not good at these things, clearly. You still don't believe me to be Deathless, do you?" You shrug. "(text-colour:green)[Well, it wouldn't be the strangest thing I've seen today.]" "Bah. That's no answer." Koshchey sits in pointed silence for a few moments. He then stands and grabs his rifle. "Come on." "(text-colour:green)[Huh? Where are we going?]" You ask, bewildered. "Since you won't believe me, you might believe someone else." "(text-colour:green)[God above, I'd rather take a nap.]" "Eh, you can sleep when you're dead, no?" "(text-colour:green)[Easy for you to say, Deathless.]" Koshchey laughs and pulls you to your feet. "I hope to stay that way." You grab your rifle and head for the door. [[Continue->C3P6]] Status: $hp/10

A few hours have passed since you and Koshchey snuck away from the reserve trench under the cover of the early-morning darkness. Now, the two of you are making your way through the forest behind the lines. You're not really sure why you followed Koshchey, but there is a pit in your stomach as the trees grow dense, their dead branches reaching for the sky like gnarled hands. There is moonlight dappled on the forest's floor of rotting leaves. The sweet, musty smell mixes with the scent of gunpowder carried on the breeze from the battlefield and the fog that rests on the earth like so many wraiths. The crickets chirp, their buzzing song louder than the distant pounding of the artillery cannons. "(text-colour:green)[You know, if we're found out here, we're sure to be shot for desertion,]" you say, looking back towards the trenches. "(text-colour:green)[It sounds like they're preparing to charge the enemy's lines. Shouldn't we be helping prepare?]" Koshchey shoots a look of mild annoyance back at you as he leads you through the forest. "My friend, I am deathless, and even I have no desire to run blindly through the mud and hail of bullets just for a few yards of land. I am quite honestly puzzled as to why you, who is certainly not deathless, would want to." He had a point, you supposed. It was only a matter of time before some German bullet sent your body to the earth and your soul to the heavens. At least out here you would die in a peaceful place if you were caught. [[Continue->C3P7]] Status: $hp/10

"Ah, here we are," Koshchey says as the two of you crest a hill. The scene that greets you is surreal. Among the trees stretches another set of trenches, cutting through the forest like scars in the earth. These lines are empty except for old German corpses, most likely having been abandoned once the Germans were pushed back from Minsk. A graveyard lies beyond the trenches, with planks of wood marking the final resting places of fallen Russians. You can see another set of open pits in a small clearing to your left as well. There is a figure standing among the holes. It appears to be digging graves. Movement catches your eye, and you watch as two German soldiers carry a dead body on a stretcher to the second graveyard, weaving through the maze of old wood and dirt. In the center of this tapestry of old life and death, however, is the strangest building you've ever seen. An old log cabin sits atop a pair of giant scaly bird's legs. The entire grotesque house spins in a circle as the legs rotate. Another pair of Germans stands at a safe distance, staring utterly confused at the absurd display. Your heart leaps into your throat. "(text-colour:green)[You didn't,]" you hiss. Koshchey grins. "You wanted answers, no? Well, who better than a practitioner of the dark arts? It's time to see the witch." [[Continue->C3P8]] Status: $hp/10

The two of you creep quietly towards what used to be the reserve trenches, taking care not to slip on the moldering foliage. As the two of you enter the familiar claustrophobic embrace of the earthen fortifications, Koshchey turns to you. "Here, hide," he whispers. You start to open your mouth when Koshchey raises his eyebrows at you. "I'll take care of the Germans, yes?" You acquiesce and move to a vantage point, a machine gun nest perched between the support and front lines. You squeeze past a rusted Maschinengewehr 08, peppered with bullet holes. You almost retch at the German corpse draped over it, also riddled with holes, some of them wounds, some of them rot. You peer over the burst sandbag parapet. To your utter astonishment, Koshchey rises from the trench and approaches the two Germans that watch the spinning house-chicken hybrid. Koshchey shambles towards the two, head bowed as his skeleton-like frame seems to drift towards them on the fog. He lets out a long, low moan. Immediately, the two German's heads snap towards Koshchey. They stagger backwards as the blood drains from their faces, turning them whiter than snow. One of them opens his mouth and a shrill scream erupts from his throat. The two Germans bolt from the scene, heading in the direction you and Koshchey had come from. The other German yells to his comrades as he sprints away. "Los, los! Es ist ein geist!" You hear muddy footsteps behind you and the thump of a discarded stretcher as two voices rise from the support trench below. "Geist? Ha! Nicht dergleichen!" [[Creep to the support trench->C3P9]]

You peek around the corner to the trench. Two German soldiers stand there, casting wary glances around the ''foggy trench'' as they make a show of cracking their knuckles and waving their weapons. They definitely aren't leaving. One holds a Gewehr-98 bolt-action rifle. The other one carries a Madsen M1902 light machine gun. (set: $hp to 10) [[Fight->C3C1F1]] [[Hide->C3C1H1]] Status: $hp/10

You lift your rifle, carefully aiming the gun at the soldiers. If you pull the trigger, you //will// kill them. [[Lower your gun->C3P9]] [[Pull the trigger->C3C1FG2Kill]] Status: $hp/10

You decide to make use of the fog. You creep back up to the machine gun nest and climb over the parapet. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) The squelching footsteps of the German soldier with the rifle lets you know he's beneath you. You draw your ''hunting knife'' from your belt and a rush of adrenaline surges from the bone handle to your body. You grip it tightly in your hand, your palms sweating and your knuckles white. [[Drop onto the soldier->C3C1H2O]] [[Drop behind the soldier->C3C1H2B]] Status: $hp/10

As the German soldier passes under you, wandering through the fog, you seize the opportunity and leap on to him. He crumples under your weight with a gasp and his back hits the muddy earth. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) Your knife burns in your hand as you lift the knife. You hesitate, and the soldier seizes the opportunity, grabbing your knife arm and twisting underneath you. His leg knocks yours aside and you slip in the mud. Your other hand shoots out to stop you from faceplanting in the wet earth, but the German rolls out from under you. Suddenly, he's behind you, and he plants his boot in the back of your knee, and you buckle. He grabs you by the collar and throws you against the side of the trench. Your face slams against the wooden wall and stars flash in your vision. The soldier grabs his rifle and affixes his bayonet while you recover. With an angry yell, he charges you, bayonet flashing in the rising sun. [[Dodge->C3C1H2OD]] [[Block->C3C1H2OB]] [[Parry->C3C1H2OP]] Status: $hp/10

You land behind the German. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) He stiffens as your boots splash in the mud, but your arms are around his throat before he can turn. He drops his rifle. You remember the other German. With the ''hunting knife'' burning in your hand, longing for the soldier's throat, you awkwardly haul your hostage towards the other. Soon, the second German's silhouette appears in the fog. "Ah, Kurt-" he begins. His expression turns horrified. He levels his machine gun at the two of you. "Lass ihn gehen!" He shouts, face hard. "Warte, warte, bitte-" the first German splutters. The bone-handled hunting knife burns in your hand. [[Spare the first German->C3C1G1Spare]] [[Kill the first German->C3C1G1Kill]] Status: $hp/10

The soldier charges, but you throw yourself underneath him at the last moment, and he trips over you. His rifle buries its bayonet into the wood, and the German falls against the trench, his shoulder making a horrible //pop!// as it bashes into the wall. He howls in pain. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) You hear quick footsteps approaching. It's the other German. You throw your arm around the fallen German's throat, and he grunts in pain as he grapples with you with his good arm. You ignore him and rest the blade of your ''hunting'' knife against his throat. You haul him to his feet and rotate to face him towards the arrival of other soldier. The second German slides to a stop on the muddy ground, his light machine gun levelled at you. "Lass ihn gehen!" He shouts, face hard. "Warte, warte, bitte-" the first German splutters. The bone-handled hunting knife burns in your hand. [[Spare the first German->C3C1G1Spare]] [[Kill the first German->C3C1G1Kill]] Status: $hp/10

There's nothing to block with. Your rifle is trapped between your back and the earth. You can't reach it. A pain hotter and more painful than anything you've ever felt stabs through your middle as the German's bayonet finds its mark. You're too stunned to scream. (text-colour:red)[HP -10] (set: $hp to 0) You paw weakly at the rifle's barrel. The colors of the world blur together as your consciousness fades. [[Continue->C3C1Death]] Status: $hp/10

You try to parry the bayonet with the rifle. It misses your middle but it still stabs into your right side. You yell in pain. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) (text-colour:red)[HP -5] (set: $hp to $hp - 5) Grunting in pain, you kick the German away and pull the bayonet from your flesh. A hot stickiness spreads down your right hip. The German trips and lands on his back. You swiftly move behind him and plant a boot on his back, kicking him face-first into the leaf-strewn dirt. You hear quick footsteps approaching. It's the other German. You throw your arm around the fallen German's throat, and he grunts in pain as he grapples at you. You ignore him and rest the blade of your ''hunting'' knife against his throat. You haul him to his feet and rotate to face him towards the arrival of other soldier. The second German slides to a stop on the muddy ground, his light machine gun levelled at you. "Lass ihn gehen!" He shouts, face hard. "Warte, warte, bitte-" the first German splutters. The bone-handled hunting knife burns in your hand. [[Spare the first German->C3C1G1Spare]] [[Kill the first German->C3C1G1Kill]] Status: $hp/10

You relax for a moment, not allowing the ''hunting knife'''s burning rage to influence you. You raise your index finger from the bone handle and point to the hills that the other two other Germans had fled towards. (set: $mercy to $mercy + 4) (set: $courage to $courage + 1) "(text-colour:green)[Go on, get out of here!]" When the second German's expression turns confused, you draw the first German's Luger from its holster and lightly shove him towards his friend. You keep the pistol trained on the two men and jerk your thumb in the direction of the hills. The first German whispers something to the second and they both turn tail and sprint towards the hills. [[Continue->C3C1End]] Status: $hp/10

The ''hunting knife'''s smoldering handle imbues you with white-hot fear and rage as you draw the edge across the first German's throat and shove his body towards the second German. The steel blade sings in your ears as it tastes blood. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) The second German yells in surprise as the corpse falls towards him and he squeezes the trigger in terror. The gunfire is muffled as the machine gun empties into the already-dead body. (set: $kills to $kills + 1) What Koshchey said about desperation is true. Your face is blank as you circle the second German, (text-colour:red)[''hunting knife''] in hand. Your instincts pound through your head in a frenzy, but your movements have a savage grace to them as you pad towards the machine gunner. He draws his own knife, backing slowly away from you, sizing you up. [[''Kill.''->C3C1G2Kill]] Status: $hp/10

Your muscles tense and bunch and then you close the distance in mere moments. The German jumps back and takes a vertical swipe at you with the knife, but you ignore the burst of fiery pain that slices through your left shoulder and soaks your skin in hot, sticky wetness. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) (text-colour:red)[HP -3] (set: $hp to $hp -3) You are right in front of him now, and with his blade lodged in your shoulder, you drive the knife into his chest. The ''(text-colour:red)[hunting knife]'''s blade sings again. And again. And again. (set: $kills to $kills + 1) (set: $madsenkill to true) You scream as you yank the German's knife from your shoulder and throw it to the earth. (text-colour:red)[HP -2] (set: $hp to $hp -2) (if:$hp is 0)[You sink to the earth, blood pouring from your wound. You try to press the gauze to it stop the bleeding, but the gauze keeps soaking through. Your consciousness ebbs from the wound, into the ground.] (if: $hp > 0)[[[Continue->C3C1End]]] (else:)[[[Continue->C3C1KillDeath]]] Status: $hp/10

You meet up with Koshchey in front of the spinning, chicken-legged hut. "I sent the gravedigger running for the hills and screaming for his mother!" he reports. He makes a sweeping gesture towards the anomaly. "Now you believe me, yes?" You open your mouth to reply, but he interrupts you. "Eh, no matter. You must talk to the witch to truly understand." "(text-colour:green)[She's in there,]" you say. It's more for your benefit, to allow you to rationalize the insanity you're witnessing, but Koshchey nods. "(text-colour:green)[So, how do we get in?]" you ask. "You must say: 'Little hut, little hut, stand with your back to the woods and your front to me!'" Koshchey answers. "(text-colour:green)[But all around us is woods,]" you observe. Koshchey narrows his sunken eyes at you. "(text-colour:green)[Fine,]" you sigh. "(text-colour:green)[Little hut, little hut, stand with your back to the woods and your front to me!]" The hut continues its leisurely spinning until it faces you. The legs squat, and the ground shakes as the house settles upon the forest floor. "(text-colour:green)[Ready to go?]" you ask Koshchey. "Eh, you must go without me. I am deathless, yes? Well, the... threshold doesn't like that." [["You're not coming with me?"->C4P1]] Status: $hp/10

(text-colour:red)[(align:"=><=")+(box:"=XXX=")[ (text-style:"fade-in-out")[#''YOU DIED'']]] (set: $courage to $courage - 3) (set: $kills to $kills - 2) (set: $fear to $fear - 3) [[Continue->C3P9]]

(text-colour:red)[(align:"=><=")+(box:"=XXX=")[ (text-style:"fade-in-out")[#''YOU DIED'']]] (set: $courage to $courage - 3) (set: $fear to $fear - 3) [[Continue->C3P9]]

You decide to start with the machine gunner. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) You line your iron sights up with his torso. You squeeze the trigger. //Pop!// (set: $kills to $kills + 1) The German stiffens, arms falling away from his machine gun, letting it clatter to the ground. He slowly tips over, red blossoming through the fabric over his chest, until his body hits the ground with a dull //thud//. The other German yells in surprise, throwing himself into the entryway to the communication trench. There is another passageway to the reserve trenches just ahead of you. It would protect you from fire, but should you risk it? //Pop!// //Pop!// Two shots splinter the wood inches away from your head. You quickly yank your head back from around the corner. [[Risk it->C3C1F1Risk]] [[Play it safe->C3C1F1Safe]] Status: $hp/10

You charge around the corner, head down, sprinting diagonally across the trench, making a beeline for the passage to the reserve trench. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) //Pop!// //Pop!// //Pop!// You grimace at the burning pain the last shot nicks your calf. (text-colour:red)[HP -2] (set: $hp to $hp - 2) You count the shots. His clip should be empty. [[Risk it->C3C1F1Risk2]] [[Play it safe->C3C1F1Safe2]] Status: $hp/10

You decide against the risky sprint. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) You settle into your spot in cover, and you and the soldier trade shots, emptying several clips into the trench walls. Eventually, silence falls as the two of you wait for each other's next move. A scream abruptly pierces the silence. "Scheiße! Geist!" //Pop!// Koshchey's voice greets you. His bullets certainly weren't ghostly. "Are you alright, my friend?" he yells. "(text-colour:green)[Yes,]" you reply. "(text-colour:green)[Are you?]" "You didn't have to kill them, you know! They were burying their comrades!" he replies, ignoring your question. "(text-colour:green)[Let them join them!]" "Bah." You can hear Koshchey spitting over his left shoulder. "Too much death." [[Continue->C3C1End]] Status: $hp/10

You creep up to the soldier's cover. You peek around the corner. He is reloading his rifle. He gasps and begins to raise his it. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) You're quicker. //Pop!// (set: $kills to $kills + 1) The shot sends the soldier sprawling onto his back, dead. [[Continue->C3C1End]] Status: $hp/10

You decide to play it safe. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) You settle into your spot in cover, and you and the soldier trade shots, emptying several clips into the trench walls. Eventually, silence falls as the two of you wait for each other's next move. A scream abruptly pierces the silence. "Scheiße! Geist!" //Pop!// Koshchey's voice greets you. His bullets certainly weren't ghostly. "Are you alright, my friend?" he yells. "(text-colour:green)[Yes,]" you reply. "(text-colour:green)[Are you?]" "You didn't have to kill them, you know! They were burying their comrades!" he replies, ignoring your question. "(text-colour:green)[Let them join them!]" "Bah." You can hear Koshchey spitting over his left shoulder. "Too much death." [[Continue->C3C1End]] Status: $hp/10

"Eh, you'll be fine. She only eats children, no?" Koshchey reassures you. You swallow hard, and step onto the waiting porch. The wood makes an ominous creak. "I'll be waiting here," Koshchey calls. You don't look back. Instead, you furtively glance around the porch. There is a giant mortar and pestle sitting on one corner of the porch. There are several small, human skulls jammed onto the posts of the railings. Light twinkles from the empty eye sockets, diffused in the rising sun and fog. You close your eyes, shivering, as you place a hand on the doorknob. [[The door creaks open->C4P2]] Status: $hp/10

As you step inside, the air becomes thin and cold. The scent of burnt flesh assaults your nostrils as you look around. The inside of the hut is dark but for the faint glow of the skulls' eyesockets. "Fie! Fie! I smell a Russian stench! It was never heard of nor caught sight of here, but now it saturates the very soil!" Comes a shrieking voice. You begin to shake as you step into the dim light of a skull. "(text-colour:blue)[Be still, grandmother. As you can see, this is no child,]" rasps a gravelly male voice. There, sitting at a table at one side of the room, are two of the ugliest individuals you have ever had the displeasure of seeing. The elderly voice comes from a middle-aged man in a grimy Russian officer's uniform. Dirty bandages cover his arms and legs and a cloth, stained with dirt, blood, and something yellow hangs around his neck. A //furazhka//, a peaked officer's cap, sits atop his head. His milky white, rheumy eyes are covered in cataracts, but you can tell he's staring directly at you. The other is the woman straight from your childhood nightmares. Baba Yaga. She squats atop her chair, coal-black eyes seemingly staring through you. Her arms, which seem to be longer than her bony legs, are covered in hair, and she points at you with her index and middle fingers, which are much longer than her other fingers. Each finger is tipped with a black fingernail, curved and sharpened until it might as well have been a claw. Patchy white locks of matted hair partially hide her ancient face, but you can still see her wrinkles by the shadowy crevices they make as they stretch over her gaunt face. "All the same," she hisses. "Were you driven here by your own free will or by compulsion, young man?" she asks. "I-I was brought here," you stammer. "B-by Koshchey the D-deathless." [[Present the ''hunting knife''->C4P3]] Status: $hp/10

Baba Yaga sniffs as you present the ''hunting knife''. She stands and half-walks, half-crawls over to you. You shiver as Baba Yaga circles you, occasionally pausing only to taste the air. Sweat beads at your forehead as Baba Yaga draws herself up to her full height by her spidery legs and stares you right in your eyes. The ''hunting knife'' smolders in your hands, its inscriptions glowing as it longs to taste the blood of this grotesque creature. Baba Yaga's beady eyes dart to its blade, tracing the curve of its edge to the bone of its handle, and the way the skull-light plays across its lines. Baba Yaga takes a step back and cocks her head at you. A smile splits her horrible face, revealing a set of cracked, yellowed teeth with tips like the ''hunting knife'' in your hand. "Well, well, well..." the words slither from between those predator's teeth. "You smell of death and blood but also of fullness, of the heat and noise and fury of life. Nothing like those old bones outside. He only smells of dust and ash. I may just have to have a taste of you after all... whether you be juvenile or mature." At this, she laughs, a series of grating, rasping, barking tones. Your fingers curl around the handle of the ''hunting knife''. "(text-colour:blue)[Calm yourself, grandmother,]" the old man abruptly warns."(text-colour:blue)[Both of us are quite aware of your current state. Besides, that knife is no mundane weapon. It is of //us//. Must I continue?]" Baba Yaga retreats, and you let out a silent breath. She pulls a stool from one of the dim corners of the shadowy room and sets it against the table. The old man's thin lips stretch into a smile. "(text-colour:blue)[Please, sit. What would you ask of us?]" [[Sit->C4P4]] Status: $hp/10

You obey, taking a seat on the stool. "(text-colour:green)[I want to know what's happening. Why do I have this knife, what nearly killed me back in the dugouts, what //are// you?]" you blurt. The old man raises his eyebrows. "(text-colour:blue)[Well, you have many questions. I shall start with this last one.]" You nearly jump out of your skin as Baba Yaga's hand appears near yours, setting a porcelain teacup and saucer in front of you. "(text-colour:blue)[Tea?]" the old man asks. He gestures to a plain cast iron teapot that sits in the middle of the table. (set: $tea to false) You cast a furtive glance at his teacup. A viscous brown fluid sits in his cup, nothing like any tea you've seen before. It smells sweet. [["Yes, please."->C4P4D]] [["No, thank you."->C4P4R]] Status: $hp/10

The old man smiles and lifts the teapot. The spout tilts and the thick, rust-colored liquid drips heavily into your cup. Baba Yaga crawls back into her seat and watches you curiously. You lift the teacup. The pool of murk jiggles as you lift it to your lips. You screw your eyes shut and open your mouth. This, as you soon realize, is a mistake. The noxious substance touches your tongue and your throat closes. The old man looks at you expectantly as you fight the urge to retch. You feel the thick, oily fluid coat your tongue. It tastes of salt, copper, and what you remember dirt tasting like, and you swear you can feel something //moving// through it, wriggling atop your tongue. [[''Swallow.''->C4P4S]] Status: $hp/10

You try to make your voice firm, but the sight of Baba Yaga crawling to her seat on your evaporates any hope of fortitude. (set: $fear to $fear + 1) "(text-colour:green)[I- uh, I'm here for a-answers, n-not tea.]" You explain quietly. Baba Yaga huffs, earning a stern look from the old man. "(text-colour:blue)[Very well,]" he says. [[Continue->C4P5]] Status: $hp/10

"(text-colour:blue)[Now, have you taken a life before?]" the old man asks. "(if: $gaskill is true)[(text-colour:blue)[Perhaps by watching a man choke to death on his own viscera? While you stand, holding the means to his salvation merely inches away?]] (if: $madsenkill is true)[(text-colour:blue)[Maybe it was showered in someone's lifeblood as you lose yourself to instinct and fear? With a very old, very hungry ''knife'' in your hand?]] (text-colour:blue)[Was it with a bayonet buried deep in his gut?]" You shift uncomfortably in your seat as the old man's tone slowly grows in excitement. "(text-colour:blue)[Ah yes, I see it your eyes. That revulsion wriggling behind them. (if: $tea is true)[That cold, hard pit squirming in your stomach.] Why, I see that we are already acquainted,]" he says with a soft chuckle. "(text-colour:blue)[But no matter, I shall introduce myself again, so that we might be //reacquainted//. After all, killing gets so... //comfortable// after a time, doesn't it?]" The old man stands and bows with practiced grace. "(text-colour:blue)[I am the ''Haruspex''.]" "And I am Baba Yaga," says Baba Yaga, remaining in her seat. Another glare from the (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] makes her press herself into the corner between her chair and the wall like a scared cat. You're shaking again, not at the nightmare witch this time, but at the skinny old man who could make her cower like this. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] retakes his place at the table and smiles amicably at you. [["What made you?"->C4P6]] Status: $hp/10

You manage to keep from gagging long enough to choke the liquid down. You grimace as it slides down your throat. (set: $courage to $courage + 1) The old man leans forward, the smile still on his lips. He claps a hand on your shoulder. (set: $tea to true) "(text-colour:blue)[There's a good soldier!]" he exclaims. "(text-colour:blue)[Just like taking your medicine, eh? Castor oil cannot hold a candle to my good tea.]" You don't respond. Your stomach turns and rumbles and bile climbs your throat. [[Continue->C4P5]] Status: $hp/10

The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] thinks for a moment. "(text-colour:blue)[You have.]" You frown, your brow furrowed. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex'']'s oily smile creeps onto his face again. He laughs a short, humorless laugh. "(text-colour:blue)[I apologize, discomfort is... the land to my nobility, one might say. To be more specific, all of you created me. Us, even.]" At this, he gestures to Baba Yaga, who has returned to her silent disquiet. "(text-colour:blue)[Even that is inaccurate. We are two of a kind, but the witch is below me. You see, what Koshchey the Deathless told you is true. It is more specific to them, but the same can be said for me. Stories and belief are what gives life to the unnatural things that haunt the forests and tundras of Russia. But folklore is not universal, no matter what some might believe. Different names come to the lips of storytellers, and different deeds follow. But I //am//. Even since before human lips could pronounce '//enuma elish//' or 'in the beginning,' I existed. I was a brainless thing back then, of course. After all, animals cannot think like men, and men likewise cannot think like gods, no matter how hard they may try.]" "(text-colour:green)[Get to the point,]" you interrupt. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex'']'s grandiose meandering has grown tiresome. He smirks, cocking his head. "(text-colour:blue)[What concept is universal? So engrained on every living creature's bone and sinew as to be an inseparable element of their existence?]" [["Death?"->C4P7]] Status: $hp/10

The ''(text-colour:blue)[Haruspex]'' sucks air through clenched teeth. "(text-colour:blue)[Ever so close, my friend. Though if we were death, then we would hardly exist. People percieve death in many different ways. Have you ever been to Mexico? No, I am //violence//,]" he hisses. He gestures to the ''hunting knife'' on your belt. (text-colour:blue)[So is the] (text-colour:red)[''beast''] (text-colour:blue)[in that ''knife'', although he is... desperation, as your Deathless friend has told you. As is the] (text-colour:grey)[''Sanguine''](text-colour:blue)[. There are others, of course. Desperation, sadism, and digust are not the only faces of violence.]" The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] sinks back into his chair and pours himself another cup of... tea. As he gingerly sips his tea, Baba Yaga speaks up. "Russia is no longer her own," she says softly. "My existence is more diluted than ever. Imagine a river delta. Several streams branching out from the same source, sometimes mingling, sometimes separating. But then the dam breaks, or the snow melts, or the river floods, and a deluge of water pours from the river's mouth, until there are no streams, just a solid, unstoppable rush of water. This war is the dam that broke, the glacier that melted. I am being swept away. So is your friend, the Deathless one." At this, the (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] chuckles. "(text-colour:blue)[He is as stubborn as his epithet implies. He is quite ingenuitive, reviving belief by avoiding his fated death time and again on the battlefield. He may yet persist. And who knows,]" he continues, looking to Baba Yaga. "(text-colour:blue)[Maybe you too will be revived by Koshchey's new believers. Or maybe by some historian seeking the stories of years long past.] His eyes return to yours. "(text-colour:blue)[However, I believe you have another, more pressing problem than the death of your legends.]" [["The plans for the Offensives."->C4P8]] Status: $hp/10

"(text-colour:blue)[Well, Russia, more specifically,]" the (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] says. "(text-colour:blue)[You know that she cannot continue on like this. Many hunger for violence. They pray for the] (text-colour:yellow)[''Pellar''](text-colour:blue)[, so they might taste of his righteous anger. Personally, I do not blame them. I get stronger every day, with every starved beggar, every frozen refugee. But I know humans. The center will not, //cannot//, hold.]" "(text-colour:green)[Then what am I supposed to do? You know things, don't you? Then tell me!]" The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] smiles that thin-lipped, smug smile again. He stands and marches to the door. When you don't follow, he turns to look at you. "(text-colour:blue)[Well, are you coming? You want answers, do you not?]" Baba Yaga stands and lopes to his side. You obey. You get to your feet and follow the strange duo. [[You step into the early-morning sun.->C4P9]] Status: $hp/10

The chicken-legged house had returned to its lazy spinning, almost sending you sprawling onto the old wooden floorboards as you take your first steps back outside. Baba Yaga moves with practiced elegance for once, swaying with the hut's movement. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] simply takes one dignified step at a time in his muddy officer's boots, undisturbed by the movement of the cabin. A frigid breeze penetrates the clearing. You find yourself wondering how the house could be even colder than a freezing Russian spring, or why you didn't feel the motion of the hut when you rose from your seat inside. Your thoughts are interrupted as the house kneels. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] and Baba Yaga step onto the leaf-covered dirt. You quickly scramble to your feet and follow them. The three of you make your way to the German graveyard where Koshchey stands, wiping sweat from his brow with a bony hand. His eyes settle upon you first. "Ah, hello, my friend! I told you she only has the taste for children!" he exclaims. Baba Yaga snorts. "Then I should eat you, you spindly knave!" she retorts. Koshchey laughs before he turns to the (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex'']. "I see you've found a body to keep you company in your declining years," he says. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] ignores the comment, instead walking to the center of the graveyard. "(text-colour:blue)[Now,]" he says, "(text-colour:blue)[to business.]" [["What do you mean?"->C4P10]] Status: $hp/10

The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] lifts his arms, and the ground shakes. Dirt, both fresh and old, begins to crumble away from the mounds of earth that cover the bodies of the dead. Though the graves had been new, the bodies were not. The sickly sweet stench of rotting flesh and the musty smell of moldering fabric swells from the pits, now exposed to the elements, and mixes with the rich aroma of earth in a haze that brings tears to your eyes and bile to your throat. Even Baba Yaga is overwhelmed, as the three of you begin coughing and hacking. (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] turns, a grin on his face. "(text-colour:blue)[This is what I //live// for!]" he shouts. Sickening cracks and rips and sucking noises split the air as exposed ribs and fingerbones shatter and bits of shrapnel from wounds and bullets and buttons tear free from old muscle and fabric. Pebbles and stones lift from the dirt and mud of the graves. Each shard of bone, metal, and rock levitates, drifting slowly towards the (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex'']'s outstretched arms. Suddenly, in the distance, you hear the same noises emanate from the Russian graveyard. You flinch as similar debris whizzes just overhead and joins the disk of particles. The cloud grows smaller and denser, almost blocking out the sun entirely at one point until each piece suddenly slots perfectly together. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] approaches you and presents you with a seamless patchwork of the debris, formed into a smooth replica of an organ you recognize as a human liver. He smiles again. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] lifts his left hand and a corpse slowly rises into the air, limbs, neck, jaw, and expression slack, eyes unseeing. [[Continue->C4P11]]

The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] sets the corspe at your feet. A single bullethole stares at you from the dead man's belly, and when the (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] raises his hand again, clawlike, the eye fills with red tears. Blood wells in the wound, as though the corpse's heart still beat in its chest. "Now," the (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] instructs. "Now, you will immerse the ''stone''." Wordlessly, you obey. You crouch over the body and drop the ''stone'' into the blood of the dead man. As you stare into the wound, waiting for something to happen, the world drops into darkness. [[Continue->C4P12]] Status: $hp/10

A fortress appears in your mind, from far above. It stands ten miles behind enemy lines, its concrete battered by artillery and chipped by countless bulletholes. Next, a room, dark but for the golden glow of lamplight that emanates from a lantern on a long, wooden table. Scattered among supply manifests, casualty reports, telegrams, reinforcement requests, and maps, there is a sheaf of papers. Men crowd around the table, each one wearing a Wehrmacht command uniform. Officers of every rank scan the papers, revealing the last attempt at salvation a cowering aristocracy had manifested from fear and anger and disgust. It was the last chance to restore the status quo, and it was being dissected under the analytical eyes of those who would finally put each and every one of your cowardly, soft 'betters' in the dirt, whether they knew it or not. [[The vision ends.->C4P13]] Status: $hp/10

You awaken from the vision, falling to your knees and spluttering. Koshchey kneels beside you, shaking you by your collar. "Are you alright, my friend?" he asks, frowning. You nod, still coughing. As the feeling creeps back into your fingers, you realize that you're clutching the (text-colour:blue)[''stone''] to your chest, cold and wet with the corpse's dead blood. You retch, the absence of warmth somehow worse than the humid stickiness of a living man's blood. The (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] and Baba Yaga are already halfway back to the hut. "(text-colour:blue)[No need to thank me,]" the (text-colour:blue)[''Haruspex''] calls. "(text-colour:blue)[We shall meet again! In the meantime, it is only right that I stay by a dying woman's bedside. Especially since I am the disease from which she suffers.]" His rasping voice echoes through the now-silent forest. Your eyes meet Koshchey's as you pant, shivering from the cold blood soaking through your uniform. "(text-colour:green)[I know where the plans are.]" [[End]] Status: $hp/10

(align:"=><=")+(box:"=XXX=")[= #''END'' ''To be continued'' Happiness engineered by Eric Blessman Lore by Nick Eaddy Characters by Spencer Hawks Plot by David Jacques

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Content Warning:
This story contains descriptions of violence, blood, and war.

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