Follow a Party of Adventurers as they traverse the dangerous times of the Russian Revolution.
Across the Siberian Tundra: No SV, You Are Not Here to fight for the Revolution, You Are on an Adventure Across Revolutionary Russia
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And like all good stories, this one begins in a bar.
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Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
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- California USA
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Across the Siberian Tundra: No SV, You Are Not Here to fight for the Revolution, You Are on an Adventure Across Revolutionary Russia (Revolutionary activity may vary 
)
Russia was falling apart. The Tsar had abdicated, his family placed under house arrest as the Romanov dynasty crumbled into the annals of history. The streets of Petrograd swelled with restless crowds, their voices rising in anger, in desperation, in hope. The Provisional Government clung to power with trembling hands, caught between the old world and the new, between the demands of soldiers, workers, and peasants who had grown weary of empty promises. The Bolsheviks, the Mensheviks, the Anarchists, the monarchists, the Republicans, the Decemberists—each faction scrambled for control, their arguments spilling into bloodshed.
But this collapse had been years in the making. The empire had been rotting from within long before the first shots of revolution rang out. Nicholas II, the Last Tsar, had inherited a throne resting on brittle foundations. Under his rule, Russia had lurched from crisis to crisis, its rulers clinging to antiquated traditions while the modern world left them behind. The nobility, decadent and corrupt, feasted in their palaces, draped in furs and jewels, while the streets outside grew thick with beggars, and the factory floors swallowed generations of workers whole. Ministers siphoned funds into their own pockets, bureaucracy choked every aspect of life, and while the aristocrats whispered among themselves in French, the Russian people starved.
Then came the war, The War to End All Wars—the Great War. A conflict that should have united the empire in patriotic fervor instead exposed its every weakness. The Russian army, vast but ill-equipped, was sent to face the well-drilled German war machine with rifles decades out of date and supplies that never arrived. Soldiers marched to the front with a single rifle for every three men, ordered to pick up weapons from the fallen. Tens of thousands died in the first months alone, their bodies left frozen in the Polish and Galician mud. Whole regiments surrendered en masse, not out of cowardice but because the state had abandoned them. Nicholas, blind to the disaster unfolding, took personal command of the army, only to prove himself utterly incapable. His name became a curse on the lips of dying men.
At home, the situation was just as dire. The economy spiraled into collapse as the war drained the empire's coffers. The railways—so crucial to feeding the armies and the cities—fell into disrepair, paralyzed by mismanagement and corruption. Famine crept through the countryside, hollowing out villages as grain was requisitioned for the front, leaving the peasants with nothing. In the cities, bread lines stretched for blocks, and riots broke out over the last scraps of food. The government, bloated and incompetent, responded with crackdowns and mass arrests, but every crackdown only fueled the fire further.
Meanwhile, the empire itself was splintering. The Finns, the Poles, the Ukrainians, the Caucasian peoples—all who had long suffered under Russian rule now saw their chance. Separatist movements ignited across the land, from the frozen forests of Karelia to the mountains of the Caucasus. Some sought independence through diplomacy, others through the gun. The Provisional Government, desperate to hold the empire together, made vague promises of autonomy, but words meant little in a world where power came from force alone.
And then there were the Germans. They tore through the Eastern Front, smashing Russian defenses and pushing ever deeper into the motherland. Entire provinces fell under their boots, while retreating Russian forces burned their own villages to deny the enemy resources. The specter of defeat loomed large, and for many, revolution seemed preferable to surrender. The Germans, ever cunning, saw an opportunity. They funneled support to Lenin and his Bolsheviks, hoping to sow enough chaos to pull Russia out of the war. Soon, the streets of Petrograd and Moscow filled with their slogans—Peace, Land, Bread—a promise whispered to the starving, the disillusioned, and the desperate.
Beyond the city, across the vast, frostbitten land, the countryside smoldered with discontent. The peasants, long shackled by serfdom's lingering shadow, seized the estates of the nobility, taking what had been denied to them for generations. Grain, horses, land—whatever could be claimed, was. The railways, once the steel veins of the empire, carried soldiers home from the front, their faces hollowed by years of war. Some returned only to pick up new weapons—this time, against their own countrymen. The Eastern Front, once a battlefield between Russians and Germans, dissolved into chaos, as entire units deserted, vanishing into the forests or defecting to those who promised them bread and peace.
The year is 1917, and Russia is on the brink of something terrible to some, something great terrible—but most importantly, something new for the entire world to see.
------------------------------------
And like all good stories, this one begins in a bar. Not a grand ballroom, nor a battlefield, nor a place of high honor—but a dimly lit, smoke-choked bar, where fortunes are won and lost over half-empty glasses and half-baked promises. It is here that men and women gather, the restless and the ruined, the damned and the desperate. Reprobates, vagabonds, and those with nowhere left to turn.
Here, in this flickering light, the old world collides with the new. Officers who once commanded armies drink alongside the very men who deserted them. Noblemen bargain with thieves over treasures that will soon belong to no one. Cossacks watch the shifting tides of power, while dreamers speak of new republics, new empires, and new revolutions. But all that matters for now is survival.
So, who are you?
[] The Ace Pilot – The Sky Was Your Kingdom. Now You Are Grounded.
You once had dreams of flying—dreams that became reality when you took to the sky for Tsar and country. The Imperial Russian Air Service gave you wings, and for a brief, shining moment, you were an ace, a hero, a name whispered in awe. But you had been fighting the wrong war, for the wrong flag, in the wrong time. There were no parades, no medals, no songs. The revolution came, and your once-proud service was deemed an insult to the new order. They stripped you of your rank, your commission, your wings.Now, you haunt the earth like a ghost, drinking away memories of the sky. But the war is not over—not yet. And where there is war, there are planes. You just need to find one. (Play as disgraced ace pilot Vlad Kozlov, once of the Imperial Russian Air Service. Begins grounded, disbarred, and lost—but with only one dream: to fly again.)
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[] The Failed Decembrist – Once, You Fought for an Idea. Now You Fight to Escape.
It was all falling apart. The dream of a Russian Republic—a nation governed by laws, not whims—was dying before your eyes. The Provisional Government was crumbling, and in its place, something darker, something colder, something ruthless was rising. Once, you were an officer, a man who believed in reform. You fought for a better Russia, a free Russia. But you learned the truth too late—idealists make poor revolutionaries, and even worse survivors. Now, your revolution is over, and your only cause is to flee the country before whoever comes to power kills you. You need to get out. Before the Soviets come. Before the Whites drag you back. Before you are crushed between the gears of history like so many others. (Play as Oleg Yanovich, a disgraced officer and failed reformist. He has lost faith in the Revolution, the Provisional Government, and Russia itself. His only goal is to flee.)
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[] The Cossack – Your People Shall Be Free, No Matter Who Stands in the Way.
For centuries, the Cossacks rode in service to Russia. They brought glory to the empire, tamed the wild lands, fought its wars. But the empire is dying, and now, finally, the Cossacks may reclaim something that has been denied for generations—independence. It does not matter whether the Russians call themselves Tsarists or Soviets. The Cossack Hetmanate will not kneel to either. But for now, you are alone, far from your people, watching and waiting. Your saber is sharp. Your horse is strong. And when the time comes, you will ride. (Play as Alina Fedorova, a Cossack horsewoman and Ukrainian nationalist, caught between a dying empire and the birth of something new.)
--------------------------------------------------------------
[] The Noble – The World Is Burning. Might As Well Steal From It Before You Leave.
You were born into wealth, into power, into a name that stretched back beyond memory. The estates, the land, the riches—all of it was yours by birthright. Now, it is nothing but a death sentence. The Revolution does not care for lineage. They will strip you of everything, cast you out, and execute you like a common criminal. But you still have time. There are treasures still hidden, artifacts left unclaimed, and fortunes yet to be seized. Once, you were a nobleman. Now, you are a thief—a gentleman rogue, stealing from the criminals who have made the world lawless. The difference between you and them? Style. (Play as Count Alexei Mikhailovich Rostov, nobleman, treasure hunter, and thief. The world is falling apart, but there is still fortune to be made before the end.)
--------------------------------------
[] The Princess – You Were Never Supposed to Be Here. But Here You Are.
You do not know how you escaped the palace. The guards, the watchful eyes, the ever-present weight of duty—you slipped past them all, into the cold, into the streets, into the unknown. Nobody recognizes you. Your jewels, your fine clothing, your carefully maintained image—none of it matters now. You are just another face in the crowd. A girl lost in a country that no longer belongs to her. But you remember your father's final words before you disapeared. Leave Russia. Save yourself. So, here you are. In a bar, in a city that does not know you, among people who do not care. Your name is dust. Your empire is gone. But you are still alive. And that is something. (Play as Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, a princess with no kingdom, lost in the chaos of revolution.)
AN: Starting new quests to see what is popular by starting an adventure quest based on a DND game I did in the past.
Thankfully, I have all the adventures to draw upon during that campaign to have fun with.
Enjoy.
)Russia was falling apart. The Tsar had abdicated, his family placed under house arrest as the Romanov dynasty crumbled into the annals of history. The streets of Petrograd swelled with restless crowds, their voices rising in anger, in desperation, in hope. The Provisional Government clung to power with trembling hands, caught between the old world and the new, between the demands of soldiers, workers, and peasants who had grown weary of empty promises. The Bolsheviks, the Mensheviks, the Anarchists, the monarchists, the Republicans, the Decemberists—each faction scrambled for control, their arguments spilling into bloodshed.
But this collapse had been years in the making. The empire had been rotting from within long before the first shots of revolution rang out. Nicholas II, the Last Tsar, had inherited a throne resting on brittle foundations. Under his rule, Russia had lurched from crisis to crisis, its rulers clinging to antiquated traditions while the modern world left them behind. The nobility, decadent and corrupt, feasted in their palaces, draped in furs and jewels, while the streets outside grew thick with beggars, and the factory floors swallowed generations of workers whole. Ministers siphoned funds into their own pockets, bureaucracy choked every aspect of life, and while the aristocrats whispered among themselves in French, the Russian people starved.
Then came the war, The War to End All Wars—the Great War. A conflict that should have united the empire in patriotic fervor instead exposed its every weakness. The Russian army, vast but ill-equipped, was sent to face the well-drilled German war machine with rifles decades out of date and supplies that never arrived. Soldiers marched to the front with a single rifle for every three men, ordered to pick up weapons from the fallen. Tens of thousands died in the first months alone, their bodies left frozen in the Polish and Galician mud. Whole regiments surrendered en masse, not out of cowardice but because the state had abandoned them. Nicholas, blind to the disaster unfolding, took personal command of the army, only to prove himself utterly incapable. His name became a curse on the lips of dying men.
At home, the situation was just as dire. The economy spiraled into collapse as the war drained the empire's coffers. The railways—so crucial to feeding the armies and the cities—fell into disrepair, paralyzed by mismanagement and corruption. Famine crept through the countryside, hollowing out villages as grain was requisitioned for the front, leaving the peasants with nothing. In the cities, bread lines stretched for blocks, and riots broke out over the last scraps of food. The government, bloated and incompetent, responded with crackdowns and mass arrests, but every crackdown only fueled the fire further.
Meanwhile, the empire itself was splintering. The Finns, the Poles, the Ukrainians, the Caucasian peoples—all who had long suffered under Russian rule now saw their chance. Separatist movements ignited across the land, from the frozen forests of Karelia to the mountains of the Caucasus. Some sought independence through diplomacy, others through the gun. The Provisional Government, desperate to hold the empire together, made vague promises of autonomy, but words meant little in a world where power came from force alone.
And then there were the Germans. They tore through the Eastern Front, smashing Russian defenses and pushing ever deeper into the motherland. Entire provinces fell under their boots, while retreating Russian forces burned their own villages to deny the enemy resources. The specter of defeat loomed large, and for many, revolution seemed preferable to surrender. The Germans, ever cunning, saw an opportunity. They funneled support to Lenin and his Bolsheviks, hoping to sow enough chaos to pull Russia out of the war. Soon, the streets of Petrograd and Moscow filled with their slogans—Peace, Land, Bread—a promise whispered to the starving, the disillusioned, and the desperate.
Beyond the city, across the vast, frostbitten land, the countryside smoldered with discontent. The peasants, long shackled by serfdom's lingering shadow, seized the estates of the nobility, taking what had been denied to them for generations. Grain, horses, land—whatever could be claimed, was. The railways, once the steel veins of the empire, carried soldiers home from the front, their faces hollowed by years of war. Some returned only to pick up new weapons—this time, against their own countrymen. The Eastern Front, once a battlefield between Russians and Germans, dissolved into chaos, as entire units deserted, vanishing into the forests or defecting to those who promised them bread and peace.
The year is 1917, and Russia is on the brink of something terrible to some, something great terrible—but most importantly, something new for the entire world to see.
------------------------------------
And like all good stories, this one begins in a bar. Not a grand ballroom, nor a battlefield, nor a place of high honor—but a dimly lit, smoke-choked bar, where fortunes are won and lost over half-empty glasses and half-baked promises. It is here that men and women gather, the restless and the ruined, the damned and the desperate. Reprobates, vagabonds, and those with nowhere left to turn.
Here, in this flickering light, the old world collides with the new. Officers who once commanded armies drink alongside the very men who deserted them. Noblemen bargain with thieves over treasures that will soon belong to no one. Cossacks watch the shifting tides of power, while dreamers speak of new republics, new empires, and new revolutions. But all that matters for now is survival.
So, who are you?
[] The Ace Pilot – The Sky Was Your Kingdom. Now You Are Grounded.
You once had dreams of flying—dreams that became reality when you took to the sky for Tsar and country. The Imperial Russian Air Service gave you wings, and for a brief, shining moment, you were an ace, a hero, a name whispered in awe. But you had been fighting the wrong war, for the wrong flag, in the wrong time. There were no parades, no medals, no songs. The revolution came, and your once-proud service was deemed an insult to the new order. They stripped you of your rank, your commission, your wings.Now, you haunt the earth like a ghost, drinking away memories of the sky. But the war is not over—not yet. And where there is war, there are planes. You just need to find one. (Play as disgraced ace pilot Vlad Kozlov, once of the Imperial Russian Air Service. Begins grounded, disbarred, and lost—but with only one dream: to fly again.)
------------------------------------------------------------------
[] The Failed Decembrist – Once, You Fought for an Idea. Now You Fight to Escape.
It was all falling apart. The dream of a Russian Republic—a nation governed by laws, not whims—was dying before your eyes. The Provisional Government was crumbling, and in its place, something darker, something colder, something ruthless was rising. Once, you were an officer, a man who believed in reform. You fought for a better Russia, a free Russia. But you learned the truth too late—idealists make poor revolutionaries, and even worse survivors. Now, your revolution is over, and your only cause is to flee the country before whoever comes to power kills you. You need to get out. Before the Soviets come. Before the Whites drag you back. Before you are crushed between the gears of history like so many others. (Play as Oleg Yanovich, a disgraced officer and failed reformist. He has lost faith in the Revolution, the Provisional Government, and Russia itself. His only goal is to flee.)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[] The Cossack – Your People Shall Be Free, No Matter Who Stands in the Way.
For centuries, the Cossacks rode in service to Russia. They brought glory to the empire, tamed the wild lands, fought its wars. But the empire is dying, and now, finally, the Cossacks may reclaim something that has been denied for generations—independence. It does not matter whether the Russians call themselves Tsarists or Soviets. The Cossack Hetmanate will not kneel to either. But for now, you are alone, far from your people, watching and waiting. Your saber is sharp. Your horse is strong. And when the time comes, you will ride. (Play as Alina Fedorova, a Cossack horsewoman and Ukrainian nationalist, caught between a dying empire and the birth of something new.)
--------------------------------------------------------------
[] The Noble – The World Is Burning. Might As Well Steal From It Before You Leave.
You were born into wealth, into power, into a name that stretched back beyond memory. The estates, the land, the riches—all of it was yours by birthright. Now, it is nothing but a death sentence. The Revolution does not care for lineage. They will strip you of everything, cast you out, and execute you like a common criminal. But you still have time. There are treasures still hidden, artifacts left unclaimed, and fortunes yet to be seized. Once, you were a nobleman. Now, you are a thief—a gentleman rogue, stealing from the criminals who have made the world lawless. The difference between you and them? Style. (Play as Count Alexei Mikhailovich Rostov, nobleman, treasure hunter, and thief. The world is falling apart, but there is still fortune to be made before the end.)
--------------------------------------
[] The Princess – You Were Never Supposed to Be Here. But Here You Are.
You do not know how you escaped the palace. The guards, the watchful eyes, the ever-present weight of duty—you slipped past them all, into the cold, into the streets, into the unknown. Nobody recognizes you. Your jewels, your fine clothing, your carefully maintained image—none of it matters now. You are just another face in the crowd. A girl lost in a country that no longer belongs to her. But you remember your father's final words before you disapeared. Leave Russia. Save yourself. So, here you are. In a bar, in a city that does not know you, among people who do not care. Your name is dust. Your empire is gone. But you are still alive. And that is something. (Play as Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, a princess with no kingdom, lost in the chaos of revolution.)
AN: Starting new quests to see what is popular by starting an adventure quest based on a DND game I did in the past.
Thankfully, I have all the adventures to draw upon during that campaign to have fun with.
Enjoy.
Vote closed
New
Meeting the Party
New
Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
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.
[] 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.
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Adventure 0: The Winter Palace Gambit
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Adventure 0: The Winter Palace Gambit
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.
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You were surprised when Rostov smiled at you, his dark eyes gleaming with a sharpness that made you uneasy. He leaned forward slightly, cigar smoke curling around his face like a specter of old indulgences.
"Do you know the layout of the Winter Palace, Ana?" His voice was smooth, amused, but there was something else beneath it—something that made you feel strangely small under his gaze.
He puffed on his cigar, savoring the taste, before passing around a few others to the group. The acrid scent thickened the air, making your throat tighten. You did not take one. You were too focused on trying not to breathe in the burning ash, too aware of the weight of their stares. Everyone was watching you.
You nodded, though the motion felt stiff. The memories clawed their way up before you could stop them. The gilded halls of the palace had once been your home, but they had become something else entirely. You could still see the grand ballroom—your father's namesake hall—transformed into a makeshift hospital, filled with the dying and the screaming. You remembered the bloodstained floors, the way the air had reeked of sweat, infection, and death. No matter what you did, how many men you tried to save, it had been for nothing. They had all died, one after another, their bodies carried out in the dead of night.
Swallowing hard, you forced the words out. "I know much of the upper floors. But I was never allowed into the vaults. I know they're locked—secured with keys I don't have."
Alina scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "We don't need keys." She jerked her chin toward Rostov. "We have him."
You turned just in time to see Rostov idly flick a piece of cloth in his hands, as if it were nothing more than a handkerchief. But when he let it slip through his fingers, it revealed something far more interesting—a sleek, refined lock-picking tool, glinting in the dim light.
Vlad, for his part, seemed completely disinterested. He sat back, arms folded, eyes fixed on the night sky through the grime-covered window, as if he could already see himself soaring through it. You wondered if he was even listening.
Oleg, however, was far less detached. He leaned forward, his face drawn in a frown. "You're mad, Rostov. There are over a thousand Bolsheviks stationed in the palace alone. Even if we make it inside, how do you know the artifacts are still there? They could've been sold off already, scattered across Siberia, lost to the chaos."
Rostov only chuckled, his grin widening as he reached into his coat. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled out a letter—a very official-looking one, its edges creased and worn. He unfolded it and held it up just long enough for you to catch the unmistakable signature at the bottom.
Lenin.
"People's Commissariat for Finance
Petrograd, Soviet Russia
Novmber 15th, 1917
To Comrade Ivanov, Commissar for the Redistribution of Former Imperial Assets,
Comrades,
With the fall of the Romanov tyranny and the triumph of the workers and peasants over the forces of oppression, it is imperative that the wealth hoarded by the aristocracy be put to proper use in service of the people. The treasures once locked away in the palaces of the former Tsar are not the property of a single man or his family but belong to the proletariat, to whom the future of Russia now belongs.
Effective immediately, all valuables—including gold, jewels, artworks, and other assets of material significance—are to be cataloged and assessed for redistribution. Items deemed of historical or cultural significance will be secured under state protection for future generations, but those of monetary value must be liquidated and their funds directed toward the needs of the revolution.
Priority shall be given to the funding of the workers' councils and the provisioning of the Red Army, whose efforts are essential in securing the future of the Soviet Republic against the counter-revolutionary menace. The resources extracted from the former palaces will serve as the lifeblood of the struggle, ensuring that the soldiers of the revolution are armed, clothed, and fed.
Comrade Ivanov, you are entrusted with overseeing this operation with the full authority of the Soviet government. Any individual found hoarding, embezzling, or withholding resources from the people's cause will be treated as an enemy of the revolution and dealt with accordingly. The time for hesitation has passed—act swiftly and decisively.
The revolution does not wait.
V. Lenin
Chairman of the Council of People's Commissars
Moscow, Soviet Russia"
Silence filled the room.
It wasn't just a theory. The treasures were still there. At least, some of them.
And if they were still there, it meant they could be stolen.
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You all ascended the narrow staircase, the wooden boards groaning underfoot as you followed Rostov to his rented room. The air inside was thick with the scent of smoke and aged fabric, the dim candlelight flickering against the peeling wallpaper. And as you stepped inside, you realized something—Rostov was far more prepared than you had anticipated.
A small writing desk had been transformed into a strategist's table, maps of Petrograd and its key locations pinned down with brass paperweights. A leather-bound ledger, its pages filled with careful notations, sat beside a silver cigarette case. A pair of revolvers rested near the inkpot, one of them open, its chambers gleaming with fresh cartridges.
You turned to Rostov, curiosity taking hold. "What were you before the revolution?" you asked.
He smirked, settling into the worn chair with a casual grace. "Oh, me? Just another idle nobleman, counting my coin and waiting for the days to pass. My father had grand ambitions for me—an education in law, a comfortable place in court. I was meant to be a gentleman of leisure, never to dirty my hands with the affairs of war."
"So you learned to pick locks and steal instead?"
Rostov let out a quiet chuckle. "My dear, what is a nobleman if not a thief in fine clothes? We take from the weak, hoard wealth for ourselves, and call it birthright." His tone was smooth, self-satisfied, but Oleg scoffed audibly from across the room.
"And here I thought the count might have some dignity left," the soldier muttered.
Rostov only smiled, undeterred. "Oh, I am many things, Oleg. A thief, yes. But also a hunter, a fisherman, a marksman. I can track a man through the woods, I can shoot a coin out of the air with a pistol. I've dueled in candlelit salons and outrun debt collectors in three different countries. And I don't pretend to be anything more than what I am."
Oleg walked past him, shaking his head as he moved toward a battered suitcase on the floor. He flipped it open, sifting through fine silk shirts and scattered valuables before pulling out a pistol—sleek, foreign. An American autoloader. He examined it with a practiced eye, pulling back the slide, the metal clicking with deadly precision as he loaded a magazine into the grip.
"A fine weapon," Rostov mused.
Oleg didn't respond immediately, staring at the firearm in his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, bitter. "I was a patriot once. And look where that got me."
Across the room, Vlad sat on the edge of the bed, rolling a cigarette between his fingers without lighting it. His gaze was distant, locked onto the tarnished wings sewn into his jacket. The insignia of the Imperial Air Service. A relic of a world that no longer existed.
"Can you both shut up?" Vlad muttered, his voice edged with something weary, something broken.
His hands, rough and calloused from years in the cockpit, trembled slightly as he held a worn photograph. The paper was creased, its edges softened from being handled too many times. In the sepia tones of the image, a group of young men stood beside a biplane, their uniforms crisp, their smiles wide and unburdened by the weight of war.
At the center of it all was Vlad himself, younger by a year, but seeming an entire lifetime removed from the man sitting before you now. His arms were draped around two fellow pilots, their camaraderie evident even in the stillness of the image. A scrappy little mutt, its fur dark and wiry, sat proudly at their feet, its tail a blur as it wagged excitedly. The men had all been laughing, jostling to be part of the frame, their attention stolen by the dog rather than the camera.
It must have been taken last year, during the Brusilov Offensive.
That was before the world had truly collapsed around them. Before comrades had disappeared, either into the mud of battlefields or the cold grasp of revolution. Before, loyalty had become a question of survival rather than honor.
Vlad exhaled slowly, running his thumb over the faces in the photograph, his jaw tightening.
"Where are they now?" you asked, though you already feared the answer.
He didn't look up. His fingers pressed against the image of a man standing just beside him—a pilot with sharp features and an easy grin.
"Dead," he said simply. Then, after a pause, quieter still: "Or worse."
"Take off your clothes," Alina ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument. She rummaged through her trunk, pulling out a simple shirt, a pair of worn trousers, undergarments, and boots that looked a size too big.
"What?" you blurted, taken aback.
She shot you an unimpressed look and gestured toward your attire. "You're not going to run around wearing that, are you?"
You glanced down at your fine clothing—soft silks, delicate embroidery, fabric that still carried the scent of perfume and a life now long gone. It was the attire of someone who belonged to a different world, a world that no longer existed. Wearing it felt like carrying a target on your back.
Still, the idea of stripping down in front of the others made your stomach twist. You swallowed hard. "Now? Here, with them?"
The three men—Rostov, Oleg, and Vlad—shared a collective look of exhaustion.
"Are you serious?" Oleg groaned.
Alina's response was swift. She pulled a knife from her belt and pointed it toward the door with a practiced ease. "Out," she said, voice like steel. "Or you'll find that we womenfolk stick together when it comes to protecting modesty."
The threat worked. The men, despite all their bravado, muttered a few curses and all but scrambled out of the room.
Alina smirked in satisfaction before turning back to you. "Hurry up. We don't have all night."
With a quiet nod, you quickly shed your old clothing, replacing it with the rougher, heavier garments she provided. The fabric was coarse against your skin, unfamiliar, the boots stiff and uncomfortable—but it was necessary.
When you finished, you hesitated before whispering, "Thank you."
Alina shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "I may not like royals," she admitted, "but even you deserve some privacy when changing."
And with that, she stepped out, leaving you alone in your new disguise, your old life discarded at your feet.
But you then looked to Alina. "Can I leave it with your stuff?" You asked.
"Of course." There was a softness in her tone as you folded it and looked at the garments that you had placed into the bag she had… and then you changed.
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The clothes felt wrong. Ill-fitting, rough against your skin, the fabric stiff and unyielding. They smelled of sweat and dust, of lives lived in constant movement, not of perfumed silks and tailored perfection. Every garment you had ever worn before had been made for you—stitched with precision, always comfortable, always effortless. But these? These belonged to someone else. They scratched at your skin, clung in awkward places, and sagged where they shouldn't. It was like wearing someone else's life.
Alina seemed to notice your discomfort but said nothing. Instead, she pulled a hat from her trunk and plopped it onto your head. The wide-brimmed, floppy thing was too big, dipping low enough that you had to tilt your chin up just to see properly.
Then, with practiced ease, she twirled a revolver in her hand before sliding it into a worn leather holster attached to an ammo belt. She held it out to you.
"Do you know how to use this?"
You hesitated, eyeing the weapon with unease. The cold, deadly weight of it seemed to press into your chest even before you touched it.
"No," you admitted. "It would be more dangerous for me to wield that than for you to hold onto it."
Alina sighed, shaking her head. "Just don't draw it unless you have to."
She fastened the belt around your waist, adjusting it until it sat snugly at your hip. The revolver was heavier than you expected, an unfamiliar weight pulling at you, making you acutely aware of its presence. It was a symbol of the world you had stepped into.
And putting trust in others that you never would before.
------------------------------------
Everyone was waiting. The cold bit through your ill-fitting clothes, seeping into your bones as you stood there, watching them, watching the city in chaos.
The streets were alive with movement, banners of red waving over a sea of bodies marching forward, some shouting slogans, others gripping rifles with the ease of men who had wielded them long before the revolution. Smoke curled from chimneys and burning barrels, the air thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and desperation.
You had a choice to make.
Who would you go with to sneak in?
[]Count Rostov: The Count stood among the revolutionaries, indistinguishable from them, a red armband tied around his arm, his stance relaxed as if he belonged among them. He laughed at some passing men, clapping one on the shoulder, effortlessly slipping into whatever role was needed. The transformation was unnerving—he was not just a thief, but a man who could become anything to anyone, blending in as easily as a shadow in the dark. If anyone could get you inside unseen, it was him.
[]Vlad: Vlad stood apart, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the rooftops. The city was burning, changing, but his mind was elsewhere, somewhere high above where the air was clear, where wings cut through the sky. Down here, among the filth, he was like a caged hawk—restless, displaced, a man waiting for wings he no longer had. He would play his part if needed, but there was something in his silence that spoke of a man who had already given up. Perhaps he was the most dangerous of all. But what made you most worried was the shotgun in his hands. He looked ready to start a massacre to get what he needed.
[]Oleg: His eyes never left you, studying you with an intensity that felt like a burden you were not prepared to carry. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, rough. "My brother was in the Winter Palace when it was a hospital." He hesitated, something unspoken lingering between his lips before he finally finished. "He said you were a good girl." There was more, so much more he wasn't saying. Regret. Respect. Maybe even a warning. Oleg was a soldier, a man who had once believed in things before the world ripped those beliefs apart.
[]Alina: She watched the crowds as they looted, stripping away everything of value in the name of revolution. Her expression twisted into something like disgust."You Russians are all the same," she muttered. "Stealing things that never belonged to you and calling it whatever makes you feel better—taxes, tribute, redistribution. Your people are nothing more than thieves, and you will never be anything more than that." Her words were meant to cut, to provoke. Maybe she wanted to see if you would snap back, if you had enough fire in you to fight her. Maybe she just wanted you to acknowledge the truth she saw.
AN: Enjoy.
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.
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You were surprised when Rostov smiled at you, his dark eyes gleaming with a sharpness that made you uneasy. He leaned forward slightly, cigar smoke curling around his face like a specter of old indulgences.
"Do you know the layout of the Winter Palace, Ana?" His voice was smooth, amused, but there was something else beneath it—something that made you feel strangely small under his gaze.
He puffed on his cigar, savoring the taste, before passing around a few others to the group. The acrid scent thickened the air, making your throat tighten. You did not take one. You were too focused on trying not to breathe in the burning ash, too aware of the weight of their stares. Everyone was watching you.
You nodded, though the motion felt stiff. The memories clawed their way up before you could stop them. The gilded halls of the palace had once been your home, but they had become something else entirely. You could still see the grand ballroom—your father's namesake hall—transformed into a makeshift hospital, filled with the dying and the screaming. You remembered the bloodstained floors, the way the air had reeked of sweat, infection, and death. No matter what you did, how many men you tried to save, it had been for nothing. They had all died, one after another, their bodies carried out in the dead of night.
Swallowing hard, you forced the words out. "I know much of the upper floors. But I was never allowed into the vaults. I know they're locked—secured with keys I don't have."
Alina scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "We don't need keys." She jerked her chin toward Rostov. "We have him."
You turned just in time to see Rostov idly flick a piece of cloth in his hands, as if it were nothing more than a handkerchief. But when he let it slip through his fingers, it revealed something far more interesting—a sleek, refined lock-picking tool, glinting in the dim light.
Vlad, for his part, seemed completely disinterested. He sat back, arms folded, eyes fixed on the night sky through the grime-covered window, as if he could already see himself soaring through it. You wondered if he was even listening.
Oleg, however, was far less detached. He leaned forward, his face drawn in a frown. "You're mad, Rostov. There are over a thousand Bolsheviks stationed in the palace alone. Even if we make it inside, how do you know the artifacts are still there? They could've been sold off already, scattered across Siberia, lost to the chaos."
Rostov only chuckled, his grin widening as he reached into his coat. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled out a letter—a very official-looking one, its edges creased and worn. He unfolded it and held it up just long enough for you to catch the unmistakable signature at the bottom.
Lenin.
"People's Commissariat for Finance
Petrograd, Soviet Russia
Novmber 15th, 1917
To Comrade Ivanov, Commissar for the Redistribution of Former Imperial Assets,
Comrades,
With the fall of the Romanov tyranny and the triumph of the workers and peasants over the forces of oppression, it is imperative that the wealth hoarded by the aristocracy be put to proper use in service of the people. The treasures once locked away in the palaces of the former Tsar are not the property of a single man or his family but belong to the proletariat, to whom the future of Russia now belongs.
Effective immediately, all valuables—including gold, jewels, artworks, and other assets of material significance—are to be cataloged and assessed for redistribution. Items deemed of historical or cultural significance will be secured under state protection for future generations, but those of monetary value must be liquidated and their funds directed toward the needs of the revolution.
Priority shall be given to the funding of the workers' councils and the provisioning of the Red Army, whose efforts are essential in securing the future of the Soviet Republic against the counter-revolutionary menace. The resources extracted from the former palaces will serve as the lifeblood of the struggle, ensuring that the soldiers of the revolution are armed, clothed, and fed.
Comrade Ivanov, you are entrusted with overseeing this operation with the full authority of the Soviet government. Any individual found hoarding, embezzling, or withholding resources from the people's cause will be treated as an enemy of the revolution and dealt with accordingly. The time for hesitation has passed—act swiftly and decisively.
The revolution does not wait.
V. Lenin
Chairman of the Council of People's Commissars
Moscow, Soviet Russia"
Silence filled the room.
It wasn't just a theory. The treasures were still there. At least, some of them.
And if they were still there, it meant they could be stolen.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You all ascended the narrow staircase, the wooden boards groaning underfoot as you followed Rostov to his rented room. The air inside was thick with the scent of smoke and aged fabric, the dim candlelight flickering against the peeling wallpaper. And as you stepped inside, you realized something—Rostov was far more prepared than you had anticipated.
A small writing desk had been transformed into a strategist's table, maps of Petrograd and its key locations pinned down with brass paperweights. A leather-bound ledger, its pages filled with careful notations, sat beside a silver cigarette case. A pair of revolvers rested near the inkpot, one of them open, its chambers gleaming with fresh cartridges.
You turned to Rostov, curiosity taking hold. "What were you before the revolution?" you asked.
He smirked, settling into the worn chair with a casual grace. "Oh, me? Just another idle nobleman, counting my coin and waiting for the days to pass. My father had grand ambitions for me—an education in law, a comfortable place in court. I was meant to be a gentleman of leisure, never to dirty my hands with the affairs of war."
"So you learned to pick locks and steal instead?"
Rostov let out a quiet chuckle. "My dear, what is a nobleman if not a thief in fine clothes? We take from the weak, hoard wealth for ourselves, and call it birthright." His tone was smooth, self-satisfied, but Oleg scoffed audibly from across the room.
"And here I thought the count might have some dignity left," the soldier muttered.
Rostov only smiled, undeterred. "Oh, I am many things, Oleg. A thief, yes. But also a hunter, a fisherman, a marksman. I can track a man through the woods, I can shoot a coin out of the air with a pistol. I've dueled in candlelit salons and outrun debt collectors in three different countries. And I don't pretend to be anything more than what I am."
Oleg walked past him, shaking his head as he moved toward a battered suitcase on the floor. He flipped it open, sifting through fine silk shirts and scattered valuables before pulling out a pistol—sleek, foreign. An American autoloader. He examined it with a practiced eye, pulling back the slide, the metal clicking with deadly precision as he loaded a magazine into the grip.
"A fine weapon," Rostov mused.
Oleg didn't respond immediately, staring at the firearm in his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, bitter. "I was a patriot once. And look where that got me."
Across the room, Vlad sat on the edge of the bed, rolling a cigarette between his fingers without lighting it. His gaze was distant, locked onto the tarnished wings sewn into his jacket. The insignia of the Imperial Air Service. A relic of a world that no longer existed.
"Can you both shut up?" Vlad muttered, his voice edged with something weary, something broken.
His hands, rough and calloused from years in the cockpit, trembled slightly as he held a worn photograph. The paper was creased, its edges softened from being handled too many times. In the sepia tones of the image, a group of young men stood beside a biplane, their uniforms crisp, their smiles wide and unburdened by the weight of war.
At the center of it all was Vlad himself, younger by a year, but seeming an entire lifetime removed from the man sitting before you now. His arms were draped around two fellow pilots, their camaraderie evident even in the stillness of the image. A scrappy little mutt, its fur dark and wiry, sat proudly at their feet, its tail a blur as it wagged excitedly. The men had all been laughing, jostling to be part of the frame, their attention stolen by the dog rather than the camera.
It must have been taken last year, during the Brusilov Offensive.
That was before the world had truly collapsed around them. Before comrades had disappeared, either into the mud of battlefields or the cold grasp of revolution. Before, loyalty had become a question of survival rather than honor.
Vlad exhaled slowly, running his thumb over the faces in the photograph, his jaw tightening.
"Where are they now?" you asked, though you already feared the answer.
He didn't look up. His fingers pressed against the image of a man standing just beside him—a pilot with sharp features and an easy grin.
"Dead," he said simply. Then, after a pause, quieter still: "Or worse."
"Take off your clothes," Alina ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument. She rummaged through her trunk, pulling out a simple shirt, a pair of worn trousers, undergarments, and boots that looked a size too big.
"What?" you blurted, taken aback.
She shot you an unimpressed look and gestured toward your attire. "You're not going to run around wearing that, are you?"
You glanced down at your fine clothing—soft silks, delicate embroidery, fabric that still carried the scent of perfume and a life now long gone. It was the attire of someone who belonged to a different world, a world that no longer existed. Wearing it felt like carrying a target on your back.
Still, the idea of stripping down in front of the others made your stomach twist. You swallowed hard. "Now? Here, with them?"
The three men—Rostov, Oleg, and Vlad—shared a collective look of exhaustion.
"Are you serious?" Oleg groaned.
Alina's response was swift. She pulled a knife from her belt and pointed it toward the door with a practiced ease. "Out," she said, voice like steel. "Or you'll find that we womenfolk stick together when it comes to protecting modesty."
The threat worked. The men, despite all their bravado, muttered a few curses and all but scrambled out of the room.
Alina smirked in satisfaction before turning back to you. "Hurry up. We don't have all night."
With a quiet nod, you quickly shed your old clothing, replacing it with the rougher, heavier garments she provided. The fabric was coarse against your skin, unfamiliar, the boots stiff and uncomfortable—but it was necessary.
When you finished, you hesitated before whispering, "Thank you."
Alina shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "I may not like royals," she admitted, "but even you deserve some privacy when changing."
And with that, she stepped out, leaving you alone in your new disguise, your old life discarded at your feet.
But you then looked to Alina. "Can I leave it with your stuff?" You asked.
"Of course." There was a softness in her tone as you folded it and looked at the garments that you had placed into the bag she had… and then you changed.
--------------------------------------------------
The clothes felt wrong. Ill-fitting, rough against your skin, the fabric stiff and unyielding. They smelled of sweat and dust, of lives lived in constant movement, not of perfumed silks and tailored perfection. Every garment you had ever worn before had been made for you—stitched with precision, always comfortable, always effortless. But these? These belonged to someone else. They scratched at your skin, clung in awkward places, and sagged where they shouldn't. It was like wearing someone else's life.
Alina seemed to notice your discomfort but said nothing. Instead, she pulled a hat from her trunk and plopped it onto your head. The wide-brimmed, floppy thing was too big, dipping low enough that you had to tilt your chin up just to see properly.
Then, with practiced ease, she twirled a revolver in her hand before sliding it into a worn leather holster attached to an ammo belt. She held it out to you.
"Do you know how to use this?"
You hesitated, eyeing the weapon with unease. The cold, deadly weight of it seemed to press into your chest even before you touched it.
"No," you admitted. "It would be more dangerous for me to wield that than for you to hold onto it."
Alina sighed, shaking her head. "Just don't draw it unless you have to."
She fastened the belt around your waist, adjusting it until it sat snugly at your hip. The revolver was heavier than you expected, an unfamiliar weight pulling at you, making you acutely aware of its presence. It was a symbol of the world you had stepped into.
And putting trust in others that you never would before.
------------------------------------
Everyone was waiting. The cold bit through your ill-fitting clothes, seeping into your bones as you stood there, watching them, watching the city in chaos.
The streets were alive with movement, banners of red waving over a sea of bodies marching forward, some shouting slogans, others gripping rifles with the ease of men who had wielded them long before the revolution. Smoke curled from chimneys and burning barrels, the air thick with the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and desperation.
You had a choice to make.
Who would you go with to sneak in?
[]Count Rostov: The Count stood among the revolutionaries, indistinguishable from them, a red armband tied around his arm, his stance relaxed as if he belonged among them. He laughed at some passing men, clapping one on the shoulder, effortlessly slipping into whatever role was needed. The transformation was unnerving—he was not just a thief, but a man who could become anything to anyone, blending in as easily as a shadow in the dark. If anyone could get you inside unseen, it was him.
[]Vlad: Vlad stood apart, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the rooftops. The city was burning, changing, but his mind was elsewhere, somewhere high above where the air was clear, where wings cut through the sky. Down here, among the filth, he was like a caged hawk—restless, displaced, a man waiting for wings he no longer had. He would play his part if needed, but there was something in his silence that spoke of a man who had already given up. Perhaps he was the most dangerous of all. But what made you most worried was the shotgun in his hands. He looked ready to start a massacre to get what he needed.
[]Oleg: His eyes never left you, studying you with an intensity that felt like a burden you were not prepared to carry. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, rough. "My brother was in the Winter Palace when it was a hospital." He hesitated, something unspoken lingering between his lips before he finally finished. "He said you were a good girl." There was more, so much more he wasn't saying. Regret. Respect. Maybe even a warning. Oleg was a soldier, a man who had once believed in things before the world ripped those beliefs apart.
[]Alina: She watched the crowds as they looted, stripping away everything of value in the name of revolution. Her expression twisted into something like disgust."You Russians are all the same," she muttered. "Stealing things that never belonged to you and calling it whatever makes you feel better—taxes, tribute, redistribution. Your people are nothing more than thieves, and you will never be anything more than that." Her words were meant to cut, to provoke. Maybe she wanted to see if you would snap back, if you had enough fire in you to fight her. Maybe she just wanted you to acknowledge the truth she saw.
AN: Enjoy.
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Adventure 0: The Winter Palace Gambit: Part 2
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Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
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- California USA
- Pronouns
- He
Adventure 0: The Winter Palace Gambit: Part 2
Count Rostov: The Count stood among the revolutionaries, indistinguishable from them, a red armband tied around his arm, his stance relaxed as if he belonged among them. He laughed at some passing men, clapping one on the shoulder, effortlessly slipping into whatever role was needed. The transformation was unnerving—he was not just a thief, but a man who could become anything to anyone, blending in as easily as a shadow in the dark. If anyone could get you inside unseen, it was him.
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The Count stood among the revolutionaries, indistinguishable from them, a red armband tied around his arm, his stance relaxed as if he belonged among them. He laughed at some passing men, clapping one on the shoulder, effortlessly slipping into whatever role was needed. The transformation was unnerving, he was not just a thief, but a man who could become anything to anyone, blending in as easily as a shadow in the dark. If anyone could get you inside unseen, it was him.
"Ah, Anya! At last, you've come to join me!" Rostov called, his voice warm and untroubled. He gestured for you to step closer, his grin widening as he threw an arm over your shoulder, guiding you deeper into the swelling tide of red banners and shouting revolutionaries.
You stiffened at the unfamiliar name. Anya? It didn't sit right, like a garment that didn't fit.
"Why that name?" you asked, voice low, wary of the crowd.
"Because 'Ana' is stupid and too close to a name that people may actually recognize," he replied smoothly, his eyes never stopping their casual sweep of the crowd. "Better to change the name and hide the shame, rather than risk you meeting a rather unfortunate fate."
"More unfortunate than being caught robbing a place teeming with revolutionaries?" you asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Those are our beloved comrades, fighting the great evil of the bourgeois tyranny!" he declared grandly, raising his fist in mock solidarity as others around him took up a ragged chorus of agreement. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned in closer. "Have you ever read Marx?"
"No," you admitted, your tone flat. "I preferred art and cameras to the political philosophy of a man I neither agree with nor particularly understand."
Rostov chuckled, shaking his head. "I would have thought someone of your… station would at least try to understand it. It's practically a blueprint for your demise." He smirked. "I find his ideas rather utopian, it's just a shame his ideological children don't seem to share that sentiment."
"Aren't all revolutions just violent overthrows of an established order?" you challenged, glancing at the sea of red banners surrounding you.
He gave you a sharp look, tilting his head slightly, considering. "No," he said finally. "If you believe that, then you don't truly understand revolution. It isn't just destruction, it's replacement. The dissolution of a failed order and the installation of a new one, ideally one that offers betterment over the old. But enough politics." His voice softened, though a hint of amusement still colored it. "I tire of it, even if you may seek to understand something, Anya."
And then, your breath caught in your throat.
The Winter Palace came into view.
Your home.
Or what remained of it.
The grand facade was still there, but the life inside it had been gutted. Some of the windows were shattered, jagged glass hanging in empty frames. Ornate mirrors, once symbols of opulence, now lay broken. The proud banners that once bore the Romanov crest had been torn down, replaced with red flags flapping violently in the cold wind.
The sight of it sent a pang through your chest, a sharp and sudden ache of something, grief? Regret? A longing for something irretrievably lost?
And yet, the revolution did not stop for your sorrow.
"Come, Anya," Rostov murmured, his voice quieter now, yet insistent. "We haven't much time."
He was right. Whatever feelings you had, whatever ghosts lingered in those halls, they would have to wait.
The gate was manned by Reds, though manned might have been too strong a word. The revolutionaries stationed there were hardly standing at attention, one sat slouched against the railing, smoking idly, while the other leaned on his rifle, more interested in the chaos within than the task of guarding the entrance. Their role was not to stop looting, but to ensure that only the right people were allowed to pillage the palace.
And there were hundreds inside already, scrambling over furniture, wrenching paintings from walls, prying gilded fixtures from their places. Their laughter and shouting filled the air, a strange and ugly hymn of triumph and greed.
"Halt," one of the guards finally barked, straightening as if only now remembering he was supposed to be in charge. His voice lacked conviction. "Why are you here? Comrade Lenin ordered that no one was to enter the premises."
Above, the sound of splintering wood rang out. A cabinet came crashing down from a second-story window, smashing into the courtyard below. A roar of hoots and cheers followed, the sound of men celebrating their own destruction. The guard flinched but did not turn to look, too aware that the moment he did, he would reveal just how little authority he had.
Rostov sighed theatrically, dragging out the moment as if the whole situation pained him. "Ah, yes. And perhaps, Comrade, you should read before you question orders." He pulled a folded letter from his coat and held it just high enough for them to glimpse the name stamped at the bottom. "Comrade Ivanov himself sent me. I am here to oversee the redistribution of wealth among the people." His tone was all mock patience, edged with a knowing smirk. "Unless, of course, you'd rather take it up with him? Or Comrade Lenin, since his name is on the letter as well?"
At the mention of that name, the two guards stiffened, their faces draining of color. One snatched the paper from Rostov's hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he skimmed it. The other swallowed thickly.
"Uh—" the first man stammered, straightening at once. "Come right on in, Comrade—"
"There is no name on the letter, Comrade," Rostov interrupted smoothly, plucking it back from his grasp. "This is a rush operation. My companion and I need to get to work."
One of the guards turned his gaze to you then, looking you up and down with open scrutiny.
"She's a pretty one," he muttered, tilting his head. His expression shifted slightly, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Do I know you from somewhere?"
Your breath caught in your throat.
Rostov moved before you had a chance to react, stepping between you and the guard with a bark of laughter. "Ah, probably from one of the brothels. She's not clean, this one. Wants to serve the revolution before the French disease finally takes her." He flashed a lazy, knowing grin, tilting his head as if to say, Isn't that right, Comrade?
The guard recoiled slightly, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Tch." He waved a hand, as if shooing away a fly.
"Carry on, sir," the other finally said, stepping back to unlock the gate.
The iron groaned as it swung open.
You forced yourself to breathe, to swallow the bile rising in your throat. Your heart pounded against your ribs, but you did not let it show. You lowered your gaze, playing your part as Rostov led you forward, past the threshold and into the belly of the beast.
You frowned, your jaw tightening. "A whore?"
Rostov merely shrugged, his expression infuriatingly unbothered. "You are prettier than the average person. Consider it a compliment."
You clenched your fists, resisting the urge to strike him. "I have standards."
"So do most women, until the famine worsens, and they find themselves selling their bodies just to buy bread." His tone was light, almost jovial, as if he were discussing the weather rather than human desperation. He glanced at you sideways, amusement dancing in his sharp eyes. "Come now, child, you're going to learn so much about this world traveling with me, and mine. You should at least try to pay attention. And, if you're clever, learn to use it to your advantage."
You scoffed but said nothing. There was no point in arguing with him, he lived in a world of cynicism and pragmatism despite his noble birth, while you had been raised in a world of gold and velvet, where misfortune was always at arm's length. Until now.
You focused on your steps, each one bringing you deeper into what had once been your home. "There's a secret entrance in the library."
"Oh? A secret entrance?" Rostov's voice dripped with exaggerated curiosity. "Pray tell, how does a young girl like you know of such a thing?"
You shot him a glare. "Because it's not much of a secret when you live in a place. When you and your siblings spent your childhood playing hide and seek in its halls."
The words hit harder than you expected. The moment you spoke of them, your sisters, your brother, it was as if something inside you fractured. A cold, aching emptiness filled your chest, and before you could stop it, your vision blurred.
You blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back.
Around you, the palace corridors were unrecognizable. The air reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and spilled liquor. Looters moved brazenly through the halls, their boots grinding against shattered glass, their hands clutching stolen treasures. Some carried rifles, others swords pulled from ceremonial displays, their scabbards still adorned with Imperial insignias.
A revolution had swallowed your home whole.
You had once thought these walls invincible, a fortress that no harm could penetrate. But now, now they were just another carcass, picked apart by vultures.
And worst of all… You could never truly come home again.
But then your thoughts drifted to the past, drawn by the weight of memory. You turned toward the library, a sanctuary once upon a time. Now, it was in ruins.
Books lay scattered across the floor, their spines cracked, their pages torn or trampled beneath careless boots. Some had been ripped from their shelves entirely, tossed aside as if they were worthless. The scent of aged paper still lingered in the air, but it was tainted by dust and the faint, acrid stench of smoke.
And yet, the room was empty. Deserted.
A hollow silence filled the space, pressing against your ribs like something tangible.
Then, your eyes landed on a portrait hanging above the grand fireplace. It had not been torn down, not yet. A depiction of your father, standing tall, regal, adorned in his imperial uniform. His medals gleamed under the dim light filtering through the shattered windows. He looked every bit the sovereign ruler, the kind of man history might remember with awe.
Your stomach twisted.
That was not the man you knew.
The father in your memories was different. He was warm. He was gentle. He had a smile, not the poised, dignified expression in the painting, but a real, kind smile. The one that appeared when he watched you and your siblings play. The one that softened when you burst into his study unannounced, and instead of scolding you, he would set aside his work and listen to your stories with quiet amusement.
But that version of him did not exist anymore. Perhaps he never truly had.
A lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed it down and tore your gaze away from the portrait. You couldn't afford to dwell on ghosts.
Instead, you turned toward the servant's hallway.
The door was well-hidden, tucked between two towering bookshelves, easy to overlook unless you knew it was there. It had once been used by maids and footmen, a discreet passage to move unseen by guests. Now, it was your way forward.
You placed your hand on the door, feeling the cold brass handle beneath your fingers.
"Follow me," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
With a quiet creak, the door swung open, revealing the darkened passage beyond. It led downward,toward the basement, toward whatever awaited you in the depths of your broken home.
Though a thought did occur. It was going to be dark. "Rostov, there is a lantern over there. Can you get that?"
The count did as you ordered, strangely enough, and he light it with a match… and than followed.
----------------------------------------------------
Rostov moved with uncharacteristic quiet, his usual bravado dimmed by the narrow, twisting corridors of the palace's underbelly. The flickering lantern he carried cast long, jagged shadows against the damp stone walls, making the passage feel even more labyrinthine. He drew one of his pistols, his grip firm but relaxed, prepared for whatever lurked in the dark.
"You've studied these catacombs of… doldrum?" he murmured, his voice low but edged with amusement.
"For a time," you replied with a smirk, knowing full well he couldn't see it in the dim light. "But I don't know all of them, and they don't lead to the Regalia directly. They do, however, take us to the cellar."
"I don't think now is the time to drink this vintage," Rostov quipped, stepping carefully over an uneven stone. "Though, given our circumstances, I certainly understand the temptation."
You glanced back at him, shaking your head slightly. He was a strange man, carrying himself with a mix of theatrical charm and an almost unsettling ease, as if he had danced through danger so many times that it no longer registered as peril.
"Why do you call yourself a thief?" you asked after a moment.
"I'm honest about what I am. Nothing more," he replied smoothly.
You frowned at his simplicity. "But I want to know why," you pressed. "Why are you honest with yourself? Most people aren't."
Rostov chuckled under his breath, his steps unfaltering even as the passage sloped downward. "Honesty is a luxury most men can't afford. But I've found it's easier to live with yourself when you accept exactly what you are."
His answer was deliberately vague, but you didn't push further. Not yet.
A moment passed, then another, the only sounds the distant murmur of voices above and the rhythmic tap of your footsteps against stone. Finally, Rostov spoke again, softer this time.
"If we get out of this, with treasure in hand, and perhaps a few other things worth toasting, well… perhaps then I'll tell you."
There was something almost wistful in his voice, a rare glimpse beneath his mask of wit and irreverence. But before you could pry, he gestured ahead.
"Now, lead on, my dear. Let's see what waits for us in the dark."
-----------------------
You had reached the Celler, and there was commotion from above, shouting and otherwise… an incredible sound of chaos from above, as if the palace was not only on fire, but was becoming the inferno of activity.
"What the blazes is happening up there!" Rostov asked.
"Dosen't matter, look at the vault door!" You pointed to the door.
The Imperial Vault had not been looted, it's treasures untouched. The count just needed to… break in, so you could steal. "Can you crack that?"
He smiled. "Of course I can!"
He then took off to look and crack it.
But you were petrified as an entire squad of Red looters, being led by a man who clearly looked like he was in charge of something very important, walked in. "How did you get in here?"
You were terrified of the man… and all you could do was gulp. Rostov couldn't save you, so you had to think.
What do you say?:
[]The Truth: You wanted to steal from the Vault.
[]The Lie: Tell them that Comrade Ivanov had sent you and your friend to crack open the imperial vault.
[]Draw and fire: You didn't know how to use a gun, but you were going to have to learn eventually!
[]Write in
Count Rostov: The Count stood among the revolutionaries, indistinguishable from them, a red armband tied around his arm, his stance relaxed as if he belonged among them. He laughed at some passing men, clapping one on the shoulder, effortlessly slipping into whatever role was needed. The transformation was unnerving—he was not just a thief, but a man who could become anything to anyone, blending in as easily as a shadow in the dark. If anyone could get you inside unseen, it was him.
------------------------------------------------------
The Count stood among the revolutionaries, indistinguishable from them, a red armband tied around his arm, his stance relaxed as if he belonged among them. He laughed at some passing men, clapping one on the shoulder, effortlessly slipping into whatever role was needed. The transformation was unnerving, he was not just a thief, but a man who could become anything to anyone, blending in as easily as a shadow in the dark. If anyone could get you inside unseen, it was him.
"Ah, Anya! At last, you've come to join me!" Rostov called, his voice warm and untroubled. He gestured for you to step closer, his grin widening as he threw an arm over your shoulder, guiding you deeper into the swelling tide of red banners and shouting revolutionaries.
You stiffened at the unfamiliar name. Anya? It didn't sit right, like a garment that didn't fit.
"Why that name?" you asked, voice low, wary of the crowd.
"Because 'Ana' is stupid and too close to a name that people may actually recognize," he replied smoothly, his eyes never stopping their casual sweep of the crowd. "Better to change the name and hide the shame, rather than risk you meeting a rather unfortunate fate."
"More unfortunate than being caught robbing a place teeming with revolutionaries?" you asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Those are our beloved comrades, fighting the great evil of the bourgeois tyranny!" he declared grandly, raising his fist in mock solidarity as others around him took up a ragged chorus of agreement. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned in closer. "Have you ever read Marx?"
"No," you admitted, your tone flat. "I preferred art and cameras to the political philosophy of a man I neither agree with nor particularly understand."
Rostov chuckled, shaking his head. "I would have thought someone of your… station would at least try to understand it. It's practically a blueprint for your demise." He smirked. "I find his ideas rather utopian, it's just a shame his ideological children don't seem to share that sentiment."
"Aren't all revolutions just violent overthrows of an established order?" you challenged, glancing at the sea of red banners surrounding you.
He gave you a sharp look, tilting his head slightly, considering. "No," he said finally. "If you believe that, then you don't truly understand revolution. It isn't just destruction, it's replacement. The dissolution of a failed order and the installation of a new one, ideally one that offers betterment over the old. But enough politics." His voice softened, though a hint of amusement still colored it. "I tire of it, even if you may seek to understand something, Anya."
And then, your breath caught in your throat.
The Winter Palace came into view.
Your home.
Or what remained of it.
The grand facade was still there, but the life inside it had been gutted. Some of the windows were shattered, jagged glass hanging in empty frames. Ornate mirrors, once symbols of opulence, now lay broken. The proud banners that once bore the Romanov crest had been torn down, replaced with red flags flapping violently in the cold wind.
The sight of it sent a pang through your chest, a sharp and sudden ache of something, grief? Regret? A longing for something irretrievably lost?
And yet, the revolution did not stop for your sorrow.
"Come, Anya," Rostov murmured, his voice quieter now, yet insistent. "We haven't much time."
He was right. Whatever feelings you had, whatever ghosts lingered in those halls, they would have to wait.
The gate was manned by Reds, though manned might have been too strong a word. The revolutionaries stationed there were hardly standing at attention, one sat slouched against the railing, smoking idly, while the other leaned on his rifle, more interested in the chaos within than the task of guarding the entrance. Their role was not to stop looting, but to ensure that only the right people were allowed to pillage the palace.
And there were hundreds inside already, scrambling over furniture, wrenching paintings from walls, prying gilded fixtures from their places. Their laughter and shouting filled the air, a strange and ugly hymn of triumph and greed.
"Halt," one of the guards finally barked, straightening as if only now remembering he was supposed to be in charge. His voice lacked conviction. "Why are you here? Comrade Lenin ordered that no one was to enter the premises."
Above, the sound of splintering wood rang out. A cabinet came crashing down from a second-story window, smashing into the courtyard below. A roar of hoots and cheers followed, the sound of men celebrating their own destruction. The guard flinched but did not turn to look, too aware that the moment he did, he would reveal just how little authority he had.
Rostov sighed theatrically, dragging out the moment as if the whole situation pained him. "Ah, yes. And perhaps, Comrade, you should read before you question orders." He pulled a folded letter from his coat and held it just high enough for them to glimpse the name stamped at the bottom. "Comrade Ivanov himself sent me. I am here to oversee the redistribution of wealth among the people." His tone was all mock patience, edged with a knowing smirk. "Unless, of course, you'd rather take it up with him? Or Comrade Lenin, since his name is on the letter as well?"
At the mention of that name, the two guards stiffened, their faces draining of color. One snatched the paper from Rostov's hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he skimmed it. The other swallowed thickly.
"Uh—" the first man stammered, straightening at once. "Come right on in, Comrade—"
"There is no name on the letter, Comrade," Rostov interrupted smoothly, plucking it back from his grasp. "This is a rush operation. My companion and I need to get to work."
One of the guards turned his gaze to you then, looking you up and down with open scrutiny.
"She's a pretty one," he muttered, tilting his head. His expression shifted slightly, eyes narrowing. "Wait. Do I know you from somewhere?"
Your breath caught in your throat.
Rostov moved before you had a chance to react, stepping between you and the guard with a bark of laughter. "Ah, probably from one of the brothels. She's not clean, this one. Wants to serve the revolution before the French disease finally takes her." He flashed a lazy, knowing grin, tilting his head as if to say, Isn't that right, Comrade?
The guard recoiled slightly, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Tch." He waved a hand, as if shooing away a fly.
"Carry on, sir," the other finally said, stepping back to unlock the gate.
The iron groaned as it swung open.
You forced yourself to breathe, to swallow the bile rising in your throat. Your heart pounded against your ribs, but you did not let it show. You lowered your gaze, playing your part as Rostov led you forward, past the threshold and into the belly of the beast.
You frowned, your jaw tightening. "A whore?"
Rostov merely shrugged, his expression infuriatingly unbothered. "You are prettier than the average person. Consider it a compliment."
You clenched your fists, resisting the urge to strike him. "I have standards."
"So do most women, until the famine worsens, and they find themselves selling their bodies just to buy bread." His tone was light, almost jovial, as if he were discussing the weather rather than human desperation. He glanced at you sideways, amusement dancing in his sharp eyes. "Come now, child, you're going to learn so much about this world traveling with me, and mine. You should at least try to pay attention. And, if you're clever, learn to use it to your advantage."
You scoffed but said nothing. There was no point in arguing with him, he lived in a world of cynicism and pragmatism despite his noble birth, while you had been raised in a world of gold and velvet, where misfortune was always at arm's length. Until now.
You focused on your steps, each one bringing you deeper into what had once been your home. "There's a secret entrance in the library."
"Oh? A secret entrance?" Rostov's voice dripped with exaggerated curiosity. "Pray tell, how does a young girl like you know of such a thing?"
You shot him a glare. "Because it's not much of a secret when you live in a place. When you and your siblings spent your childhood playing hide and seek in its halls."
The words hit harder than you expected. The moment you spoke of them, your sisters, your brother, it was as if something inside you fractured. A cold, aching emptiness filled your chest, and before you could stop it, your vision blurred.
You blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back.
Around you, the palace corridors were unrecognizable. The air reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and spilled liquor. Looters moved brazenly through the halls, their boots grinding against shattered glass, their hands clutching stolen treasures. Some carried rifles, others swords pulled from ceremonial displays, their scabbards still adorned with Imperial insignias.
A revolution had swallowed your home whole.
You had once thought these walls invincible, a fortress that no harm could penetrate. But now, now they were just another carcass, picked apart by vultures.
And worst of all… You could never truly come home again.
But then your thoughts drifted to the past, drawn by the weight of memory. You turned toward the library, a sanctuary once upon a time. Now, it was in ruins.
Books lay scattered across the floor, their spines cracked, their pages torn or trampled beneath careless boots. Some had been ripped from their shelves entirely, tossed aside as if they were worthless. The scent of aged paper still lingered in the air, but it was tainted by dust and the faint, acrid stench of smoke.
And yet, the room was empty. Deserted.
A hollow silence filled the space, pressing against your ribs like something tangible.
Then, your eyes landed on a portrait hanging above the grand fireplace. It had not been torn down, not yet. A depiction of your father, standing tall, regal, adorned in his imperial uniform. His medals gleamed under the dim light filtering through the shattered windows. He looked every bit the sovereign ruler, the kind of man history might remember with awe.
Your stomach twisted.
That was not the man you knew.
The father in your memories was different. He was warm. He was gentle. He had a smile, not the poised, dignified expression in the painting, but a real, kind smile. The one that appeared when he watched you and your siblings play. The one that softened when you burst into his study unannounced, and instead of scolding you, he would set aside his work and listen to your stories with quiet amusement.
But that version of him did not exist anymore. Perhaps he never truly had.
A lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed it down and tore your gaze away from the portrait. You couldn't afford to dwell on ghosts.
Instead, you turned toward the servant's hallway.
The door was well-hidden, tucked between two towering bookshelves, easy to overlook unless you knew it was there. It had once been used by maids and footmen, a discreet passage to move unseen by guests. Now, it was your way forward.
You placed your hand on the door, feeling the cold brass handle beneath your fingers.
"Follow me," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
With a quiet creak, the door swung open, revealing the darkened passage beyond. It led downward,toward the basement, toward whatever awaited you in the depths of your broken home.
Though a thought did occur. It was going to be dark. "Rostov, there is a lantern over there. Can you get that?"
The count did as you ordered, strangely enough, and he light it with a match… and than followed.
----------------------------------------------------
Rostov moved with uncharacteristic quiet, his usual bravado dimmed by the narrow, twisting corridors of the palace's underbelly. The flickering lantern he carried cast long, jagged shadows against the damp stone walls, making the passage feel even more labyrinthine. He drew one of his pistols, his grip firm but relaxed, prepared for whatever lurked in the dark.
"You've studied these catacombs of… doldrum?" he murmured, his voice low but edged with amusement.
"For a time," you replied with a smirk, knowing full well he couldn't see it in the dim light. "But I don't know all of them, and they don't lead to the Regalia directly. They do, however, take us to the cellar."
"I don't think now is the time to drink this vintage," Rostov quipped, stepping carefully over an uneven stone. "Though, given our circumstances, I certainly understand the temptation."
You glanced back at him, shaking your head slightly. He was a strange man, carrying himself with a mix of theatrical charm and an almost unsettling ease, as if he had danced through danger so many times that it no longer registered as peril.
"Why do you call yourself a thief?" you asked after a moment.
"I'm honest about what I am. Nothing more," he replied smoothly.
You frowned at his simplicity. "But I want to know why," you pressed. "Why are you honest with yourself? Most people aren't."
Rostov chuckled under his breath, his steps unfaltering even as the passage sloped downward. "Honesty is a luxury most men can't afford. But I've found it's easier to live with yourself when you accept exactly what you are."
His answer was deliberately vague, but you didn't push further. Not yet.
A moment passed, then another, the only sounds the distant murmur of voices above and the rhythmic tap of your footsteps against stone. Finally, Rostov spoke again, softer this time.
"If we get out of this, with treasure in hand, and perhaps a few other things worth toasting, well… perhaps then I'll tell you."
There was something almost wistful in his voice, a rare glimpse beneath his mask of wit and irreverence. But before you could pry, he gestured ahead.
"Now, lead on, my dear. Let's see what waits for us in the dark."
-----------------------
You had reached the Celler, and there was commotion from above, shouting and otherwise… an incredible sound of chaos from above, as if the palace was not only on fire, but was becoming the inferno of activity.
"What the blazes is happening up there!" Rostov asked.
"Dosen't matter, look at the vault door!" You pointed to the door.
The Imperial Vault had not been looted, it's treasures untouched. The count just needed to… break in, so you could steal. "Can you crack that?"
He smiled. "Of course I can!"
He then took off to look and crack it.
But you were petrified as an entire squad of Red looters, being led by a man who clearly looked like he was in charge of something very important, walked in. "How did you get in here?"
You were terrified of the man… and all you could do was gulp. Rostov couldn't save you, so you had to think.
What do you say?:
[]The Truth: You wanted to steal from the Vault.
[]The Lie: Tell them that Comrade Ivanov had sent you and your friend to crack open the imperial vault.
[]Draw and fire: You didn't know how to use a gun, but you were going to have to learn eventually!
[]Write in