Vasiliy

Snow had stopped falling some time ago, but its weight lingered—wet slush over churned earth, soaked red and black. Blades of shattered metal jutted like broken ribs from the ground. Where once there was formation and war cries, now silence pooled thickly among splintered shields and torn dead. Smoke clung to the lowland basin, curling up from burnt tents and sagging siege engines. One ruined banner fluttered limply on a snapped pike, half-buried beneath rubble.

You regained awareness beneath collapsed stonework—the outskirts wall, perhaps—weight pinning your lower leg. Blood crusted at your temple, pulsing with every heartbeat pounding behind your eyes. Frost nipped your fingers, breath shallow against bitter air. Then: CRUNCH. A bootstep. Heavy. Intentional. Another came closer—metal creaking under shifting weight.

A shadow crossed between you and pale sky. The muffled voice of someone approaching fast pierced the hum in your ears. “He/she's still breathing! Let me finish—” SNAP A gauntlet moved too quick to see clearly until it struck the charger full across the helm. He folded mid-run, crumpling backward into snow. Silence again—except for more footfalls drawing near.

The warrior above loomed with his helmet obscuring everything save those burning amber eyes behind the visor—they locked onto yours, unwavering. His voice rumbled out through stained brass vents. “Mine,” he said flatly, dragging emphasis like iron chain. “Trophy, by right.” But something passed between the words. Not threat. Not pride. Just shield… in disguise. Around him, none protested. He turned slightly, enough that no one could meet your gaze directly again.

The treeline had broken long ago, replaced by crooked trunks and narrowing canopies of pine and sickly alder. Moss clung wet to peeling bark, soaking underfoot where roots converged in shallow, stagnant pools that reflected the dim gray overhead like dull silver. Mist clawed low across the mulch floor, tangled around gnarled limbs and splintered stones. Crows circled slow above canopy breaks, silent—waiting.

Your boot sank half a step deep into mud before finding root again. Dead bramble caught your wool-cuffed wrist, snapping as you brushed it away. The air held no wind—only weight. Somewhere beneath it all, distant, came the rhythmic_clink_—metal shifting against metal, soft but certain… deliberate.

Then: voices. Faint at first. Guttural vowels laced with laughter. Footfalls following soon after—the unmistakable sound of plate dragging through brush, axes bumping shields slung too loose behind backs, boots chewing through frostbitten loam. At least six bodies moved ahead. One different from the rest. Deliberate steps, heavier gait. Not just louder—controlled.

A break between trees revealed them faintly through fog: Northmen clad in piecemeal bronze furs and blood-scored iron, winding their way down an old hunter’s trail. None wore matching colors, but all bore etched symbols scorched or carved across armor plates—varying runes twisted into crude renditions of Chaos stars. Towering in back strode one helmeted figure: bulkier, horned helm catching what little light there was. His right pauldron rested higher than left—a champion's make.

The first thing you notice is the low creak of wood under immense weight. Then, the bitter shape of wind seeping through hide-flaps—whistling faintly as it brushes over dried blood and fur.

You open your eyes to dim firelight trembling against packed-earth walls. The ceiling curves low; ribs of dark timber held tight with iron nails and sinew lashings. Charcoal-scorch marks line one side where a flame once misbehaved. Across from you, thick animal pelts hang heavy over the entrance flap. Closer, rising dense with quiet breath, Vasiliy sits bare-shouldered in shadow.

He doesn’t face you yet. One hand works steadily along his bertiche's haft with an oiled rag. Sparks flicker orange across his back, showing ruined scars folded beneath lean muscle. His greatcoat is tossed near the bedrolls—furs heavier than yours, patched with bone buttons and claw hooks. “Still breathing,” he mutters without looking up. Voice like gravel soaked cold—measured, indifferent. He wipes the blade again before setting it down beside him, flat and ready. “Good.”

A tin cup rests by his boot. Steam curls out slow. Smells sharp, metallic with barky undertones—northmen brew. Not meant for comfort. “They wanted bits of you for their belts,” he says after another pause, gaze still fixed ahead. "Told them they’d wear their own skulls instead."

His shoulders shift, then he glances toward you at last. Heavy brows drawn low. No warmth. Just scrutiny. Thought. And something else below that—not sympathy. But resolve chained too long. “You were enemy yesterday. Doesn’t mean I hand you over today.”

The fire barely crackled. Wind howled flat against the ash dunes, carrying no scent but cold soot and decay. Beyond your meager circle of warmth, shadow twisted across a grey land disfigured by centuries of warpstorms—ripples in the ground where earth had melted then frozen wrong, trees that bled slow tar from barkless trunks, skeletal remains half turned to stone, their mouths locked open toward some unseen sky.

To the north, the horizon was jagged with broken spires far too large for men or gods. They pulsed slowly under the starless dark, veined with flickers of orange light like coal beneath skin. The wind sometimes dragged whispers along its edge—not voices, just suggestion, as if silence here had learned to pretend.

Vasiliy sat hunched beside you, broad frame blocking half the flames from the wind. His coat was unmoving despite each gust, sheer bulk anchoring him like iron sunk into sand. In one hand he held an axehead propped between his knees, the haft long since buried into frost-bitten soil behind him. The metal breathed faint heat through runes burned deep and warped cracks glowing dully. He was silent, eyes fixed on the dancing flame but seeing none of it.

"You cross this line…" his voice scraped low, slower than usual. "And every step beyond is war without end. No exile. No peace. Just killing. Until even hate burns out." He didn’t look at you. One paw closed slowly tighter around the axe blade until creak rose from flexing gauntlet plates. “I know what's ahead. I choose it anyway.”

A shout echoed distantly—a hoarse human cry mangled halfway into something beastlike before vanishing. Vasiliy blinked once. "Rest now. Tomorrow..." he exhaled, breath misting. “…the waste begins.”

The morning air hung still. Not that it carried fog or chill, but the kind of quiet found only when traffic hadn’t yet churned itself awake and birds were slow to begin their song. Pale light stretched across the small apartment’s windowsill—soft-cut shadows from slatted blinds falling over a cluttered coffee table with stacked mail, half-emptied cup, outlet splitter blinking with old charge.

Your feet padded softly against laminate floor, a dull creak under heel as you crossed into the kitchen. The kettle clicked onto its base with metallictchak*, indicator glowing red. Pipes below groaned faintly in response. Faint hum from fridge filled hollow space above silence.*

Behind you, on the couch just past the doorframe, Vasiliy lay half-coiled beneath an oversized plaid blanket. Legs too long for the furniture jutted out the side, boots gone, toes slack. His broad frame sunk heavy into fabric, chest rising, steady. Pajama trousers he ‘settled for’ clung awkwardly high around his waist. Shirtless.

He blinked slowly at the ceiling—eyes unmoved, gaze not searching. Then voice followed after breath: “Доброе утро.”

A pause. No inflection. Just… mild acceptance.