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This page conserves the character fiction forum of the Agora forums. The posts have been left unformatted to make it easier for users to copy them here and paste them into the new forums.

Oren Itanooren12/10/08 18:25View
Missy12/10/08 22:22View
The backstory of Vulpes.Vulpes12/11/08 01:46View
Erica KesselErica Kessel12/11/08 07:52View
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The EssexHeir Maelstrom12/29/08 04:23View
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God Was On Her Lips As She Diederinnic01/02/09 23:31View
Love and Betrayal - A New Beginningkessjuliesse01/03/09 13:46View
The Diary of Cody Woodhencodywoodhen01/05/09 21:35View
Missy's Story Part 6: Innocence AbductedMissy01/07/09 06:23View
Cursed BladeYannis_Martynov01/08/09 21:27View
Story Thread: Community Round Robin Ficerinnic01/09/09 23:25View
The demon withinCanly Fargis01/11/09 16:14View
Ziau- CoLA's Very Own CasanovaZiau01/13/09 02:09View
Twisted Attentionserinnic01/21/09 20:34View
Inspiration- music and roleplayZiau01/26/09 08:01View
Compilation! Where were you when it all happened?Ziau01/28/09 09:12View
The Clock Struck MidnightMalice Ashdene01/28/09 22:31View
With Precision- a poem by Kelly Welch A.k.A Ziau Jua.Ziau01/29/09 04:36View
Alisa's dicovery of a new world (character sheet + story)Alisa Draconia01/30/09 19:17View
The Shadow Stepper- Ziau the Enshadowed.Ziau02/01/09 07:26View
Krista Lemon arrives to the streets of Lost AngelsKrista02/03/09 00:09View
Back Story Upto the Excile of Rune.RuneCrimson02/03/09 21:59View
War with the Brood, war with the Coven, and the Pack.Ziau02/07/09 04:11View
-- Halcyon's Backstory --Halcyon Nacht02/08/09 00:22View
Planer/Exonar family (aka, Erinyse, Khalan, Viridian, Cummere, Selena)Cummere Mayo02/08/09 03:53View
Kit's BackstoryKit Ristow02/10/09 18:40View
Eyes in the DarkKeyla02/11/09 09:47View
Surfacing Part ILlyr02/13/09 22:21View
Surfacing Part IILlyr02/13/09 22:35View
Tama-Chan: A Cat's Story (Tamara's background)Tamara02/17/09 07:35View
Project: A map of Post Apocalypse North AmericaTamara02/17/09 19:21View
Dreamtime RevelationsWinter02/19/09 18:08View
Reaver-the echo of the BlackwindAntiZero02/23/09 00:43View
On the Origin of SpeciesTamara02/25/09 22:38View
ConfessionKit Ristow02/26/09 01:39View
Personnel File: Pointe, Zsuzsanna C. (Inactive, Deceased)Su Pointe02/26/09 03:32View
Malice, in a Different Kind of WonderlandMalice Ashdene02/27/09 18:07View
The Dark of InspirationKit Ristow03/01/09 21:42View
Jheric: CrucifiedKayle Ashdene03/03/09 10:53View
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Story About A GirlAesendria04/24/09 15:34View
Climaxe by Smith and WessonSloan04/28/09 06:19View
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**NSFW** A Typical Tuesday Night for MissyMissy05/06/09 20:48View
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The Vanguard's True PurposeLogan05/16/09 01:03View
Cortero's Infernal ArmorCortero Landar05/16/09 06:52View
Bookstore SurpriseAesendria05/16/09 23:16View
Post your profile links if you have in-story info in them!Cortero Landar05/18/09 10:33View
PromisesAesendria05/24/09 02:44View
Cyber Evolution Bios, Anur Seda, Cyber Reaper, and Commander of CETheassassin06/08/09 11:28View
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Going homeLudvig06/17/09 19:10View
'Ren in Japanoren06/18/09 23:11View
Thelma across the boardThelemaJuliesse06/26/09 15:09View
Pre-fiction: How Kayteear got here.Kayteear07/15/09 16:43View
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Pack Airship RP.Tai07/27/09 02:49View
My CharacterLilith1308/05/09 22:34View
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Why selling coffins is impossible in CoLAZiau08/23/09 04:14View
Paint it red!Ziau08/23/09 07:51View
Young Cowards.Ziau08/23/09 08:28View
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ZiauSo, some people have asked what I am up to? I got a few projects, more than one for other people, and more than one for my own personal interest. My writing, for lack of a better wordage, is improving. I am using less bad grammar, though it is still there, and less run ons, though they are still there. I am not professional, I just like to write, and here is the first two and a half chapters of "Blood of New Dubinin" for all of those Russian RPers.

You play a character that has a love for the motherland, think you deserve a spot, drop me an IM, Ziau Jua.

Not guaranteeing a lead role, but I can work you in. And, instead of explaining too much, here is the first bit, fresh off of my rough draft word pad.

++The Blood of New Dubinin

"Gratitude is a sickness suffered by dogs."
~Joseph Stalin

"Fascism is capitalism in decay."
~Vladimir Lenin

"History shows that there are no invincible armies."
~Joseph Stalin

"One man with a gun can control 100 without one."
~Vladimir Lenin


This country, this country is a place where men are born to love their home, where women are born to love their families. This place was the home of the first human in space, this place, the single pivotal force that ended Nazi Germany as well as Imperial France under command of Napoleon. This country, the land where the fields bleed against the October sky our true colors, this very Motherland, it is where I speak to you from this moment. Behind me is the front lines, before me the hungry, starving, the weak. But, here in our Motherland, we do not falter, and we do not stop to fight for what is ours. And by my word, I swear, they cannot take our hammers and our sickles.

We bleed, ten million weary, ten million hearts and minds setting forth to topple the New Soviet Empire. The bombs, they fell, and the world was put into a black chaos that still has not subsided. Through the world's end, through the death's beginning, we will rise up and claim Mother Russia for ourselves, for we are the harbingers of the second October Revolution. We are the new Bolsheviks, we are fighting for Socialism, and to topple Facism. And, my comrade, you think you have heard pain, you have heard nothing until you have heard this tale.

++++The Bread Line:.
The sky was a gray backdrop canvas, like that when you got your picture taken in school it was a plethora of colors as well as grays. As it was depicted behind the children, the mothers, the soldiers, nothing more than a gray backdrop to a tell tale photo. The year, who knew the year anymore, no one felt time, no one felt much of anything. There were fancy weapons, and there were exquisite vehicles and televisions, all of which the people of the New Soviet Empire lacked the pockets for. It was post-Apocalypse, far after Wormwood had crossed the sky and painted it blazing flames and black. Though, the Blood of New Dubinin stayed red.

Love for their country, for their homes, for their people, that was what the sleepy little mining town held true. After Dubinin, just outside of Stalingrad, was leveled, the people reformed, rebuilt. Perestroika, Glasnost, the cities were rebuilt as was the economy, the government, nothing but great changes for the motherland. These people were easily the most unshakable wills that the world had seen. People scarred, wounded, dieing, people whom still went to work with the Yellow Fever, people whom coughed up blood and still nailed their own coffin together. The people of Ziau's hometown were good people, and these people were cursed to the salvation of the New Soviet Empire.

Two boys, both with black hair, pale skin, freckles and tiny little voices that would melt your heart if they had ever sung. They stood in line, they waited, speaking in low whispers as they were handed a half loaf of bread to take home to their families. "Move along!" Said the soldier at the table, shoving a half loaf to one boy, but not the other. "Move along peasant!" And the second boy looked up over the table in fear, as the soldier in Kevlar body armor growled down at the pair with a stubble clad chin, and furrowed brows. "B-but officer, we are not of the sa-"

The butt of the soldier's rifle came up and cracked the boy across the brow, a simple motion. He had stood, kicked his chair out and jabbed him, "Move along!" Next, his gloved fingers shot up and cocked his rifle, a little click as the safety was switched off. A woman, older, in her forties, she flung herself forward shrieking. She wore shawls of purple and gold, shawls laced with beads, and had a face that was still soft for her age. The shriek was soft, even for a cry of despair, her hands moving for the gun as he aimed it at the knocked down boy. The soldier would only take a large step to the side and roar out, "Unhand me Kulak!"

The birds in the trees along the edge of the town square, what birds had survived the conditions that is, flew away as a single shot rang out. It was a shot that rang out and nothing replied, not a scream, not a moan, a single shot and silence. The gray sky still rolled by, the woman in the purple shawl, an upper class peasant's wife, was left laying in her own blood. "A whole loaf to the man who rids me of this mess." Said the soldier with a gruff tone, his rear returning to his chair and his rifle being placed yet again by his side. From the line stepped out and hooked his arms under her and began to drag her off. The Soldier reached into his sack, tore a loaf in half, and tossed it to the boy as he has just regained his footing.

"Move along, next time no talking in line, I may mistake you for brothers again." Looking up, a fearful teenager stepped forward, shaking, waiting for his bread. The line for bread was a harsh condition for the families. The man who ran the country, Lenyn Gubrysev, was a dictator that hid under the symbol of Hammer and Sickle. The hammer and the sickle stood for union of the Worker Proletariat, and the Working Peasants of the country, a mockery with that symbol. Instead of working for what was best for the people, unionizing like before the wars and Wormwood, before democracy even, he took from them. Provisioning them with a half loaf of bread twice a day, making them work long hours, and ruling it all with an iron fist and a well trained army.

There was no union, workers were miserable, peasants were miserable, and only a few families of Kulaks were able to reside in the edged of towns, generally friends and family of the soldiers and nationals that were close to Gubrysev. The woman whom the soldier had slain, she was more than likely the mother to a soldier just like him, or a aunt, perhaps a sister. Her death, though, would go without any repercussion to the gunman, she helped a Bukuyish boy, a pauper, the dirt of the country to the higher ups.

"Do you think I do this to be a monster? To be mean?" The soldier stood and started calling out to the hundred or so still left in line. "We give you bread, we give you safety from the raiders out there in the wastes, and we give you homes. All we ask is you make us rifles, grow us grain, thread our uniforms. All we ask is you comply and you do not question us, and take what you can get." The soldier pointed at the blood puddle where the woman who had been shot had bled out. "She was a fool, trying to help a rat like him-" The boy had already left for home, "Let your own business be your own, and everyone else's too. All to themselves, for your business is your life, ungrateful swine." The soldier spat to the dirt across the tabletop and sat back down, "Next please."

Ziau was a wolf that spoke the world of his home country. He loved the sky, the fields, the very cracked and parched dirt it all rested on. The ride in the shuttle out of the port was a quick one, but Ziau loved all that he could see out of the window. He had come in off of a ship, fresh out of the Pacifica Territory, he had come to visit his home, and his family. His mother and father, they had died long ago, she was chasing him, and his father in combat. Though, back home, he had uncles and aunts, cousins and friends whom he still loved. The trip home would cost him the better part of two days, but it was well worth it to the Lycan.

Ziau stood about five foot nine, he had gray and black velvet ears on top of his head and a bushy matching colored tail. Rosy tan skin, pierced lips, and black eyes with crimson glints that when you stared into them, stirred your very soul. He was primal, more wolf than man, and his creators surely had made him with perfection in mind. For the trip he tucked his tail away, wore a beret, which he also tucked his ears into. Lycans, people whom were infected with Lycanthropy, otherwise known as werewolves, were not uncommon as well as never trusted. Instead of pick fights he dressed the occaison and decided to keep his bus and boat rides silent.

Originally the wolf had left with a large weighted blade, the post-Apocalypse weapon of choice, as it always killed. Though, when he boarded he knew he would have to leave it behind, along with his Beretta Ninety Two FS. Both of his weapons were what he lived by, slaughter and swordplay. The blood he spilled was always red, the guts he wrenched were always the same light pink patterned with swirls and swatches of purple inlay. Ziau was a beast, and the scent of the life force which dripped out of others always made his mouth water and his eyes narrow to thin lines.

Shifting in his seat, he eagerly watched the countryside flicker by, a mere half hour from home. The shuttle, an old school bus which survived the bombs and shards of Wormwood, was packed to nearly three pers eat. Though, Ziau sat alone, perhaps it was his vibe, or perhaps his speech, only tinged Russian, but gravelly, nasally, cocky. The wolf leaned to the side, looked up the aisles, not a single head was turned, all facing forward. The wolf, he was in for a huge surprise when he got home, when he saw what Lenyn Gubrysev had done to his home. Ziau would see his wrath, and meet it with his own.

"Next please!" A boy would approach as the soldier called out. "Well, what have we here?" The boy was the same from earlier, his face swollen, bruised where the rifle's butt had collided with his skull. "Si-sir, we are s-so hungry, c-can we p-perhaps trade f-" The soldier roars out with laughter, leaning back in his chair, only to slip back forward and let the legs crash with the ground roughly as he actually spit in the boy's face as he spoke. "You think a BUKUYISH like you can trade something useful to ME!?" The young one became redder than the Soviet Flag, bowing his head. "Surely, you play me for a FOOL beggar, hoping I would feel sorry and waive anything you would pretend to offer me."

He shook his head from side to side, denying such accusations, the boy simply squeaks out, "I h-have a puppy, g-got it for-" The soldier reached for his rifle, and snarled, "Silence, I have no use for a DOG! The animal is worth more than you, Bukuyish, you are FILTH!" Bringing his arms back, the rifle in hands, the sway sounding off as air was bent for his actions. The soldier was going to strike the boy off of his feet, his effort ringing out as he grunted the word, "PEST!" The gun blew past the thin barrier of the atmosphere, ready to collide, ready to break him open, and he didn't even shy away or cover himself. Just as you expected the blunt force of his face being crushed, a hand stopped the rifle with ease, only a light patter of a palm taking the blow.

"Excuse me," Ziau said, his black hair fluttering past his gaze, a mop that hung straight past his shoulders, nearly masking his red and black eyes. "You were not going to strike this boy, were you now?" The soldier snorted, pulling the gun back and shouldering the stock, cocking it and pointing the muzzle at Ziau, "You help the Bukuyish, hm Kulak?" The soldier raised his brows and bared his teeth like a starving mutt, wanting more bloodshed. "And if I do?" Ziau responds, flicking his gaze over to the man, his voice shakily spilling from his chest as if it were filling with water. That liquid sound, however, was hate, pure hatred for what he had seen, and for what he was preparing to have to commit.

The gunman pulled the trigger, not once, but ten times, and all of them rang out with surges of power so nerve shattering, that the people in line jumped. Ziau had stood there, his palm out, seven holes scattered around his row of four that were held upright. Pain burned through him, and from the holes in his chest and shoulder. The Lycan took ten bullets from a mid caliber rifle, even then at close range, more than enough to kill a man, or a crowd of men. The soldier looked accomplished, though Ziau lumbered forward and swung his unused right paw for his jaw. The impact was like a cinder block being stomped to pieces, the motion nothing more than a tattooed streak across the gray lighting. On his back, his gun flung to the side, the agent of the Neo Soviet Thirty Second Infantry finally cowered in fear.

It was a quick motion, like it had all happened before anyone could take a breath, Ziau's body pressed to the man's, knee pinning shoulders on each side. Slamming his fists into him, over and over, Ziau struck the soldier more than twenty times before he spit into his crushed in face, stood, and looked back at the line of fifteen strong. "Anyone care to tell me why this man is trying to shoot children in our town?" Ziau's voice was like the voice of a savior, like the voice of a hero come to wear the Soviet Flag as a cape and keep the town safe as it slept. "B-bread line," said the boy, "H-he w-was giving us brea-bread." Ziau perked his brows and walked around the table, leaning down, his bullet holes already closing up. "So he tried to shoot you, foolish reasoning, dah?" The boy was terrified, but he smirked, "You must not be from Russia."

++++The Gunsmith and his Son:.
"So you live here by yourself?" Ziau asked the boy, sitting at a wooden table, digging a knife into his shoulder, popping a cap from his flesh and letting it clatter to the floor. The boy would stare at him from across the table in the dim light. "N-no, my father lives here too, he used to be a gunsmith." Ziau looks up at him, quickly, jerking upward with his glance as if the boy had cursed aloud. "Your name is Puuyish?" Ziau asked with a bit of a whisper to his voice. "Y-yeah, you have heard of us, but where?" Ziau would snicker, shake his head, and drop the knife to the table, "I grew up here, I have been gone for a while, a very long while. I came back to see my friends and family, your father was making guns back when I was a boy, taught me about them and their safety."

The child would grin, his freckles only adding to the strain in his face as he would make such an expression. "Yeah, he is still alive, me and him and my dog Claude live here." The wolf snickers, "You mean the puppy you tried to sell for bread?" The boy would only shake his head, "He is a small dog, I trade him for bread about three times a week. The soldiers bring him home to give to their children, and he just runs away and back to me. I have seen him come back from at least ten miles far, a good dog he is." Ziau only nods his head a few times, "Clever, very clever, you do what you have to do to get by." Standing, his host would simply move to the door on the other end of the kitchen, "Papa, we have a guest, and he says you know him."

From the confines of the black that the boy spoke into, a voice calls out, old, weak. "Tell him that I no longer make weapons, that I am a blind old coot, and that he should go seek out another smith." The child laughs, "It's not that man, a new one, he has black eyes like the night, with red glitters. He saved me from a soldier today, and he brought us some food." The door would not offer any response for a while, and the child returned to sit across from Ziau, silent, looking down at his hands. From that bedroom came a man, late seventies, wearing a parka and a pair of cargo pants, struggling and touching his way for sight. The man was blind, obviously so, and probably the reason that he no longer made weapons. His weathered hands offered him balance, while his week legs carried him to the table, his body finding a chair and his head bowing low.

"Saved young Winston, did you?" The boy looks up blushing, only to have Ziau reply. "It was nothing, really, I was only protecting my kin." The man would grin, Grandfather Puuyish, and tilt his head to face Ziau. It was evident he could not see, but it was as if he were even smelling Ziau, clawing out for his very aura. "Yes,... yes, I see that you are young, strong. Your name, if you do not mind me asking?" His accent was so thick it was nearly impossible for Ziau to register the words, a man too old to be well taught in trade language. "My name, Jua, the least Russian name for our-" And then the gunsmith would reach out for his face, "Spade my boy!" Oh that word, that name, it shattered Ziau's heart like a pane of glass. The shards would tumble and fall, hit the ground like a fresh snowfall, clatter and clamor in the night wind.

"Oh Spade, I am so glad that you came back, Winston! This is Spade Barrett Jua, he was-" Ziau cuts him off, "Spade is dead Mister Puuyish." The man would suddenly suck in a breath, drop his hands and let out a shaky reply. "Wh-what?" His face, though unseeing, would turn away so he did not have to show his despair. "Spade is dead, I am his little brother, Ziau Lxun Jua." Their names, all three of the brother, Ziau, Sinthorn, Spade, all themed names from the imagination of their father. He was obsessed with the oriental lands, and their cartoons, "Anime". Born in Russia, they had the least Russian names the entire town had seen, and everyone said so. "Sp-Spade is dead you say, but, h-how?" Ziau would bow his head, still fighting back the trembles that were shooting down his spine and up his frame, "The City we lived in overseas, it is a very dark one."

The lighting was so poor it was hard to see the dust that caked everything. The whiskey that Mister Puuyish had poured them was very bitter, aged, and it burned the Lycan's throat like napalm with every sip. Winston was asleep by the clock, on the floor with their little Shepard dog, no longer than three feet. Ziau tilted his head at the boy, "Your son, he is so young, and you are so old. How is that possible?" The gunsmith would chuckle, "I adopted him, he is from Iceland, land of no ice, dah?" Still chuckling, he takes a long drag on the whiskey, "Adopted him when I had my wife, and my sight, and Lenyn Gubrysev took reign."

Ziau grunted, a little bit of distaste for that name already. "He told you? Why you never knew that your homeland was being oppressed? Because our mail is all read before it is sent, if you speak ill of them, speak of their doings, you are hung. We are trapped, no one gets to escape, you only come in from the port, and then you work." The Russian Gray, Ziau himself, he narrows his gaze, that was right,.. Ziau was now trapped too. The boy had told him about how people came to visit their families, beckoned by fake letters written by the Fascists, and then sent to people with a small amount for their cheap fare by boat. Just like Ziau, he was beckoned by a letter, and a fare, which he never wound up spending.

Reaching into his pocket, the tight jeans on his hips and legs. Ziau began to read aloud, "Dear Ziau, how have things been? We traced you back to your new City, you leave trails like a bleeding peasant. People say that you and Spade and Sin are living well, a true life that your family would be proud of. How is life in the big city, even after Wormwood? I know it has been a long time, tens of years, but back home, we still speak your name. Spade too, he is missed greatly, truly a prime example of what our little town can create. You should come home, see beautiful New Dubinin for what it is, Spade and Sin too. Have you married? Well, we have not had a good mail carrier in some time, perhaps your reply won't be received, but we are sending you some fare, it is fifteen C.R.N.A dollars, enough for half of a boat fare to Italy. Come see us, we miss you, come see your people, come stay for a week and we will make it so that you never wish to leave again. Love, Aunt Mary."

The gunsmith growled, "Surely one of those import letters, they are trying to get all of the workforce they can out of families and unsuspecting immigrants." Ziau would only purse his lips, "So, New Dubinin, it is suffering then? Lenyn Gubrysev, he is doing this why? For power? For money?" Mister Puuyish would shake his head still, "Because he can, because this country is so dead that once you get here, without a boat home, you are trapped. No fuel, we heat our homes on scrap wood, we eat only bread and drink from sewers. It is far too much to handle, especially this long after democracy. I can remember when America was around, when they wouldn't allow this, but now, there is the C.R.N.A. Now, there is Wormwood's rubble, and nothing but death."

Ziau would return his gaze to the sleeping boy, "I am so sorry," the wolf would mutter, "Why not fight it?" Looking back to Mister Puuyish, whom could not so much as look back. "Because, if we fight, we die. There is no food, no shelter, just the military and their fancy equipment." Ziau would reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose, not quite understanding why and how this could happen, it was so illogical, so impossible. "Bu-but,.. no,. no that is literally impossible." Mister Puuyish would laugh aloud, causing Winston to stir, "When the world is thrown in chaos, the first man to rise up with enough force to be a leader calls the shots. When Wormwood crossed and anarchy ensued, Gubrysev took over the military, he was their general at the time. Using their force, their technology, he made the government his own. Finally, by the time the chaos died down, it was his Neo Soviet Army that had destroyed the riots, stopped the buildings from burning, and finally layed down the law."

Ziau snarls, leaning forward in his chair and finally awakening the dog and the boy with his outburst, "It is possible to stop them, why has no one tried!?" He was hollering now, the neighborhood's animals all stirring and causing commotion, and Mister Puuyish simply sighed to the reaction. "Because, why try, when you don't have the spirit to do so. He uses our Hammer and Sickle as a symbol, falsely, wrongly. He has our people, our soldiers, our flag, and all we have is a half of loaf a bread twice a day and shacks to sleep in when we aren't working." The table would be thrown a few feet back, the wolf would stand and start to roar out with fury. "This is OUR HOME! And you PEOPLE! You PEOPLE let it slip into something like this! I will walk into Gubrysgrad myself and hang that Fascist my his shoestrings!"

The night had gone by so fast, most of it far on the other end of the horizon, the morning sun beginning to peak, and Ziau was the only one awake. He thought it a quiet morning, though he would be mistaken, Mister Puuyish's door would be banged upon, voices heard arguing outside. Ziau wrenched the wooden divide, nearly yanking the hinges apart, snarling. Outside was three soldiers and an attack dog, ready, staring back at him. "How convenient, we didn't even need to force them to tell us where you were." Said one of the men in body armor, an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. "You are going to get fucked by the long cock of the Gulag, boy, outside and hands in the air." Ziau would perk a brow, the dog not even barking or snarling at him as he gently slammed the door shut in their faces.

Winston would be quivering with his dog, hiding under the kitchen table, "Z-Ziau,..wh-what do we do?" The wolf would shake his head, "I want you to stay inside, no matter what happens, I won't let them hurt you." Ziau would reach for his vest, it was a red and black parka vest, thick, filled with goose down. He would pull it onto his shoulders, his beret being left on the table, ears flopping about as he moved. He had been relaxing in a chair, his tail swished behind himself freely, and Winston knew, he knew what Ziau was. Without much warning, the door was blown to splinters, a grenade from the end of a mounted launcher blowing half of the house's wall clean off, and the dog rushing in first. Ziau was a canine, he spoke the same language as the dog would, he spoke with instinct, spoke with his body. First the dog would leap at him, and Ziau would throw him to the side, forcing the trained animal to slam into that same clock and shatter the front case.

Reaching for a fork on the table, he tucks his body when the dog charged again, burying it deep under one of his legs, and falling back with the force of the tackle. Like a Lycan would, he sends his own canines out for the dog's clamping down on his throat, the final blow, blood spraying down Ziau's chest and along his cheeks. Snarling, shaking his head, he would stand, black German Sheppard in his mouth by the throat, and he would stare back at three armed soldiers with wild eyes. His oculi were black, streaked with deep and vibrant swirls of crimson. They shone, bled out into light or darkness, warping reality with their ferocity. Jerking his head and tossing the dog aside, he spoke, "Who else seeks me out?"

First, a grenade collides with his shoulder, exploding on contact, and wheeling the wolf across the room and through a rocking chair. The same soldier would roar, a battle cry as he unloaded the entire clip at the Lycan. Ziau, though, was quick, resilient, and he scampered up and to the side to avoid the burst of rounds, only to charge, a ravaged and burnt shoulder slamming into the Kevlar vest of the Neo Soviet operative. It stung, the contact, like when you burnt a finger on something hot and a high or low temperature touched it. The man would fall back and against the floorboards, his gun clamouring with the wooden planks, and his dagger being unsheathed from his belt. Finally, a blade, Ziau's only means of perfection, a sharp and completely unhindered blade.

Throats gaped, first one being slashed from ear to ear, not expecting a man hit with a mounted grenade launcher round to the shoulder to be able to move so quick. The second, he tried to run, his collar jabbed three or four times before he fell and had his head stomped on from behind by the fierce and unrelenting boot of the Lycan. The stunned soldier, the one whom lost his gun and his blade, he stood and only looked up with fear as Ziau was inches from his face, knife pressed against his soft abdomen. "You go back to your base, and you tell them to fuck off, and if I see any of you in New Dubinin, I will ravage your whole army." Strong words for a single man, but at that moment, the soldier believed Ziau to be a god, an ill omen, or a demon.

Mister Puuyish died in his sleep that night, passed away happy, peaceful, unable to see what Winston had seen. It was not the ferocity, or the soldiers dieing the boy had seen, no, for the first time in his life he had seen a Hero. Standing there, in his home, nursing a large crater in his flesh, burnt, bleeding buckets, and all for the safety of him and his little dog, Claude. Ziau looked to him, though the boy's ears rang, and he didn't hear a word, he saw the concern in those black eyes. Standing, his drums more than likely ruptured, he scaled the room to Ziau, wrapping his arms around him, hugging him tightly. Ziau would sigh and bring a paw to his back, patting him. The wolf had said, "I am sorry, this was my fault-" But Winston didn't hear it, nor did he think it.

Mourning, it was not something that the boy knew how to do. He didn't even cry when his adoptive father was found dead only an hour later. The people of the town hated Ziau, hated him because they no longer got bread, no longer had safety. The violence was brought home, and no one alive in the town remembered the boy, but he was from New Dubinin, and he had every right to fight for it. "I do not want to bring you to salvation-" Ziau would start to recite to the mob, "I wish to bring you freedom, you may all save yourselves. Those whom wish to fight the Fascists, you may stay here with me. Those who wish to be oppressed, picked apart, given half of a loaf of bread twice a day, they you may gather your things and leave, because I will be killing any New Soviet Empire loyal by nightfall."

The people took different takes on the words, most left the town, but no more than forty stayed, Ziau was unsure wether it was because they had nothing, or if they wanted their homes back, but only six of them were even good to carry a pitchfork or shoot a rifle. They had three guns, three knives, those weapons of the disarmed or felled soldiers. Ziau carried the knife with him wherever he went, and within the four hours of his New October Revolution, he began to doubt himself. "What the FUCK am I doing? I don't even fucking know why I am going to die for the people that don't have the will to die for themselves." He paced back and forth, and as he looked across his small town, the boy, Winston said, "Ziau, can I fight? I want there to be peace in the Motherland again."

++++Perestroika and Glasnost:.
Perestroika, complete reform of economy and government, first used by Gorbachev in 1987. With this, Ziau sought also Glasnost, which was complete openness of the government, and it's politics. Ziau heard about this movement once, heard it and was proud it was his country that had started such a movement. Ziau wanted this for the New Soviet Empire, he wanted this for his Motherland, as vast and open as it's red fields were. Ziau saw this in his sudden claim of violence to his hometown, the sudden burst of anarchy that the wolf had incited. Soldiers stayed away, waiting, and sure, Ziau knew that in due time his free ride would be up. People, that was the best form of advertisement for such a movement, and people it was, and soon, pilgrims from all around the area would come to his town of freedom, come to starve and hide from the New Soviet Empire.

It had been three days and he had six weapons, more than that if you counted farming equipment, and a little over one hundred followers. They had come seeking revolution, come seeking refuge from the Soviet juggernaut. Ziau knew this would happen, for the people starved, they wanted food, and that is why they gave him their loyalty. The boy had told him that most of the area's food was made just a few miles away, and transported across the radius by soldiers and armored trucks. Bread, cheese, and small amounts of meat for the soldiers, this is what Ziau needed. Snarling, he spoke to the boy, "If it's food they want, then food they will get. I will go get enough food to feed us all for a year and then some, I will not have my soldiers starve, they cannot fight if they cannot stand."

Ziau looked down on the facility with hungry eyes. It looked more like a factory than a bakery. Men were let in all at once through a pen, all wearing gray jumpsuits, ready to make food for the soldiers and some of the people of their Motherland. Coming out, was different, there was a single exit. They were patted down and checked before being let go, as so they wouldn't steal food from the stations they worked at. Ziau widened his eyes as a man was caught smuggling cheese out in his underwear, they took him off to the side, pushed him to the dirt of the road, and put a bullet in his head. This was so disgusting to the wolf, he bared his teeth, crawling closer, fuck discretion, he was going to tear the bitch down.

Charging the gate, the soldiers immediately saw the red and black from the description, opening fire on Ziau as he had sprinted across the one hundred fifty yard gap. Bullet whipped past him, digging into the Earth, sending snaps and clouds of dust up as he met his first target and slammed the dagger into his eye socket.Tugging it free, the workers began to surge, moving quickly to aide Ziau. Perhaps they had heard of him taking New Dubinin, perhaps the believed he would actually make a difference. Every revolution started one man at a time, and Ziau was that man, because one man with a gun could control one hundred without. Ziau takes a throat, wrenches a gut, snaps a neck, and splits a skull. A small group of workers, twenty strong, they cheered as he began to lift the chain link fence from the ground. Squatting, gripping the bottom pole, and standing, Ziau tore the fence down with so much ease, so much lack of effort, the men stopped breathing for a short second to rethink their lives. Lycans were not unheard of, but they were extremely rare in such a nation. Ziau would skip the glories, he had more than just five guards to slaughter.

"Captain!" The soldier would call out as he ran into the office of Captain Mieres Forien, the man who ran the plant. He was on the phone with someone, snarling into the receiver, "One moment-" Covering the phone, "I know! I hear alarms when the go off, stop him you useless potato masher!" The Forien puts the phone back to his ear, screaming into it, his thin lips seeming to speak Russian faster than a mind could comprehend. He was tall, wore an even longer trench coat, a Russian Service cap, and he had short cut sandy brown hair. His features were angled, pointy almost, and ultimately he was a small man. Perched in his lips was a filter cigarette, a fancy kind from an expensive C.R.N.A import, the only kind high class smoked.

Slamming the phone down he yanked his desk drawer open and retrieved an old Makarov PM, it was aged, from the 80's at least. On the end was a silencer, and from the bottom an extended clip. Tucking it into his jacket he took a long grad on his smoke, and finally stubbed it out on the desk, walking through the office door and out into the factory. Looking down off of the catwalk, there was workers on both sides. One side there was bread and cheese, being packaged and set into boxes for shipping, the other side, old pre-Apocalypse guns slowly being cleaned and repaired by an even smaller work force.Gubrysev wanted them cleaned, repaired, salvaged, because rifles were hard to come by, and god knows how scarce resources were.

Fast walking to the stairs, down, and to the line, he pulls an old fashioned AK-47 from the first box he comes to and cocks it, "Rounds!" He growls to a worker, whom starts to tremble, fumbling for the little plastic boxes set on the floor for bullets that were left in. Grabbing a handful he holds them out, and Forien slaps them out of his grip. Pulling the magazine free, he slams it on the workbench, screaming, "Fill it!" The Captain reached into that same box and removed the magazine on another rifle, trading it for the filled one as the worker began to work as quick as possible through fear. Taking the second magazine and tucking it into his jacket with his pistol, he shoulders the rifle yet again and heads for the front door.

Ziau slammed the knife into a hamstring, twisting and pulling it out roughly. Spinning, he catches a round to the gut, two, three, and a fourth to the thigh. Finally, for the first time in Mother Russia, Ziau yelps. He falls back, thinking the worst, only for that operative to be brought down by a worker whom armed himself with a fallen soldier's gun. All of the workers were joining in, pulling rifles from the trucks, picking them up from the ground. All kinds, M14s, M42s, AK-47s, SMGs of all sorts. They were all rescued and refurbished rifles that had been found in caches, or on black markets that the Neo Soviets had invaded and taken over.

There was gunfire for the next hour, Ziau perched behind a Humvee, a rather old one, with his finger buried into his wounds, desperately trying to remove the rounds. Cries, cries from men that worked in the factory called out, teamwork, perfect unison. It was as if they had been trained in the military all of their lives, but joined under one purpose, freedom. His Lycanthropy made him patch up and regenerate wounds quickly, rapidly, unnaturally. But, he would not let them close up with rifle rounds dug into his flesh, his paws knuckle deep into his flesh. To his right a man with Kar98 was using the same Humvee as cover, only to have his head blown in by a well aimed shot. Ziau winced, and got a third round out, one to go.

"Lycan!" Forien would call out, "I have stopped your revolt!" Indeed gunshots had ceased their ringing, "Come out and die like a man!" The Captain had lost more men than the workers he had to put down, it was a count that sent surges of faith up the spines of any who heard of the battle that day, reform indeed, Ziau was going to grip Gubrysev by the throat and take his entire Empire from him. "Come out Lycan, come out and be put down like your filthy worker friends. Gubrysev will enjoy to hear that you were killed by-" Ziau had reached for the bolt action rifle and stood, sending a shot for the captain with a swift motion, almost a flurry. The blast not only rang the sensitive ears of the Lycan, but it bucked his powerful arms back with the raw power of the gun. Forien's knee would give out, as it was taken from him, his left, and he would topple to his front. Gripping his leg, he screams, the soldiers that remained collapsing to protect him.

Ziau brings the bolt of the rifle back as he drops back down behind the Humvee. Lycan indeed, Ziau refused to go down like that, his paw moving painfully back into his fourth wound on his thigh. It was not going to be allowed to close unless that bullet came out, which by feel, had split the bone. Turning his fingers the pain singed up and down his very limb, his eyes rolling closed, and his back bone nearly crumbling from the torture. Finally, the metal was grasped and pulled out, tossed aside as his blood coated fingers shakily moved to hug the stock of the gun. The screaming of the Captain did not stop, he was made into a fool, way too cocky for his own good, but now Ziau was pinned.

Gunfire never scared the Lycan, he would outrun human aim, but that was before he had taken a round to the leg, and in his injured condition, limping, he would be a sitting duck. Standing again, he aims the rifle, only to quickly hit the deck as a blaze of rounds flew over his head where he had just been placed. "Fuck that-" Ziau says to himself, rolling back onto his rear end, back up against the door. The armored vehicle was enough to protect him, but only if they stayed cowardly and didn't run around and try to ambush him from all sides. And, as he figured they would, just that happened, they started moving towards the vehicle, guns trained and ready.

Just as Ziau thought he was done for, an explosion rocked the side of the factory. Then, a second, finally a third. They were all on the same side, all of them seeming to send pieces of the wall into rubble, and sending the soldiers retreating, Captain drug along, away from the explosions. The vehicles, only partially loaded, were started up and driven over top of the clutter of the broken down fence, and down the dirt path and out of sight. Ziau stood, looking at the commotion, the bolt action rifle, bloody, worn down, in his right paw. "The FUCK was that!?" Ziau calls out, not expecting a reply.

"For the Motherland, brother!" Down the hill behind himself, sporting a mohawk, cargo shorts, and no shirt, Sinthorn Nagorski came sliding to a stop next to his brother. "Man, I got home, heard you were starting a revolution, and man-" Sin pulls back some mucus, and spits to the ground, "Fuck that noise, you ain't startin' SHIT with out me, because I am amazing." Sinthorn, RPG-7 in one paw, brings his free thumb to his chest, and nods, "FUCKING amazing." Ziau, without a word to say, just lumbers forward and hugs his brother.
05/01/09 06:42
molly switchbladeHappy May Day, Ziau. I'm wearing my Lenin pin today.05/01/09 19:00
Ziau[quote=molly switchblade]Happy May Day, Ziau. I'm wearing my Lenin pin today.[/quote]
I wish I had a Lenin pin D:
05/01/09 22:46
Su PointeI cast my Lenin pin into the dustbin of history where it belongs.05/02/09 00:52
Ziau[quote=Su Pointe]I cast my Lenin pin into the dustbin of history where it belongs.[/quote]
I will make you resent ever saying that.
05/02/09 02:16
Madchen KelberwitzNicely done.05/08/09 09:03
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