Slow GM is slow, but I’ve been handling some things on the group’s Discord server. This post is a lightly-edited transcript of a scene with Leks’ player.
21 October 2000 | 1931 hours
Droga Krajowa (National Road) 12
4km west of Opoczno
GM: The Hilux has been running with its usual infallibility all day, so the sudden silence is all the more alarming. Zenobia curses, shifts into neutral, and coasts to a stop at the edge of the eastbound lane. The hiss of snow under the tires fades into nothing.
“Tools,” Zenobia orders as she steps out. Leks releases the tiedown straps and hands down the battered metal case. He’s about to resume his position behind the pintle-mounted AGS-17 but Miko, who’s still young enough to be fully impervious to the cold, bounds into the bed and grabs the grenade launcher’s spade grips. Leks shrugs and gestures to Arkadi to cover the north, then moves off to the southwest.
Thirty meters is enough for the falling snow to muffle Zenobia’s steady stream of invective. Leks finds a fallen tree at the lip of a small gully and settles his MG3 on it. The waning crescent moon is enough to show a general lack of tracks in the sparsely-wooded fallow field beyond his position. To the east, Opoczno’s skyglow is barely perceptible.
A hiss of movement in the snow draws Leks’ attention just before —
“Forest Brother.”
Recognition of the low voice quells what would otherwise be a reflexive pivot behind the MG3. Leks centers his weight. “Filip?”
Three shapes materialize out of the gully, revealing a sharp bend in its course that Leks hadn’t noticed until now. Filip is in the lead, hands empty. To his right is a member of the Bracia Wilków Leks hasn’t met before, gray-bearded and crag-faced, holding a scoped Mosin-Nagant. To Filip’s left, the Estonian recognizes Zofia. The young woman shifts her own rifle to one hand and flickers a hand-sign of greeting with the other.
Filip advances up the snow-slick slope without apparent effort. “What brings you out here?”
“We’re on the way back from escorting those Russians home. But I suspect you already knew that.” Leks lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head inquiringly toward the distant sounds of Zenobia’s exploration of the Toyota’s innards.
Filip either misses or ignores the implied question. “Since you’re here, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You’ve had a while to consider our offer…”
Leks: Leks nods gravely, scanning the area out of habit. “I have, and you’ve been gracious and patient with my… considering. I have been reluctant, as I feel it a duty to protect the civilians of Ponikla.” He makes it a point to lock his gaze on the two older men as he continues, “But the thought comes to me repeatedly. How better to do that, to protect them from predators, than to become one myself.” He pauses for a deep breath. “If you would still have me, I would learn your ways.”
GM: One side of Filip’s mouth quirks up. “Learning our ways won’t bind you to our lands. We made the offer knowing Ponikla and the Baltic both have prior claims on you.” He nods. “The ritual is dangerous for the unfit and unprepared. Meet us here at sunset, three days from now. Bring nothing that wasn’t made by living hands.”
He gives Leks a long, searching look, then nods and turns. He and the older Wolf-Brother disappear into the snowy night.
Zofia watches them for a moment, then pulls herself up the side of the gully. “Questions?” she rasps, giving Leks the hand-sign for the same word.
Leks: Leks reflexively looks down and makes a mental note of his gear. “Made by living hands,” he mutters. Hefting his LMG, he snorts derisively, knowing instinctively that, while technically the weapon was assembled under human supervision, it doesn’t pass muster under the instructions from Filip. He glances to Zofia, expecting a knowing nod from her. With a shrug, he pats down the rest of his usual gear, waiting for her nod or rolling of the eyes as she confirms what he has high suspicions of already knowing; for his next chapter, he’ll be feeling as close to naked as he’s come since being assigned to the support automatic rifleman spot out of basic.
GM: Zofia nods soberly. She tugs at the collar of her winter jacket and makes a gesture of negation; hefts her rifle and does the same. Unzipping the jacket, she plucks at the heavy sweater she wears beneath it and the omnipresent wolf skin. Another hand gesture, this one different and emphatic. The wool is dyed a brilliant blue, but it’s a bit too irregular to be machine-knit.
She motions for Leks to hold her rifle. With both hands free, she unsheathes the hatchet hanging behind the point of her hip and holds it up for Leks’ inspection. His work in Minka’s forge has been limited to lifting and carrying, but he’s seen enough to know he’s looking at a similarly hand-made tool. Again, the emphatic gesture: This: yes.
More hand signs, accompanied by Zofia’s rasp: “Knife, spear, bow: yes to all. No guns.” A pause while she searches for a word. “Unless Minka is making… old gun. No sign for ‘musket,’” she explains.
Leks: Leks takes it all in, nodding soberly at each of her gestures. It’s made quickly and perfectly clear what is expected… this will take at least one of his three days to make sure that his gear is up to the strict code set forth. Minka, at least, will take some pride in his bringing along some of her handiwork. Once he has cleared enough with her to understand, he will clasp hands with Zofia, and nod with a nervous, toothy grin. He fumbles with a crude series of hand gestures meant to convey a message of, “See. You. Here. Three.”
(He’ll be seeing Minka about a hatchet and a boar spear, and a head to toe set of home woven civvie garb from whomever… I can’t quite recall who has that skillset with in the village. That’s if we do.)
GM: Zofia laughs silently, shows Leks the signs for “see you in three nights,” and squeezes his hands again before pulling on her gloves and disappearing into the night.
It’s maybe two minutes before Leks distantly hears Zenobia’s triumphant cackle. The Hilux revs to life a moment later.