Adventure 0: The Winter Palace Gambit: Part 2
New
Magoose
SV's Questing Fanatic
- Location
- 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.
------------------------------------------------------
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
