[b]Batumi, Georgia[/b]

On the outskirts of bleak Batumi, on a dirty abandoned street, a tall man walked upright. He didn't look at all bleak. In fact, he looked...chipper. Happy, one might say. In a serious way. He wore a suit similar to that of a European businessmen, complete with tie and black jacket. His hair was cut short and combed neatly. A pair of round glasses were balanced on his nose. He was clean cut, a feat almost unheard of in this city, as razors were in short supply. A large suitcase was held under one arm, while the other arm was dropped to his side, the hand in a pocket. Even his shoes, polished black, looked out of place. This man wasn't supposed to be in the city. This man was Zagreb Esadze, known by most under the alias Pikey. He looked the exact opposite of a pikey but that was why the name suited him. He was the opposite of the city around him.

Zagreb stopped in front of one house and squinted. It was identical to every house on the street. Broken, covered in boards and overgrown. The front gate lay in the long grass, leaving the small path to the door clear. Zagreb smiled. He was where he needed to be. He followed the path to the front door and without hesitation, knocked on one of the boards. The door opened almost immediately. The boards were an illusion, not nailed to the door frame at all. An Azeri peered out of the crack of the door. He was a younger man, probably no older than 25. Recognition lit to his face and he usered Zagreb into the house. The door was shut quickly behind him, clicking slightly. The street was once again silent and empty.

'Pikey. Good to see you, friend. Were your travels well?' whispered the young Azeri, a smile creasing his brown face. 'They were' answered Zagreb shortly. He did not recognise this lad but suspected he was a new recruit to the Guard. All the same, one doesn't reveal all their secrets to a guard. 'Good, good. Davit and my father are in the kitchen. I suspect you'll want to speak to them. Good luck, my friend'. Pikey nodded. He realised who this lad was now. A son of Elchin, an Azeri officer in the Guard.

The hall was dark. The floor was concrete, the floor having been ripped up. Stair led to an upper floor to his right and to his left, a closed door. It most likely led into a living room. At the end of the small hall, a door lay shut. The walls were bare. A small stool sat propped against the wall. A rifle sat beside, a chilling reminder that what happened in this building was punishable by death. Zagreb opened the door and was flooded with the warm feeling of recognition. This was the Guards base and had been for the last two years. It was a place some could call home. 

It had once been a dining room-kitchen. The floor was black stone and the walls were bare. A faux-marble work top hugged the kitchen walls and small windows let light into the dark room. An island sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a random assortment of chairs and stools. A boarded up door led to the small backgarden. The room smelt strongly of cigarette smoke, sweat and alcohol. Unwashed plates and dirty cups and bottles were piled next to a rusty sink that was attached into the work top. The island was covered by a large map of Georgia, with all the major cities and regions drawn out. A long shotgun sat atop of it along with a small pile of shells next to it. The room was dark, the only slivers of light coming from the windows. In the darkness, Pikey/Zagreb could see a short, fat man leaned over the map, writing furiously with a pencil. A sliver of light illuminated his writing space. The man glanced up at Zagreb and smiled. The pencil was dropped and the man jumped from his stool.

'Zagreb! How are you, my friend? How is Poti this time of year?' he smiled. He grabbed the tall man around the middle in a hearty hug. An overpowering smell of vodka crept into Zagreb's nostrils, seemingly burning his nose hairs. Zagreb placed an arm on the small, dirty man's shoulder as a way of friendship. 'Good, good. Poti smells better than Batumi any day' he smiled. The fat man let out a hearty laugh, from deep inside his thick chest. 'Pull a chair up. We must discuss your travels under a bottle of vodka' the man busied himself around the worktop as Zagreb sat down. 'I'd quite like to tell my travels under some light too' he murmured to himself. The fat man heard him and opened the blind to the dirty kitchen. The backgarden was as bad as the front. Over the backgarden wall, the broken blocks of flats could be clearly seen, right down to every broken window. He blinked furiously in the sunlight as he set about pouring out three vodka glasses. The years had not been good the leader of the Guards. He had grown fat and pale from spending much time inside. His beard was now fully grey and the little hair head left was lank and greasy. He wore a stained white vest, dark coloured trousers and a pair of slippers. This man was the leader of the Georgian Guard, Davit Patarava. And despite how he might of looked to outsiders, Davit was a hero, a genius and a friendly man, if a bit quiet sometimes.

He dropped a glass next to Zagreb and sat opposite to him. He took a long gulp from his glass. Zagreb didn't touch his. 'I would offer Elchin a glass but he is going through a 'spiritual phase' or something' he acknowledged the Azeri collapsed out on the floor, fast asleep. The Azeri had grown his dark beard long and knotted, unkempt. Zagreb felt disgusted as he looked at Elchin. This was the man who was to lead their forces into battle. A 'devout' Muslim who had lived in Batumi his entire life who was usually found drunk, eating pork or beating the Jesus out of people who annoyed him. Zagreb hated the bastard.

'Zagreb' Davit was serious now. 'Tell me everything about Poti'. Zagreb's eyes were torn away from the drunken Azeri on the ground and to the eyes of Davit. 'First, I want to show you something' he answered. He lifted the heavy suitcase to the table and clicked it open. It was completely empty. He felt the sides of the suitcase and his fingers came across what he was looking for. He pressed the button and a click was followed by the bottom opening. It was a secret compartment, hidden within the bottom of the case. Davit watched patiently as Zagreb shifted through papers. He shuffled the papers into a messy pile and dropped them next to the case. Underneath, moulded perfectly into the velvet of the suitcase, was a weapon the Guard had never used before.

[url=http://precipiceofwarroleplay.wikia.com/wiki/K19_Battle_Rifle]An Armenian K19 Battle Rifle.[/url]

Zagreb lifted the rifle from it's secret compartment and held it to the light. Davit looked impressed. 'Well. What is that?' smiled Davit, knowing perfectly well what is was. 'Found it in Poti. Could of brought a few cases of ammo with me but they were too heavy, so I just brought a few clips.' The tall Georgian grabbed dropped a few clips of ammo onto the table. He handed the rifle to Davit, who balanced it in his hands and tested it weight. 'Bleeding Armenian's are invading bastards. But they make some nice guns' he murmured. 'Do you think we could get a few more of these?' Zagreb shrugged. 'Perhaps. I just found this in some shop in Poti for 5 lira. The keeper said he 'borrowed' it from one of the Armenian stragglers a few months back. I think the Poti Defence Force, the militia over there, is using them now'. Davit looked impressed and placed the gun onto the table. 'Tell me more about the political landscape in Poti' he asked. Zagreb closed his case and dropped it beside his feet. 'The Armenian's left the place a shithole. Used it as a naval base and then fucking left it to itself. A group of ultranationalist's took it over. They call themselves the 'Poti Defence Force'. I tried getting in contact with a few of them but they told me to sod off. They've declared Poti the true Georgian Republic and put some Orthodox nutter as the top man. A man named Nakin. No one knows his real name'. Davit nodded throughout. 'What about Abkhazia? Has it settled down up there?'

'No. Ever since Tamaz Nakini disappeared, the place has gone to shit. Ossetians are trying to invade but the Abkhazians are having none of it. All while they're arguing amongst themselves over how to run the place. You've got communists, fascist, even a monarchy movement. That's according to the Abkhazians I met in Poti, anyway. Tamaz was a clever bastard, even if he was a Dagi. He kept the place going. But ever since he's disappeared, a big power vacuum opened up and now every fucker from here to Timbuktu want's to make an Abkhazian republic. Really, it's a mess. Any hopes we had with contacting the leaders up there are dead and cold in the grave' Zagreb ended his report. Davit swore under his breath. He had been hoping for the Abkhazians to pull through. But they hadn't. They were too busy arguing about politics.

A silence befell the two men as they kept to their own thoughts. The only noise came from a bird singing outside and occasional snort from the drunk Azeri on the floor. 'How have things been around here?' asked Zagreb, breaking the silence. Davit banged his fist on the table suddenly and stood to his feet, his face twisted in anger. 'Absolutely shit. We lost four smugglers last month bringing food into the city. They've started taxing the fuck out of everything coming into Batumi and everything leaving Batumi. We lost a squad on the north side to a group of bloody Turks under the command of Altan. Morale is getting low and the recruits are drying up' the short leader placed a hand to cover his eyes. 'One smuggler left. An Armenian sod, he is. Brings through the Sea, bless his soul. We're putting him and his crew under protection in case the Turks get pissy with him in the docks. If he's gone, we lose all hope of feeding anyone. '

'Who's protecting him?' asked Zagreb, taken aback by Davit's sudden outburst. 'Sabas and his band of merry fucking boys' growled Davit, removing his hand from eyes.