I left it ambiguous as to Andrei's fate.
Poor Moritz. I keep doing nasty things to him, but he's sleeping now. Sorry I couldn't include more of the Russian assault, I'll get round to it next post when he wakes up.
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Oberschütze Moritz Greiter
HP: |||||||||||||||||||| 60%
Weapon Slot 1: PPSh-41 | 71/0 7.62×25mm
Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞
Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2
Item Slot 2: <Empty>
The first of the Russians made a bold peek into the office. Moritz was ready and depressed the trigger of his PPSh-41, but the weapon failed to fire. In a panic, he beat at the weapon with his left hand. The monstrous roar of his adversary's weapon opening up compelled Mortiz to seek the safety of the cabinet. A shot smashed into the top of his helmet with such force that the strap broke around his chin, and he was cast onto his back. In a daze, and with a wet feeling expanding down his neck, Moritz covered his head as more bullets thudded into the room. Plaster was torn from the walls, the decrepit window was blasted into near non-existence and a cart load of months old paperwork took to the air like an enraged flock of birds.
A bullet pierced the cabinet, and Moritz felt something cut across his face. This was enough to sober him up, and with the Russian's submachine gun still blaring in full swing, Moritz unhooked an M24 grenade from his belt, and unscrewed the base. As the Russian's weapon fell silent, Moritz tossed the stick-shaped bomb towards the door of the office and then reached across and grabbed his weapon. The grenade went off with a deafening bang, and his hearing was torn from him - but not his senses. The PPSh-41 hadn't been cocked; an amateur mistake, but easily forgiven when one realized the circumstances. Moritz corrected his mistake, and rose to his knees.
Smoke clouded the door way, and the air was thick with plaster. With almost no credible visibility, he fired three short bursts in the general direction of his attacker. The recoil of the weapon wretched his bad shoulder, and if it were not for the fight-or-flight state his body was in, it would have been enough to put him on the ground crying for his mother. Someone shouted in Russian on the other side of the door, allowing for Moritz to gage their position. They were right of the door, towards the corner of the room. If there was one thing about Russian architecture - it was made of 100% nonsense. He depressed the trigger and dragged the weapon across the wall.
Two dozen bullets perforated the wall, and there was no return fire. Moritz knelt, half covered by the cabinet, and waited for any sign of survival. There was none, but Moritz was sure the Russians had plenty more where that came from. He cast a glance behind him, and took in the massive hole in the wall that had once been a simple window. The frame had been splintered into nothingness by the Russian's salvo, and what glass there was, had been reduced to an almost fine dust on the floor. He was tempted to see it as an escape route.
Right on cue, another Russian yelled. This one wasn't a man, but a woman- another woman! Moritz hastily readied another grenade, and threw it at the door way. Turning, he took a leap of faith - and a much more physical leap, right out of the window. He was two floors up, and had no idea what awaited him, but it was better than being cornered and shot like a dog.
He hit the oil tank hard, and was sliced and diced by its brittle carcass. The interior however, was full of thick grime, and it cushioned the fall. Driven by a madness few in their lives would ever witness, he clambered out. Slick from head to toe in black slime, Moritz limped off in no particular direction. His hearing was still badly muffled from the grenade, and his vision was distorted by the muck that caked his face. Wiping a hand across his brow, his heart sank as his eyes focused on the blurry image of a red flag racing towards him. It was some distance off, but that wasn't what took the courage out of him. The ground around the flag was alive with men, and they were storming towards the factory.
The machine guns of his countrymen thundered from above. Moritz looked up and saw dozens of rifles leaning out of the factory's second and third floor windows. He had to get back up there, get to safety. With the will of twenty men, he hugged the wall and slithered across to the nearest entrance. A rifle shot fell wide of him, and smashed into a pane of glass that lined the side of the doorway. Moritz was indifferent to the danger. His body hurt so much, and he was so very tired.
"Moritz!" screamed a familiar voice.
Moritz fell forwards, but was caught by a strong embrace.
"Where the Hell have you been you worthless pig dog? Thought you were getting out of our bet, did you?"
Moritz tried to place the voice to a name, but couldn't.
"You look like shit, what the fuck happened?"
"Come on you two, the Russos are coming to take this factory back, and I don't think a smoke on the porch would do us much good."
Moritz's vision grew dark, and his limbs light. The last thing he could remember, he was being carried up some stairs by several hands.
HP: |||||||||||||||||||| 60%
Weapon Slot 1: PPSh-41 | 71/0 7.62×25mm
Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞
Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2
Item Slot 2: <Empty>
The first of the Russians made a bold peek into the office. Moritz was ready and depressed the trigger of his PPSh-41, but the weapon failed to fire. In a panic, he beat at the weapon with his left hand. The monstrous roar of his adversary's weapon opening up compelled Mortiz to seek the safety of the cabinet. A shot smashed into the top of his helmet with such force that the strap broke around his chin, and he was cast onto his back. In a daze, and with a wet feeling expanding down his neck, Moritz covered his head as more bullets thudded into the room. Plaster was torn from the walls, the decrepit window was blasted into near non-existence and a cart load of months old paperwork took to the air like an enraged flock of birds.
A bullet pierced the cabinet, and Moritz felt something cut across his face. This was enough to sober him up, and with the Russian's submachine gun still blaring in full swing, Moritz unhooked an M24 grenade from his belt, and unscrewed the base. As the Russian's weapon fell silent, Moritz tossed the stick-shaped bomb towards the door of the office and then reached across and grabbed his weapon. The grenade went off with a deafening bang, and his hearing was torn from him - but not his senses. The PPSh-41 hadn't been cocked; an amateur mistake, but easily forgiven when one realized the circumstances. Moritz corrected his mistake, and rose to his knees.
Smoke clouded the door way, and the air was thick with plaster. With almost no credible visibility, he fired three short bursts in the general direction of his attacker. The recoil of the weapon wretched his bad shoulder, and if it were not for the fight-or-flight state his body was in, it would have been enough to put him on the ground crying for his mother. Someone shouted in Russian on the other side of the door, allowing for Moritz to gage their position. They were right of the door, towards the corner of the room. If there was one thing about Russian architecture - it was made of 100% nonsense. He depressed the trigger and dragged the weapon across the wall.
Two dozen bullets perforated the wall, and there was no return fire. Moritz knelt, half covered by the cabinet, and waited for any sign of survival. There was none, but Moritz was sure the Russians had plenty more where that came from. He cast a glance behind him, and took in the massive hole in the wall that had once been a simple window. The frame had been splintered into nothingness by the Russian's salvo, and what glass there was, had been reduced to an almost fine dust on the floor. He was tempted to see it as an escape route.
Right on cue, another Russian yelled. This one wasn't a man, but a woman- another woman! Moritz hastily readied another grenade, and threw it at the door way. Turning, he took a leap of faith - and a much more physical leap, right out of the window. He was two floors up, and had no idea what awaited him, but it was better than being cornered and shot like a dog.
He hit the oil tank hard, and was sliced and diced by its brittle carcass. The interior however, was full of thick grime, and it cushioned the fall. Driven by a madness few in their lives would ever witness, he clambered out. Slick from head to toe in black slime, Moritz limped off in no particular direction. His hearing was still badly muffled from the grenade, and his vision was distorted by the muck that caked his face. Wiping a hand across his brow, his heart sank as his eyes focused on the blurry image of a red flag racing towards him. It was some distance off, but that wasn't what took the courage out of him. The ground around the flag was alive with men, and they were storming towards the factory.
The machine guns of his countrymen thundered from above. Moritz looked up and saw dozens of rifles leaning out of the factory's second and third floor windows. He had to get back up there, get to safety. With the will of twenty men, he hugged the wall and slithered across to the nearest entrance. A rifle shot fell wide of him, and smashed into a pane of glass that lined the side of the doorway. Moritz was indifferent to the danger. His body hurt so much, and he was so very tired.
"Moritz!" screamed a familiar voice.
Moritz fell forwards, but was caught by a strong embrace.
"Where the Hell have you been you worthless pig dog? Thought you were getting out of our bet, did you?"
Moritz tried to place the voice to a name, but couldn't.
"You look like shit, what the fuck happened?"
"Come on you two, the Russos are coming to take this factory back, and I don't think a smoke on the porch would do us much good."
Moritz's vision grew dark, and his limbs light. The last thing he could remember, he was being carried up some stairs by several hands.
Jakeozzy said
XD!Oh, I uh.. I'm gonna give Moritz someone to deal with. ;3 Andrei is an NPC, so~ feel free to end 'em if you want.
Moritz has got a good 71 NPC encounters left in him.
If you guys have sex in a fountain I am going to get angry.
It wasn't supposed to be anyone in particular. I figured you guys were still going through your introduction phases, so I chose an anonymous tank factory for my guy to start before he made his way towards you - but looks like you guys are coming to me. It's okay though, plenty of fist-to-face contact to go around.
AdvancedJ3lly said
Oh, I guess I just didn't read it very closely.
No, you probably read it spot on. I just didn't mention things from the all-seeing-eye's perspective. Either way, the fact the factory has more or less fallen to the Germans would mean a death sentence for the survivors anyway, unless they were able to retake it with what little they had left!
AdvancedJ3lly said
Well, those Russians are all dead men.Gotta love order number 277.
They haven't abandoned the factory, they've fallen back after taking heavy losses. I'm sure a commissar would kill them all anyway if there was one around. But I'm sure there were innumerable instances where a Russian soldier backed off into another room in the face of overwhelming firepower.
EDIT: There are Russians still at large, as per Moritz's current situation, but with the third level taken, the Panzers can advance without being shot at from above. That was what I was getting at.
Oberschütze Moritz Greiter
HP: |||||||||||||||||||| 60%
Weapon Slot 1: Mauser Kar 98K | 2/15 8mm
Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞
Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2
Item Slot 2: <Empty>
Moritz's shoulder ached, and had started to freeze in place from untold tissue trauma. He tried to lean over and grab his rifle, but it was too painful to grasp it properly in both hands, and so he left it where it was. The battle above was winding down, and he could hear the deranged shouts of his fellow penal battalion comrades as they stormed forwards. It appeared the Russian garrison was in retreat, and with the third and final level of the factory complex taken, the gateway was open for the Sixteenth Panzer Division to press onto the next bloody engagement in the streets beyond.
Moritz climbed to his feet, shouldering the rifle awkwardly for later use. His right shoulder was a mess of blood and torn clothing, but the bleeding was slowing. If he made it out of this hell hole alive, he'd join a monastery and devote the rest of his life to God in thanks for sparing his measly existence from a collapsed lung. Nevertheless, the wound needed treatment, and sooner rather than later lest he succumb to infection. With this thought in mind, he carefully moved over to the office door with his bayonet held tightly in his left hand. He crept up to the door frame, leaned against it, and peaked out into the corridor beyond.
There were bodies laying around the place. Mostly Russians, but there were some of his countrymen. A detachment of the penal battalion had stormed through here an hour previous, and judging by the two Russians he murdered a few minutes ago, he guessed they either met their end or just plain didn't do a very good job of it. The fighting above had totally subsided now, and aside from the raging battle being fought outside by advancing panzers and their grenadier guardians against the Russians, everything seemed quiet and settled.
He advanced, sparing a glance at the MP40 laying on the floor next to the Russian he stabbed to death. He decided against taking it - it'd obviously jammed for a reason, and he didn't care for carrying a useless piece of metal around for later fruition. Not with his shoulder how it was, and not with the enemy possibly still at large. He slowly moved into the corridor, looked left and right to make sure it was clear, and then headed off towards a staircase at the far end. Offices, similar to the one that had offered him safety in his time of greatest need, lined either wall. He was careful to duck beneath the windows in their doors, and to listen out for activity inside. But there was nothing.
Moritz reached the stairway, and found the upwards route to have been completely caved in. A few glimmers of light shone through the rubble, and as he leaned forwards to peer through, he could see an open plaza dotted with craters and sandbag entrenchments. A lone red flag with the hammer and sickle floated in the middle of it all, and around it were piled the bodies of dozens of dead Russian soldiers. This was good, the left flank was secure and the Communists had been denied another strong point. Moritz wondered how long the Russians could keep this tenacious defense up - they had surely lost thousands and for what? A house here, a factory there and maybe a grain silo. Why was this place so important?
"Fucking Hitler," Moritz cursed under his breath, "the world stands at your feet, and you waste us in this heap of shit. This'll be the end of Germany, as we know it, and millions will curse your name."
There were heavy footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs, and so Moritz threw himself against the rubble and let his body go limp. He closed one eye, but left the other open just a peak. A Russian, wearing baggy combat gear and a badly dented helmet climbed up to the landing. He gave Moritz a quick look, and then moved on down the corridor with a PPSh-41 in hand. Moritz should have made his move to safety, should have go down the stairs and tried his luck with whatever was down there, but for some reason that Russian had to die. It was instinctual. Heighted adrenaline, the combined psychological stress of battle and extreme fatigue drove him forwards.
He was quiet, his bayonet held low, and he quickly made ground. The Russian checked one of the offices, and muttered something. Moritz stopped. This wasn't a man, this was a woman. There was no mistaking that pitch - unless the barbarians had resorted to throwing kids into the meat grinder. He hesitated; he'd never struck a woman in anger. He was about to move back towards the stairs when the Russian turned. Moritz had no choice, it was do or die, and he closed the gap in a second. His body struck his victim, and they tumbled to the ground. She tried to get her SMG up to his face, but he pounded her face with his fists until she was still.
Feeling like the stuff of sin, Moritz felt a tear roll down his cheek. He felt for her pulse, and found it - he hadn't killed her, but she wouldn't be winning any beauty contests for a while. This was good, Hell could wait a while longer. Curiously, he removed her helmet and was stunned by what he saw. She couldn't have been more than sixteen years old, and his gut sunk a few more inches at the realization. Disgusted, he picked up the PPSh-41 with his good hand, and checked it. The killing machine was heavy to wield, but comfortable to hold. With his shoulder the way it was, he figured he'd at least be able to fire a burst before the strength in his right arm failed him. This seemed to be a better option than trying to keep his rifle steady, let alone cock the bolt, and so he exchanged the weapons.
The girl carried no apparent ammo for the thing though, and Moritz, despite the awful things he had done in the service of the Fuhrer, was not about to go rooting through her underclothes. He unclipped the drum magazine, and it seemed to be full - 71 rounds would last him long enough to get himself killed, he was sure. Shoving the magazine back into place, he made for the stairway, hoping beyond hope that the girl would come to and make it out of this Hell, but the dark reality of the situation told him otherwise. Still, he wasn't going to be the man to pull the trigger, not today.
As he approached the stairs, he heard more footsteps. He hoped they belonged to his allies, but the fierce shouts of a language he had little understanding of told him otherwise. He doubled back into the nearest office, grabbed hold of a metal filing cabinet, and despite the protest of his shoulder he sent it crashing into the corridor. Not wasting any time, he dived behind it, and poised his PPSh-41 on top of its rusted form. The footsteps had stopped; his attackers no doubt startled by the loud bang of the metal cabinet hitting the floor. He was in for a siege.
HP: |||||||||||||||||||| 60%
Weapon Slot 1: Mauser Kar 98K | 2/15 8mm
Weapon Slot 2: M1884/98 III Bayonet | ∞
Item Slot 1: M24 Grenade | 2
Item Slot 2: <Empty>
Moritz's shoulder ached, and had started to freeze in place from untold tissue trauma. He tried to lean over and grab his rifle, but it was too painful to grasp it properly in both hands, and so he left it where it was. The battle above was winding down, and he could hear the deranged shouts of his fellow penal battalion comrades as they stormed forwards. It appeared the Russian garrison was in retreat, and with the third and final level of the factory complex taken, the gateway was open for the Sixteenth Panzer Division to press onto the next bloody engagement in the streets beyond.
Moritz climbed to his feet, shouldering the rifle awkwardly for later use. His right shoulder was a mess of blood and torn clothing, but the bleeding was slowing. If he made it out of this hell hole alive, he'd join a monastery and devote the rest of his life to God in thanks for sparing his measly existence from a collapsed lung. Nevertheless, the wound needed treatment, and sooner rather than later lest he succumb to infection. With this thought in mind, he carefully moved over to the office door with his bayonet held tightly in his left hand. He crept up to the door frame, leaned against it, and peaked out into the corridor beyond.
There were bodies laying around the place. Mostly Russians, but there were some of his countrymen. A detachment of the penal battalion had stormed through here an hour previous, and judging by the two Russians he murdered a few minutes ago, he guessed they either met their end or just plain didn't do a very good job of it. The fighting above had totally subsided now, and aside from the raging battle being fought outside by advancing panzers and their grenadier guardians against the Russians, everything seemed quiet and settled.
He advanced, sparing a glance at the MP40 laying on the floor next to the Russian he stabbed to death. He decided against taking it - it'd obviously jammed for a reason, and he didn't care for carrying a useless piece of metal around for later fruition. Not with his shoulder how it was, and not with the enemy possibly still at large. He slowly moved into the corridor, looked left and right to make sure it was clear, and then headed off towards a staircase at the far end. Offices, similar to the one that had offered him safety in his time of greatest need, lined either wall. He was careful to duck beneath the windows in their doors, and to listen out for activity inside. But there was nothing.
Moritz reached the stairway, and found the upwards route to have been completely caved in. A few glimmers of light shone through the rubble, and as he leaned forwards to peer through, he could see an open plaza dotted with craters and sandbag entrenchments. A lone red flag with the hammer and sickle floated in the middle of it all, and around it were piled the bodies of dozens of dead Russian soldiers. This was good, the left flank was secure and the Communists had been denied another strong point. Moritz wondered how long the Russians could keep this tenacious defense up - they had surely lost thousands and for what? A house here, a factory there and maybe a grain silo. Why was this place so important?
"Fucking Hitler," Moritz cursed under his breath, "the world stands at your feet, and you waste us in this heap of shit. This'll be the end of Germany, as we know it, and millions will curse your name."
There were heavy footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs, and so Moritz threw himself against the rubble and let his body go limp. He closed one eye, but left the other open just a peak. A Russian, wearing baggy combat gear and a badly dented helmet climbed up to the landing. He gave Moritz a quick look, and then moved on down the corridor with a PPSh-41 in hand. Moritz should have made his move to safety, should have go down the stairs and tried his luck with whatever was down there, but for some reason that Russian had to die. It was instinctual. Heighted adrenaline, the combined psychological stress of battle and extreme fatigue drove him forwards.
He was quiet, his bayonet held low, and he quickly made ground. The Russian checked one of the offices, and muttered something. Moritz stopped. This wasn't a man, this was a woman. There was no mistaking that pitch - unless the barbarians had resorted to throwing kids into the meat grinder. He hesitated; he'd never struck a woman in anger. He was about to move back towards the stairs when the Russian turned. Moritz had no choice, it was do or die, and he closed the gap in a second. His body struck his victim, and they tumbled to the ground. She tried to get her SMG up to his face, but he pounded her face with his fists until she was still.
Feeling like the stuff of sin, Moritz felt a tear roll down his cheek. He felt for her pulse, and found it - he hadn't killed her, but she wouldn't be winning any beauty contests for a while. This was good, Hell could wait a while longer. Curiously, he removed her helmet and was stunned by what he saw. She couldn't have been more than sixteen years old, and his gut sunk a few more inches at the realization. Disgusted, he picked up the PPSh-41 with his good hand, and checked it. The killing machine was heavy to wield, but comfortable to hold. With his shoulder the way it was, he figured he'd at least be able to fire a burst before the strength in his right arm failed him. This seemed to be a better option than trying to keep his rifle steady, let alone cock the bolt, and so he exchanged the weapons.
The girl carried no apparent ammo for the thing though, and Moritz, despite the awful things he had done in the service of the Fuhrer, was not about to go rooting through her underclothes. He unclipped the drum magazine, and it seemed to be full - 71 rounds would last him long enough to get himself killed, he was sure. Shoving the magazine back into place, he made for the stairway, hoping beyond hope that the girl would come to and make it out of this Hell, but the dark reality of the situation told him otherwise. Still, he wasn't going to be the man to pull the trigger, not today.
As he approached the stairs, he heard more footsteps. He hoped they belonged to his allies, but the fierce shouts of a language he had little understanding of told him otherwise. He doubled back into the nearest office, grabbed hold of a metal filing cabinet, and despite the protest of his shoulder he sent it crashing into the corridor. Not wasting any time, he dived behind it, and poised his PPSh-41 on top of its rusted form. The footsteps had stopped; his attackers no doubt startled by the loud bang of the metal cabinet hitting the floor. He was in for a siege.
Titanic said
Any hint on what the next world event is?
Why? You short of earthquakes and plagues?
This is Orysson, not Europe. Things have progressed and regressed differently. Twenty years of civil war have destroyed the region, politically and economically. Hundreds of thousands dead. Tradesmen, fallen, Kings and Lords overthrown. Brothers murdered by brothers, sisters sold into slavery. The fall of Bohaddon was a set back, not a leap forwards. We may have gunpowder, but this does not set us in the real 1600's.
Governments have not the resources to mass produce weapons and armor. Global trade has broken down. Professional soldiers demand pay, and are a much sought-after asset in this depressing landscape.
We haven't got millions of citizens, living under us and paying us a great deal in taxes. We have a few hundred thousand at best, and given that the land is so ravaged, the raising of an army of heavily armored knights, skilled archers and courageous skirmishers would take time.
Mercenaries are an option, but you better have the goods to pay them with, because they'll want more than your subjects would, I'd of thought.
But I digress. Get the resources. Get the wealth. Get the troops. I could go on until I'm blue in the face, so I'm just going to say this:
Carry on with what y'all doing, and if I see something I disagree with, I'll ask you to explain your actions and if I don't find them satisfactory, the World Events page will be mentioning you exclusively. :)
Governments have not the resources to mass produce weapons and armor. Global trade has broken down. Professional soldiers demand pay, and are a much sought-after asset in this depressing landscape.
We haven't got millions of citizens, living under us and paying us a great deal in taxes. We have a few hundred thousand at best, and given that the land is so ravaged, the raising of an army of heavily armored knights, skilled archers and courageous skirmishers would take time.
Mercenaries are an option, but you better have the goods to pay them with, because they'll want more than your subjects would, I'd of thought.
But I digress. Get the resources. Get the wealth. Get the troops. I could go on until I'm blue in the face, so I'm just going to say this:
Carry on with what y'all doing, and if I see something I disagree with, I'll ask you to explain your actions and if I don't find them satisfactory, the World Events page will be mentioning you exclusively. :)
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