Chapatrap — Roleplayer Guild

St. Nicholas Orthodox Church, Batumi

Built during the 1860's by Greek immigrants, the church held a certain flair that other mosques and churches in the city did not. Two large, square towers flanked the doors, which had been made of the finest oak. The stone was lime and decorated in parts with sandstone. Despite being handed over to the Georgian Orthodox community in the 30's, very little changes had been made. Years of dwindling congregations, low funds and lack of support from the Muslim-plurality had taken their toll on the church and what was once a proud church was now a run down shadow of its former self. On this particular morning, however, followers of Mohammed and Jesus Christ made their way inside respectfully.

The back pews had been removed for fire wood and the ones that remained were chipped and plagued with signs of wood worm. The floor was made of simple stone, rough to the touch. Fading light peered in from the large, stained window that hung over the Altar. It seemed the only part of the church kept in good shape were the remaining statues and paintings that depicted scenes from the New Testament. The altar's tabernacle had been ripped from the ground by long-gone Ottoman soldiers and the altar now resembled a glorified stage from which a simple book holder held a tattered bible. As the men took their seats on the pews, speaking in hushed tones, Father Botkevli and Elchin stood at the altar and patiently waited for silence. Silence came in moments as each man of the Guard realised where they were, in the house of God.

'Well, gentlemen. I'd first like to thank Father Botkevli for allowing us Muslim heathens into the church' started Elchin, stepping forward in front of the book stand. The Armenian rifle had been left at home but the strap still hung around his shoulders and he wore full Guard uniform. There was a light smattering of laughter among the Islamic men, who took the joke in good humour. 'I asked you all to come to the church this morning for a meeting of grave importance. Our usual meeting place isn't as large as this church, so I've decided it might be better if a majority of you listened in. As many of you have probably already heard, a certain slippery Armenian smuggler from Poti has decided it is too dangerous to make the trip down to Batumi every week with supplies, so we are completely cut off from the world. Our primary goal is make sure the people of this city stay safe with food in their bellies and a roof over their head. As General Polat masquerades as leader of his so-called 'Republic of Adjara', he decided recently to raise taxes of imported food in order to, in his words, 'protect the local agriculture' He paused, gauging the reactions of the men. All sat stony faced and grim, similar to how he had last night.

'We all know, of course, this is just his chance to line his pocket with a few more Turkish coins. Last night, the leaders of our organisation held a drastic meeting to decide what our next move would be. With the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, rising food prices and our limited resources being stretched even thinner, we came to a conclusion. We have two choices - disband the organisation or make a stand'. There was a collective cry of horror and surprise from the crowd of 50 men, who had grown fond of their place in the Guard. 'Calm down, lads. We chose the latter' smiled Elchin. There was a cheer from the men and some sighs of relief.

'Next Friday, we shall begin a march from the headquarters to Aziziye Square, working up a crowd. When we have acceptable numbers, we shall fell the statue of Sultan Suleiman III and occupy the square throughout the night. If the soldiers arrive, we all know what to do' The Guard cheered louder than before, feeling the hype. 'In the meantime, we are looking for anyone who can play a brass or drum instrument to volunteer in our march and play a few tunes, drop by Davit's house for more information. We're also asking that you keep quiet of this until next Tuesday - it is crucial to the march that people are aware of us yet not so aware that we're overwhelmed by Polat's troops. Now, any questions?'

'What about the Aziziye Mosque? Are we takin' that down too?' came a shout from the back of the room. 'No. The Imam is following a strict policy of neutrality in Batumi politics and we'd ask you all do the same. Guards shall be posted near the mosque to protect it from any potential troublemakers. The last thing we need is a Holy War between Christians and Muslims' answer Elchin, nodding to Botkevli. During Turkish rule, tensions between the two religious groups had occasionally resulted in clashes and Batumi was well know for it's Christian-Muslim plurality, something the Guard had tried to play down. Muslim or Christian, you were a Georgian national according to the Guard and could expect the same protection. Even so, a majority of the Guard was made up of ethnic Georgians, Russians and the occasional Armenian. Azeri's and a small group of Dagestani's made up the Islamic side of the Guard and it was crucial that the Guard showed no religious favouritism.

'What about the HQ? Are we abandoning it?' came another shout. 'No. Several small units shall be placed in crucial areas in the city but we expect most eyes shall be at the Square. The plan of the occupation is to get in contact with Polat himself and see if we can...negotiate a few terms' grinned Elchin, cracking a knuckle. There was laughter and cheers from the men, who all hated Polat as much as Elchin.

'Are we taking over the city?' shouted a guard. There was a pause before Elchin responded. 'I don't really know, friend. A lot of this is in the planning stages at the minute - I just thought a lot of you would like to know what's happening next week. Now, I think we should finish things up. Would you like to say a few words, Father Botkevli?'

The priest took his place beside Elchin. 'Yes, thank you. I'd just like to remind you all that our 'President/General Polat' does not distinguish between your race or religion. Just because you're an Azeri or a Catholic or a Georgian doesn't mean he shows you favouritism. He hates all of us equally, for we are nothing more than annoying flies to him. But his tyranny has gone on for too long - just yesterday, a young pregnant woman came to me looking for help. Her husband has disappeared, she says and she has no food. I gave her what I could but something became clear - our resources are low. I reckon I have a week more of resources left before I run out. People in this city are hungry, cold and dying. We must give it the kiss of life and by God, if that means killing General Demir Polat with the butt of his own rifle, then I would proudly do it myself!' said Botkevli, passion rattling his voice. The bearded priest received a roar of appreciation from the crowd, who began stamping their boots on the cracked stone floor and chanting 'BATUMI, BATUMI, BATUMI'.

Botkevli and Elchin joined in, the allure too strong. When the men finally calmed down after several minutes, all were red faced and hyped. 'Well, gentlemen, I believe this is the end of our meeting. I forgot to ask my son to write out the notes this time but fuck it. You're all on patrol in an hour, get going. We're still looking for men who can play in a band and remember - the march is next Friday, 6am sharp at HQ! Now, say your farewells and get on patrols - we've got Turks coming in at all sides but we won't falter with a bunch of lads like you in the Guard!'

There was a final cheer and a splattering of clapping from the men as they stood up to leave. Botkevli and Elchin retreated to a small room behind the altar and when the door slammed with a final bang, they shook hands and shared a hug. 'It went well, I think' said Botkevli, grinning behind his almighty beard.

'A bit too well, if you ask me. I bet half the city will know about our little march next Friday before the day ends' smiled the Azeri.

Guard Headquarters

When Giorgi Patarava came into the kitchen at 9 in the morning shirtless and wearing a pair of boxers, he hadn't expected see several men in full Guard uniform crowded around the table. 'Mornin', lad' said Davit cheerfully from the table. 'Morning, Dad' said Giorgi hesitantly, hovering around the door frame. 'Are you having a meeting or...-' 'No, we're going out' interrupted one of the men, standing to his feet. 'Just organising this little march thing Elchin was telling us about earlier. Pub later, Davit?' The Guard leader shook his head. 'Got shit to sort out. Another night, maybe'. The Guard nodded and the shuffled past Giorgi along with his unit.

When the front door closed, Giorgi welcomed himself into the cold kitchen. Davit sat at the table, in full uniform for once. 'You out this morning?' asked Giorgi, eyeing the uniform. 'Yeah' grunted Davit. 'Zugreb and Tamaz wanted to see me. They've been scoping the Square and spying on the barracks. It's not great news'. Giorgi picked up an uneaten piece of toast and took a seat across from his father. 'How come?' he said, spreading a precious square of butter on the toast. 'We don't know how many men Polat's got - sometimes there's a few hundred, last night there was near a thousand. And Tamaz thinks they might have a tank in those barracks' grumbled Davit, sipping on some tea. If there was one thing that wasn't in short supply in Batumi, it was tea. Massive tea plantations owned by Polat across the Adjarian Republic were worked on by thousands of natives for meagre pay. Polat apparently had some kind of deal with the Ottomans and delivered the tea across the Black Sea. However, with the collapse of the Ottomans, much of the tea was now being sold at cheap prices to shopkeepers who now had more tea than they knew what to do with. This loss in profits for Polat meant that high tariffs were put on importing food, so now everyone had tea but no biscuits to dip in it.

'A tank?' smiled Giorgi, bemused. 'Yeah. Not sure if they have any shells for it but it's probably used as a scare tactic. Polat hasn't been seen in three weeks as well, which means he's up to something' said Davit, clearly annoyed. 'Those lads I was just chatting to have orders for the march next Friday to try and find out where that slimy Turk has got to'.

'Speaking of the march, what are us Youths doing in it?' asked Giorgi, munching on some toast. 'You'll be near the back marching in line with Botkevli's congregation and behind the Liberation Force men' growled Davit, a warning to his son not to argue. His son frowned but did not speak. He instead noticed a copy of the 'Adjarian Press', a weekly newspaper that was heavily influenced by Demir Polat's regime. 'Will they be there?' he asked, showing Davit the paper. 'Hopefully not' snorted Davit. The Adjarian Press was notorious for it's pro-Polat bias and often reported on made-up stories of certain 'terrorist' organisations attacking Polat's tea plantations. In reality, a small unit of Guards based in the countryside under a man named Sabuari, a semi-insane guerilla fighter who had gotten fed up with hiding in the shadows of the city and had started a small hit-and-run force in hills, attacking isolated barracks and convoys. It was often jokingly said that Sabuari was better armed than the Batumi Georgian Guard as his force was so small yet well armed.

'Don't you have patrols?' asked Davit. 'Milidani said we're doing them this evening' replied Giorgi, not looking up from the newspaper. The two had a rather strange father-son relationship. They tended to argue a lot more than regular people and Davit was often quite gruff with his son but all the same, they had stayed close ever since Giorgi's mother had died. In times of hardship, they had protected each other and took offence at the suggestion that one of the pair was a 'useless old man' or a 'stupid fucking kid'.

The sun peered through the moth-eaten curtains of the kitchen window as father and son sat at the table, both engrossed in their own thoughts but relishing this moment. Both knew after the march, it would be a long time until they shared such a moment again.

Saoirse took her place beside the boy and stood in silence, glaring at the climbing wall and the single chord that swung slowly in front of her. It looked potentially life threatening and she sure as hell wasn't going to risk her life over some girl pride. The wall had pieces of moulded plastic attached as hand and foot holds but the wood of the climbing frame looked ready to fall down to the ground as soon as people reached the top. She placed a foot on the hold and tested it by stamping slightly on it. The entire structure seemed to wiggle a bit. Fuckin' hell. I'm not doin' this! She grimaced at thought of the chords getting potentially tangled and everyone falling to their deaths. But then again, a bunch of teenagers she hated falling to their deaths wouldn't be so bad. It might get her a few days off school. She didn't want to be involved in said falling however.

The boy next to her prepared himself quickly by attaching the harness and chord to himself to himself but beside him stood Norlandia, a look of confusion and annoyance on her face as she stared up the frame. She gave a glance to Saoirse and thankfully, it was a look of 'lets GTFO' rather than one of 'Good luck!'. There was silence along the frame as everyone looked on, determined. 'Fuck this, hey' said Saoirse loudly. The coach, with his large beer belly and uncomfortably tight shorts, came jogging (and subsequently huffing and puffing) up beside her. 'Is there a problem here, Saoirse?' he demanded, his eyes clouded from the residue of some party drug. It wouldn't come to a surprise to anyone that the various broken needles around school grounds came from his heroin abuse.

'Aye. I'll die if I do this!' she growled. 'Nonsense!' snorted the coach. 'I built this myself last night'. Some job, you drug addled wanker. 'It is a requirement of the school to take a part in these challenges unless you can cite a medical issue that prevents you from taking part. And you look fine to me, baby girl, if a little thin. Eat more, you'll get curves someday. Assets are needed by you ladies nowadays' he continued, lowering his voice at the part about her curves. Saoirse silently fumed to herself as she attached the harness and the chord. The coach moved onto another student struggling to attach a harness around her jowls. The Irish girl had already begun plotting, however. She glanced over at Norlandia and nodded.

'I'm not doing this' she mouthed, giving the coach the middle finger when his back was turned. The bastard deserved it, talking about her getting curves.

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