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 Posted: Tue Sep 29, 2009 1:03 pm
Suddenly, his room became too small to contain; he felt almost as lost in his own field.
There was something in the air which turned him anxious. He couldn’t note anything, what made everything even worse. He was terrified by this helpless feeling.
His eastern neighbour is up to something; it can’t be just occurrence, he demanded Tino to let him built some military basements within his own territory. He refused, of course, but he knew Russia won’t silent that issue. Perhaps he is up to something sooner than Tino could’ve expect; he knew Ivan well enough, to estimate his rather psychopathic sympathy to catch his ‘enemies’ unready.
But it either could be his good, old friend, Ludwig, who might betray him; his past experiences taught him he should be careful even with his friends. It almost hurt him, to think of the opportunity Ludwig could do something to him, but who knew his crazy boss and his obsessive vision for ‘a new world order’ than him.
Exhausted by those pestering thoughts, he signed, sinking into his chair, closing his eyes.
It was the 29th of November, 1939.
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Posted: Tue Sep 29, 2009 6:15 pm
~After the Shelling of Mainila~
Dear Comrade,
I must request you move your men away from my city of Mainila. They have opened fire on my people and I request an apology as well your movement ,or else you will feel the wrath of the Red Army.
-Ivan Braginski
Ivan smiles slowly putting his pen down. 'They died for the good of the Motherland', he tells himself. Throughout the years, Stalin has slowly numbed him, he did not feel the pain of his people anymore. If it helped the greater good of Soviet Russia, their deaths are justified.
His smile turns dark and he begins to chuckle lightly, the faces of terrified villagers racing through his head as he orders his own men to turn on the village. The spattering of blood staining the buildings and ground, warm, oh so warm. With that happy thought and the prospect of terrorizing Finland he rereads his letter one last time before turning off the light, and laying down in his enormous, cold, bed.
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Posted: Wed Sep 30, 2009 11:07 am
((Och, I completely forgot about that. xP)) What the hell is in his ill head?!
He almost ripped up the letter after reading it for the first time, stopping himself at once. He marched back and forth in his office before he sunk into his chair, taking a few, deep breaths.
Perhaps it was an accident, after all?
After he calmt down a bit, he approached his desk again.
“Dear Mr. Braginski,
Your letter have been brought to me earlier that day, and I was noticing an unfortunate misunderstanding you have noted, which I would like us to clarify.
Opposite your claims, my troops never sqeezed their trigger against a n y Soviet citizens; you know it well, and I can prove it. Nonetheless, I suggest us to hold a neutral investigation for that incident, to settle things down.
Regards,
T. Väinämöinen.”
They can fix it.
Right?...
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Posted: Wed Sep 30, 2009 4:51 pm
The date reads November 30th and there is a great clamor among the Russian soldiers as the prepare to invade.
-Hours previously-
He finished reading the letter and slowly set it down, hands shaking slightly. There is a gleam in the Russian's eye that the untrained might miss, blood lust. He had already made his decision before the Finn's reply came. He calls comrade Meretskov and gives him the orders to invade. His last words before hanging up being, "Oh what fun we will have!" followed by a fit of giggles.
-Currently-
Ivan is with his men in thick of it all. His grins stretches across his gore splattered face as if he could not be happier. He looks to the left and right, different faces greeted him. These were not the well trained soldiers he was used to. Stalin's paranoia had wiped half of them out replacing them with 'expendable' men. He felt a twinge of sorrow, then his boss's face appeared in his head and all such emotions were once again wiped away.
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Posted: Sat Oct 03, 2009 2:16 am
“At least we can’t say we weren’t expecting it.”
Tino almost slipped the receiver at the moment he heard Mannerheim’s calculated-as-always voice telling him the recent news. His hands were shaking, but his voice left stable. He could have heard the other man’s breathe from the other side of the phone. He took a few minutes to gather himself. “When?”
“As it seems, they were planning this for long ago.” Mannerheim cough gently before continuing, “they got that incident as their excuse.”
“Of course.”
“They have already reached the front line.” Mannerheim paused. “Our best people are doing their best to hold them back again.”
“I know, sir.” He bitten his lower lip for a second. “Do your best.”
“We will. I will call you later, to report recent developments.”
“Alright. Take care, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He hung on, barely gropes his way to his chair, as a blind. He was too tired to do anything else than just sitting there helplessly for the next, long minutes to come, his eyes closed as he was trying to analyse that pitty mess in his head.
There were in significent disadvantage over the Red Army; they knew that; they wouldn’t do it otherwise.
He wasn’t sure what his reacts should be: he knew as long as long as Mannerheim cares the situation, they are in good hands; but he should be there with his people, too.
Eventually, he made up his decision. He stood up, heading to his desk again, dialing the nubmer.
“Hallo.”
“Sir?”
“T... Tino?” Mannerheim said in surprise. “Is there anything wrong?”
He took a deep breathe before he spoke. “I am coming over,” he replied.
The both men paused for long minutes.
“Are you sure, Tino?”
“More than ever, sir.”
“Alright, then.” Mannerheim said after a minute. “We will be expecting you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
-After several hours-
Mannerheim himself was waiting for him when he got off the helicopter, leading him to a safe place as the Soviet artillery painted the skies. They both were dressed by their white camouflage uniforms, carrying their guns with them.
“We lost Terijoki,” Mannerheim cried as they reached the bunker, the tumult of falling bombshells silent their ears.
Uncontrolled wave of painful shiverings flows his body when that acknowledge reached his consciousness. He barely calmt himself enough to speak. “How many Bolševikit are there?”
“450,000.”
“450,000?!”
“Yes.” He couldn’t tell whether it’s just his imagination deceives him, or Mannerheim - the unbreakable Mannerheim - really sounds so tired by sudden?
But then he gave Tino a small, encouraging smile, putting his hand over his shoulder. “Tino,” he said, “our army is trained. We can make through it.”
“Yes, sir.”
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Posted: Mon Oct 05, 2009 4:29 pm
"How many?" He says is a voice hoarse from screaming. He takes another swig of vodka and lowers his head into his hands. He sits alone, General Winter a mere hallucination by his shoulder. The general gently caresses his cheek with a hand of pure ice. His hands, feet, nose, they are all burning with cold. He wipes his face with a sleeve before slamming the bottle down onto the table, making it quake. 'How many!" he repeats and his men out side turn in curiosity. Far too many for his tastes. His men are dieing from the cold, this event which is supposed to be routine!
He walks out of the flimsy tent and a gust catches his scarf. This war was supposed to last two weeks tops, yet his people were dieing. He walks up a useless tank, leaning against it and surveying the land. This Battle of Taipale does not bode well for his troops. Twenty-three, twenty-three tanks he counts. All of it has been for a lost.
He sees one of his men run up to him, panting slightly. Smiling slightly he evaluates the man, oh how fun it would be to crush his throat! Was this the cold, hunger, pain, or anger speaking? He was not sure which, but the thought brought light giggles to rise from his mouth.
"W-w-we need reinforcements, what are your orders, s-sir?" The man's eyes darts back and forth nervously. He knew Ivan's smile and it did not bode well. The man fidgeted slightly, the corner of Russia's mouth twitched.
"Send more in. The tanks failed so send in a third division" he says in a carefree tone.
He surveys the field, his soldiers with their khaki uniforms stood bright against the snow and white winter uniforms the Finns wore. They made up for number in their skill, spirit, and guerrilla tactics. For once his beautiful leader, Stalin, was wrong. Two weeks, neit.
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Posted: Thu Oct 29, 2009 12:19 pm
“They are sending more men.”
The both men - Tino and Mannerheim - bent upon the maps, where a thick, red line, marked the fragile border between the Soviet Union to their precious country.
“For how long, do you think we can hold them?” Tino barely dared to look at the other, who leant his forehead on his hand. He bitten his lower lip nervously as the other spoke,
“I am not sure. Not much, I am afraid.” He carried his eyes to Tino. “We have tactical advantage on them; they are not used for our, natural-for-us battle field, but our logistics is bad.”
He stood streight, as he has started to gather his maps.
“We received a lot of medical support,” he said by sudden, “mostly from Berwald.”
Tino could have felt slight blush covers his cheeks when the name reached his mind. “I thought he declared himself neutral.”
“He is neutral,” Mannerheim replied, “but it doesn’t prevent him to give us - and you - some help.”
“I understand.” He paused for a few seconds; then he checked his clock, emitting a small call. “Oh, I am about to go on guard now!”
He turned the other, saluting. Mannerheim saluted him as response, releasing him.
“I will call you whenever something happens, Tino,” he said. “Have a good watch.”
“Thank you, sir.”
-Currently-
The night, spread like a blanket above him, was quiet; his breathe froze under his white cloak.
From his stage, he could have seen the Soviet battalion collecting its new ammunition and people; a few metres away from the main gathering, he could have seen - tallest of all - Ivan’s figure. He was just standing there, with his bloody innocent smile, that shrunk his heart.
And uncovered.
If he only wish so, he could shut him down.
He pulled his gun, pointing it on the tall figure. His hands were still. He could see his stature clearly from the eyepiece, lifting the barrel a bit more to catch his head.
For a moment, he learnt his finger on trigger, ready to squeeze it; but on the last moment, he gave up; pulling down the barrel, he just looked on the other from his safe place.
No, not this time, he thought, nodding to himself.
Instead, he was waiting until his watch was over, then turned to the headquarter’s tent; while taking a deep breath, he picked up the phone and dialled Ivan’s number.
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Posted: Wed Nov 18, 2009 5:36 pm
Ivan flipps through his papers some more in vain before releasing a sigh filled with both frustration and extreme weariness. Taking a final swig from his bottle he tosses it aside with a pile of it's bretherin, he then leans back in this chair, eyes slipping closed. Shakey hands reach up to massage his throbbing temples.
-Currently-
A sudden bring jolts the tired man from his uneasy sleep. He sits straight up, not realizing when he had drifted unconcious and a little confused to his surroundings. It all comes rushing back to him in a wave of sorrow that he quickly packs away to look into at a later date.
He grabs the phone roughly and his childish voice fills the silent night "Privyet?" [Hi sorry this took so long, I've been super busy and have been waiting to reply till the guild became more active. I actually typed it all out the other day but then my computer died before I could send it.]
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Posted: Sat Nov 21, 2009 8:45 am
A sudden fear got him as he heard the familiar voice; the bitter memories of years of living under the same roof with Russia hit him in cold and sharp waves. For a moment all he wanted was to hang off, but soon he found the strength to get through it. He breathe deeply before saying with his toughest tone, “It’s me. Tino.”
[That’s okay, don’t worry about it. smile ]
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Posted: Mon Nov 23, 2009 4:26 pm
Ivan's brows furrows at the introduction. He gives a chuckle along with a slow grin, the type that does not need to be seen but can be felt. He leans back in his chair, sure this call was going to announce Finland's surrender, "What is you you want, my little comrade?" He puts an emphasis on the word 'little' and imagines his hands wrapped securely around the boy's neck.
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Posted: Fri Nov 27, 2009 2:52 am
Bittening his lower lip out of anxious, he squeezeed the receiver to stabilise his shivering hands. “You won’t get away from punish, Russia,” he said. “We are ten steps ahead. You better withraw your people now, or else you all will be crushed.”
He slanted his gaze to Denmark and Norway, who were standing a few metres away from him; they arrived a few hours earlier, to accomany their volunteers. Denmark smiled and knocked on his chest, as he was confirming he and Norway will follow him no matter what. Tino looked at them for a few seconds before he returned a slight smile of thanks.
“For once, Russia,” he added, strengthened by his friend’s presence, “observe your people’s sake.”
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