Across the Siberian Tundra: No SV, You Are Not Here to fight for the Revolution, You Are on an Adventure Across Revolutionary Russia

Meeting the Party

[] The Princess – You Were Never Supposed to Be Here. But Here You Are.
-----------------------
You are Anastasia Nikolaevna of the House of Romanov. Though that name seemed to mean less and less as you prowled through the snow-laden streets of Petrograd, swallowed whole by a city that no longer belonged to you—if it ever had. The world around you crackled with an energy so raw, so feverish, it left you unmoored. For all your life, the world had been ordered, and predictable. But now, the streets pulsed with something wild and unfamiliar, something violent. And you were adrift within it.

Two days ago, you were still Anastasia Nikolaevna of the Romanovs. You had been in the palace with your sisters and your little brother, playing with one of your beloved cameras. You remembered the anticipation as you raised the camera towards the mirror, capturing your own reflection. The promise of the image thrilled you, the idea that something beautiful might emerge from the developing process. You had wanted—needed—to forget the horror and bloodshed you had seen at the field hospitals, where you and your sisters had tended to the wounded alongside your mother. The faces of the dying, the stench of gangrene and blood, the distant sound of artillery—it had all followed you home like a shadow.

Your father had returned from the front that evening, drained of color, a ghost of the man you had known. His arguments with his generals had carried through the halls of the palace, clipped, tense, and filled with a quiet sort of desperation. You had never seen him so weary, so utterly defeated. You had wanted to speak to him, to offer some small comfort—but before you could, he had turned and gone to your mother instead.

For the briefest moment, hidden in the dim light of a corridor, you had seen something you had never seen before. He wept. His shoulders shook as he whispered something against your mother's shoulder—words you could not hear, but the weight of them pressed into your chest all the same. Grief. Dread. Failure.

And then, days later, he abdicated.

You had not been given time to understand it. You had barely grasped the enormity of it before you were separated from them—no, before he had separated you. You had expected to leave with them, to stay together as a family, but your father had pressed his hands to your shoulders, looked into your eyes, and spoken those words.

"Go. Leave Russia. Save yourself."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the middle of the street, shivering beneath the iron sky.

At first, you had been too stunned to move. As night fell and the winter air turned sharp as a blade, panic clawed at your throat. You had nearly gone to one of the police stations, thinking—hoping—that someone there would help you, that they might return you to your family.

But then you saw them.

Men with red banners. Men with red armbands. Men who laughed and swore that every royal they found would be put against a wall. Men who spoke of looting, of taking whatever they pleased, of making the old world pay.

You had frozen in place, heart hammering against your ribs, and then you had run—into the streets, into the cold, into the unknown.

And now you were here.

A dank, dimly lit bar filled with smoke and the scent of cheap liquor. The air was thick with murmurs and laughter, low and ugly. This place was filled with those who had been cast adrift—scoundrels, deserters, the desperate. Men who had lost, and men who wanted to forget.

You kept your head down, adjusting the thick, tattered coat you had stolen off a line in an alley. It smelled of sweat and vodka, but it had kept you warm. You pulled it tighter around yourself, your fingers lingering on the fabric of your dress beneath it—the last remnant of your old life.

As you made your way to an empty table, trying to quell the tremor in your hands, your eyes flickered over the room. You weren't alone.

Two figures stood out from the haze of smoke and shadow.

You did not know them.

Before you could take a single step toward the two figures who had caught your attention, a sharp pressure pressed against your side. Cold steel, hidden beneath the layers of your coat. A knife.

Your breath hitched. Fear coiled in your stomach, cold and immediate.

"Now, my dear princess," a voice whispered against your ear, low and intimate, yet carrying an unmistakable weight of danger.

A shiver ran down your spine. You wanted to scream, to shove him away, to bolt for the door—but the blade's presence held you still.

"If you want to live long enough to see the next sunrise, you will listen carefully to what I have to say. And you will sit down with me."

You swallowed hard, your pulse thundering in your ears. There was no choice.

With the blade ever so lightly nudging against your ribs, he guided you toward a shadowed corner booth. As you moved through the room, you became aware of how the bar seemed to quiet, as though the weight of something unseen had pressed upon the air. Conversations dimmed, wary eyes flickered toward you before looking away.

The man sighed as he slid into the seat across from you, finally withdrawing the knife and tucking it away. It was only then that you truly looked at him.

And recognition struck like a blow.

He adjusted his glasses, pulling a small, clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the lenses with careful, deliberate motions. Even in the dim light, his presence was familiar, though your mind struggled to place him among the memories of a life that felt further and further away.

Then he said your name.

"Anastasia."

The way he spoke it sent a jolt through you. He wasn't guessing. He knew.

He smiled as he placed his glasses back onto his face, peering at you with a look of quiet amusement—as if he had just stumbled upon something rare and unexpected.

"It seems you are lost."

Your throat felt tight. But you forced yourself to remain composed.

"What makes you think that?" you asked, keeping your voice even.

He leaned back slightly, regarding you with a knowing expression. "You are not with your parents. You have no guards. Though, that hardly matters anymore, does it? The Empire is no more."

A flicker of something bitter passed through his eyes. A memory, perhaps.

"But then again," he continued, "you already know that."

You hesitated. The words felt heavier when spoken aloud.

"I do," you admitted. Then, after a moment's pause, you added, "I'm trying to leave Russia."

The words tasted strange in your mouth.

You hesitated again. How much could you say? How much should you say?

"My father…" Your voice faltered, but you forced yourself to go on. "He told me to leave. He couldn't get anyone else out. But he made sure I could."

A flash of something unreadable passed across the man's face. He studied you now with sharp curiosity, as though trying to decipher something hidden beneath your words.

"And you are going to do that?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Leave your family? Abandon your home—for the sake of survival?"

Your chest tightened.

You don't want to leave them.

But your father had told you to.

The ache in your heart was unbearable. A splintering pain, deeper than fear, deeper than anything you had ever known.

And yet, in that moment, beneath the weight of expectation—his and your father's—you made your choice.

"I want to find them," you said, voice steadier than you felt. "And bring them with me."

There was a small chuckle, low and measured, tinged with something between amusement and condescension.

"That sounds like the opening of a storybook," the man mused. "A grand quest to reunite a lost princess with her loving family."

His lips curled into a knowing smile as he adjusted his glasses once more, this time with an air of mild amusement.

"But life is no fairy tale, Your Imperial Highness. And finding them will not be as easy as you may think."

You stiffened. His tone was not unkind, but it carried an undeniable weight—a quiet warning.

He studied you for a long moment before speaking again. "Tell me… do you know who I am?"

You searched his face, but nothing came to mind. He carried himself with an air of refinement, his posture straight, his every movement deliberate. His clothing, though subtly worn at the edges, was of fine make—expensive, tailored.

"You dress like a nobleman," you observed, keeping your voice neutral.

At that, he laughed. A real, genuine laugh. It was not cruel, nor mocking, but there was something in it that unsettled you.

"Well spotted," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Count Alexei Mikhailovich Rostov, at your service."

He executed a small, elegant bow from his seat, though the gesture was more theatrical than sincere, a touch of gallows humor in the midst of it all.

"As of two days ago, I no longer have my property. My estates, my wealth, my collections—seized by the Bolsheviks. My titles?" He gave a loose wave of his hand. "Stripped from me like an old coat. And yet…" He smirked, twirling the knife between his fingers as if it were a mere trinket. "I find that rather freeing. No attachments, no burdens. If I get caught, I have nothing left to lose."

His smile widened as the blade spun effortlessly between his fingers, catching the dim light of the bar.

"And now, my dear princess… you are part of my plot."

Before you could react, he made a subtle motion with his hand, and from the hazy candlelight of the bar's gloom, figures emerged—shadows given form.

The first to step forward was a man—an officer by the look of him, though his uniform was tattered, the fabric fraying at the edges. It had once been pristine, a testament to rank and service, but now it was just another relic of a fallen empire. A revolver hung at his side, its holster worn but well cared for, and a saber, though dulled with time, still rested at his hip. His boots, though caked with dirt, were not broken. His gloves, despite the hardships of war and exile, remained whole. There was discipline in him, even now.

The second was a woman—tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing, the kind of presence that could not be ignored. Her Cossack cap sat low over her forehead, casting a shadow over sharp, watchful eyes. She carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who had spent more time in the saddle than on solid ground. Her coat was thick, practical, and lined with dust from a long journey. She had the air of someone who had seen too much, lost too much, and now had little patience for pleasantries.

The third was different. A man who looked out of place—not for his clothing but for his movements. He was restless, shifting on his feet, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as if they longed for something familiar to hold onto. A pilot. You could see it in the way he moved, in the way he kept looking toward the ceiling, toward the sky beyond it, like a caged bird. His hands, calloused from gripping flight controls, seemed uneasy with the stillness of the earth beneath him.

Count Rostov chuckled, watching the silent exchange between you and the new arrivals.

"An interesting cast, wouldn't you say?" He gestured lazily toward them, then leaned in slightly, his voice lowering just enough to make you feel as though you were being drawn into some grand conspiracy.

Count Rostov leaned back against the worn leather of the booth, his fingers drumming lazily against the handle of his knife. His smirk widened as he gestured toward the trio standing before you, the dim light casting long shadows across their faces.

"Allow me to introduce my esteemed associates," he said, amusement lacing his tone. "Each of them, like myself, has found themselves… unmoored in these changing times."

He turned first to the officer, the man in the tattered uniform with the revolver at his hip.

"This is Oleg Yanovich, formerly of His Imperial Majesty's Army. A fine officer once, perhaps even a great one. Decorated for valor, honored for his service—until, of course, the tides shifted, and his loyalty to the old order became a stain rather than a badge of honor."

Oleg gave a short, sharp nod, his expression unreadable. His face was lined, weathered by war and hardship, but his steel-gray eyes remained sharp, ever-watchful. He did not speak, but his posture alone spoke volumes—rigid, disciplined, and unwavering, even in disgrace.

Rostov's attention shifted to the woman—the imposing figure with the Cossack cap and the hard gaze.

"Alina Fedorova," he continued, his voice carrying a note of respect. "Once a fierce warrior of the steppe, a protector of her people. A woman of many talents—tracking, hunting, killing, surviving. And, as fate would have it, now a fugitive like the rest of us."

Alina gave a small grunt, her arms crossed over her chest. Her piercing eyes studied you, assessing, measuring.

"I don't trust royals," she said flatly.

"Fortunately," Rostov replied smoothly, "trust is a luxury none of us can afford."

Then, with a flick of his fingers, he motioned to the last of the trio—the restless man, the one whose fingers never stilled, whose eyes seemed drawn to something far beyond the confines of the dingy bar.

"And this," Rostov said with a flourish, "is Vlad Kozlov. Once an ace pilot of the Imperial Air Service. The kind of man who once soared through the skies with such brilliance that even his enemies admired him. A legend… until, of course, the revolution decided that heroes of the old regime had no place in the new world."

Vlad scoffed, shaking his head. "A legend? Maybe. But legends don't fill their stomachs when the world has no more use for them." His voice was bitter, but there was something else beneath it—something restless, something desperate.

And now you were all there, gathered in a place.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

What is the mission that the Count has planned:

[]The Aerodrome Theft – Getting Vlad His Wings A plane could change everything—allowing them to escape Petrograd, scout enemy movements, and even conduct airborne raids. The problem? The Bolsheviks control the city's aerodrome, and stealing an aircraft is no easy task. However, The count has a plan. He wants to… quite literally, bring you to the Reds. and then escape.

[]The Winter Palace Gambit – Stealing the Imperial Regalia: The Bolsheviks have seized the Winter Palace, looting its treasures for redistribution or sale. Rumors spread that the imperial regalia—crowns, scepters, and priceless Fabergé eggs—are locked in a secret vault beneath the palace. Since they have you, you can lead them through it.

[]The Art Heist at the Hermitage – Funding the Escape: The Hermitage Museum holds priceless works of art, now at risk of either destruction or being sold off by the Bolsheviks. Rostov thinks that with a few choice masterpieces, they can finance anything they can use.