[After the Radomsko reconnaissance mission, Pettimore had some questions and needed to enlist Leks’ help in obtaining answers. The following is the lightly-edited transcript of the chat thread in which we played out that scene, posted with the permission of both players. Unattributed lines are mine.
As a reminder, Leks’ player also runs Erick, and Pettimore’s player also runs Alexei.]
Leks is minding his own business somewhere in Ponikla on the night of October 5 when one of the railyard teenagers comes up to him. “Hey, Leks? Alexei says there’s someone on the radio for you.”
Leks: That gets his attention. The idea of having working radio again is a simple pleasure, one he didn’t think would come back after the razing of most of this part of Europe. He trots over at the direction of the teen, and heads to the radio room.
Leks: “This is Forest Brother, over?”
Pettimore: “Copy, Forest Brother. This is Bearkiller, over.”
Leks: Concern seeps through in his voice, “Receiving you. Is all well?”
Pettimore: “Up in the air, Forest Brother. Need to touch base with the Pack Alpha, over.”
(As a GM aside, Pettimore – you don’t know the exact borders of Bracia Wilków territory but you know you’re about 50km straight-line or 60km road-distance from the village where they took you. That’s about 40km south of Ponikla.)
Leks: “THE pack, ya?” pausing for the mental calculations on that distance and how long it might take to traverse it. “I can move in that direction on command. Might be… 24 to 36 hours?”
Pettimore: “24 to 36, copy. We might have unfriendlies with…similar tendencies. One in particular.”
Leks: Pettimore knows Leks. He can almost HEAR the grin over the silent radio. “Copy. Will check in ASAP, Usual intervals, until we get ahold of you. Copy?”
Leks gears up and heads out. As he’s departing the village, Stanislaw falls in beside him. The teenager shrugs. “You’re helping John,” he says.
(He’ll follow along unless Leks directly orders him to stay behind.)
Leks: Leks will grunt his acceptance, knowing that he can likely keep up without a problem. Packing for 3 days, just in case.
The weather is cool, humid, hinting at a return of the rain that plagued September’s harvest, but the low-hanging clouds refuse to open up. The duo makes good time, heading south-southwest and skirting Opoczno. They’re moving parallel to a one-lane gravel road through increasingly rugged terrain, heading into the Bracia Wilkow’s hill country, when Leks gets that not alone feeling. Stanislaw apparently feels it too – he leaves his rifle alone, but he lays an arrow across his bow.
Leks: Leks motions for calm. He’ll angle them off the road’s edge, into the cover of some nearby wooded area, and stop. Weapon slung African style, which he can pull off with a LMG only because of his size. He crosses his arms, takes a drink from his canteen, and rummages around for a snack. “They know we’re here. They can contact us as they wish.”
Stanislaw considers that. “If you’re sure it’s them.” He eases the arrow back into his quiver.
Leks: Leks is, but he’ll still his senses, take in a deep breath, almost wishing he could get scent.
There’s a low whistle from a clump of scrub about forty meters out. A few seconds pass before a figure stands up. It’s a woman – hard to tell age under the greasepaint striping her face, but she’s probably of an age with Leks and Stanislaw (who are only a few years apart). She’s a stocky blonde, hair back in a thick braid, wearing rugged civilian attire under a Soviet fatigue jacket in the pattern that was once exclusive to airborne troops. She raises her rifle – something old and bolt-action – over her head and waves it over her head before moving in.
Leks catches motion out of the corner of his eye and turns to see a second woman, similarly geared, approaching from a little farther out.
As they get closer, it becomes apparent that they’re similar enough in appearance to be related, somehow. Both have heterochromatic eyes. And both appear to be wearing wolf-skin capes or cloaks as a mid-layer under the jackets.
Leks: Leks follows the motion, spreading his legs a bit further apart to hopefully show a relaxed posture. “Thank you for allowing us to contact you. I come on the word of Pettimore, Bearkiller.”
The woman who first drew your attention steps in and extends a hand. “I’m Alicja. We know you, Forest Brother. You’re welcome in our lands Who’s your cub?”
The other woman nods. “Zofia,” she introduces herself. Her voice is a painful rasp, barely intelligible. Looking closer, Leks can see a well-healed scar from a wound that, by all rights, should have torn out her trachea and carotid.
Leks: Leks motions to Stanislaw. “Stanislaw. Friend of Pettimore,” he grins, clapping him on the shoulder, “Good kid.”
Introductions are made. Stanislaw meets their eyes, shakes, gets nods of approval for his grip. They’re clearly reclassifying him as an adult. “We thought Bearkiller went west,” Alicja says. “What’s happened?”
Leks: Leks snaps right back into NCO mode, and relays just the facts about the intel that he received from Pettimore. No coloration, no opinions, but it ought to be readily apparent from his eyes that he shares Pettimore’s suspicians about their Rasputin figure. “In the end, we seek advice. Even aid, if it would serve your cause as well. This is… clearly an usual figure.”
The women exchange looks. “Go with Zofia,” Alicja says. “I’ll call for Filip.”
Zofia slings her rifle and gestures for Leks and Stanislaw to follow her in a general westerly direction. Alicja starts moving off to the southeast.
Leks: Leks nods and falls into stride.
Zofia leads the men over the crest of a hill a few hundred meters away. On the opposite slope is an abandoned farmstead. “Safehouse,” Zofia grates. She’s clearly been following the conversation without difficulty but has limited remaining verbal capability.
As they’re approaching the farmhouse, a high-pitched howl echoes from somewhere in the direction from which they came. Zofia cocks her head, listening intently. A couple of minutes later, Leks can barely make out an answering howl. Zofia taps her wrist and holds up three fingers. Wibbles her hand to and fro. Adds a fourth finger, wibbles again.
Leks: Leks nods, not wish to engage in any conversation that obviously is a source of frustration for Zofia. He motions Stanislaw into the building, entering first himself, cautiously out of habit.
One corner of her mouth quirks up. “Talk. Ears work fine,” she gets out.
Leks: That’ll get a flush out of Leks. “Out of respect for your injury. Of course, ears are undamaged.” Of course, his idea of small talk is to notice her loadout and comment on it.
The farmhouse is not nearly as trashed inside as its exterior suggests. It’s clearly being maintained – and maintained to look unmaintained. The grimy windows let in enough light to reveal a well-repaired roof, a rudimentary kitchen, a small stock of preserved foods, and a couple of ammo cans. Two of the bedrooms are equipped with heavily-mended but clean bedding. The front room has two chairs, a couch – and a small bookshelf with a dozen or so volumes, mostly a set of hardbacks with colorfully-illustrated covers.
Zofia nods. “Thanks. Being polite… doesn’t hurt as much.” She gestures around, encompassing the food, bedding, tiny library. “Get comfortable. Well in back.”
Leks: Leks will send Stanislaw after some water, and clear off a portion of the table. He brought his own food, lays out a small spread on the table. Cleans with the water, wiping some of the roaddust from his face and hands. After checking his weapon, leaning it against something within easy reach, he’ll munch quietly. “Alicja. Sister?”
Stanislaw takes everyone’s canteens and steps out. He comes back a few minutes later.
Zofia pulls a rag from her gear and wipes off the camo paint. “Little sister. By fifteen minutes.” She grins. “From Kielce.” She gestures to the southeast. “We left when war came. Long bad story. Alicja tells it better.” Another grin, a hand-wave at her throat. “Bracia Wilków found us. Kept us safe. Offered us a place. Dad left. Not his scene, needed to find other family. We stayed. Now Siostry Wiklów!”
She moves to the kitchen, starts opening jars, puts Stanislaw to work with a cutting board. Glances over her shoulder. “You’ve seen Poland. What’s Estonia like?”
Leks: Leks nods grimly at the first part of her story, but does give a very real chuckle at the sisterhood comment. “Estonia,” he murmurs wistfully, “Good place. Not to hot in summer, winters not too cold. Much greenery. So many animals everywhere.” He’ll talk briefly of his adventures where he learned to forage in the woods, always at home there. Then, of course, his face falls, “I have not seen it in… more than 2 years? More now.”
“What’s keeping you here?” Alicja asks from the doorway. She sets down her gear and begins washing up. “You told them?” she asks Zofia. The elder sister rolls her eyes, nods, taps her wrist, and elbows Stanislaw out of the way to check the fire in the small cast-iron stove.
In the interest of moving it along, there’s a montage of food and a few hours off your feet, relaxing with people who aren’t trying to kill you. Eventually, there’s a tread on the front steps. Neither of the sisters reacts. The front door opens and Filip steps in.
He clasps Leks’ hand in greeting. “Forest Brother. It’s good to see you, but I hear you have a problem.” He eyes Stanislaw a little more reservedly. “And what do we call you? Bearkiller’s Apprentice?”
Stanislaw channels Pettimore and holds eye contact. “I guess you call me what I earn, once I earn it.”
Filip raises his eyebrows, processing that, then laughs. “Then earn it and we’ll talk again.” He pours a mug of tea, eases himself into a chair, and prepares to hear out Leks.
Filip and the sisters listen intently. “Bearkiller does have a problem. We can’t go west of the river without causing problems, but I can consult. I assume your only radio that’ll reach him is back in your village.”
Leks: Leks nods. “It is how he contacted me in the first place.”
Leks: “I can double time, make return trip in less than a day”
“If you can forced march, let’s go.” He looks at Stanislaw. “Can you keep up?” It’s delivered in a level tone.
“Probably Stanislaw admits, frowning.
“We’ll get him back,” Alicja interjects. Leks is fairly sure Stanislaw doesn’t consider this a bad outcome.
Leks: Leks nods, stands and retrieves his gear, adjusting straps for a forced march (because chafing is a bitch).
Filip finishes his tea and takes a minute to contribute to cleanup. When he’s done, he shoulders his small pack and picks up his rifle. As the two of you step outside, he comments, “This would be easier if you took the wolf.”
Leks: Leks scrunches his face as they move out. “I would lie to say that it is not incredibly tempting. But.. the people. I have a duty to Ponikla. To protect them. It was never their war.”
“I can respect that. When you’re ready, we’ll be here. If you’re never ready, I can live with that, too. You’re still doing good work there.”
Leks: You honor me. There will always be a resistance.”
The trip back is… something of a blur. Afterward, Leks will have difficulty recalling specifics. A few things stand out. Eating on the run, something small and fresh, the taste of blood and organ meat. Taking a detour without knowing why, and only recognizing the smell of an Opoczno militia patrol after he sees them. Drinking from a stream dappled by faint light from the waxing gibbous moon. He’s exhausted by the time he leads Filip past Ponikla’s sentries, sending one of them to wake up Alexei.
In Kamiensk, Pettimore awakens from a light sleep as Bell pulls aside the hanging bedsheet that bounds off his temporary quarters in the warehouse. “Sergeant, there’s a radio call for you.”
Pettimore: “Go for Bearkiller.”
In Ponikla, Filip takes the mic from Alexei. “Bearkiller, this is… Alpha. I understand you have a problem, over.”
Pettimore: “Good to hear your voice, Alpha. Could use your input.” Pettimore describes Rasputin in detail, including his apparent ability to track by scent.
Filip gives Leks a long look, then turns to Alexei. “This isn’t for your ears,” he advises the young East German.
He waits for Alexei to leave, then turns back to the radio. “He isn’t one of mine. Is he wearing a skin? Bear, wolf, boar, anything else? It would need to be whole, or mostly so.”
Pettimore: Alexei will look slightly disappointed, but nod and leave. “Please be careful with the equipment…sir.” No sarcasm. Something about Filip seems to command respect.
Pettimore: “No, no skin on him or his boss. I saw him catch our scent though my scope, though. Hell, we don’t stink THAT bad.”
“If he isn’t wearing a skin, he’s not one of us.” The reply is immediate and certain. “Which I know is no help with your problem.” In Ponikla, he glances at Leks, as if including the Estonian in “us.”
After a pause, he continues. “There are things older than us coming back into the world. His… ‘boss,’ this Shotkin. Is there anything uncanny about him?”
Pettimore: (describes the scene with the three teenagers) “They were almost, well, catatonic. Like they weren’t even there. I’ve seen warlords before, Alpha. This was more than that. This was like puppetry.”
There’s a frustrated growl over the radio. “This feels like a face I should know, but the fog is heavy on old memories. What I do know is this: we don’t go west of the river. That’s part of the agreement we have with the Heart of the Forest.” The capitalization is audible. “The Heart keeps to his own lands, too, but he’s said other old powers are coming back in the area you’re traveling. Puppeteers… that fits.”
Pettimore: “Any intel you can share will help, Alpha. We’ll do the rest. Also figured you could use the warning.”
Leks sees Filip close his eyes for a long moment. His brow furrows, and he slowly leans forward and taps his forehead on the radio casing. “Your Shotkin. If he looks human, he is human, but touched by whatever is puppeting him. That could be many things, but their hand on him should follow a pattern. He’ll have boons that help him do whatever it wants him to do. If he’s ruling that city, his boons are a ruler’s. Your Rasputin… his boons are a hunter’s. Or a guard hound’s. Puppeteers don’t give boons lightly. It costs them, pains them. So it’s an investment in shaping a place or a future they want.”
“One thing we do have in common with them.” He looks at Leks again. “Boons are easier if the person receiving them already fits the intent. It’s hard to make a stag into a wolf. So your Rasputin was already a hunter. Your Shotkin was already a warlord. Their Puppeteer makes them more.”
“The Heart doesn’t like them but he has something in common with them, too. They understand human hearts. They don’t understand human hands. We understand but it’s easier for us to live simply. They? They don’t understand technology, cities, governments. They can observe effects and manipulate human experts but these things are alien to them.”
Pettimore: “So there’s…SOMETHING else running the show. Figures. Always the proverbial man behind the curtain.”
Pettimore: Pettimore will also share whatever info they have on Shotkin, his men, setup, armaments, etc.
“Your associate, Shield of Lies? He probably has good instincts in that matter.”
Pettimore: “Yeah, he does.” chuckle
There’s a malevolent chuckle. “If Shotkin comes for us, he’ll have to go through the Heart. The screaming will warn us.”
Pettimore: “Alpha, he tips his arrows with something. Not sure what it is, but it can’t be good.”
“No way for me to tell without smelling it, and maybe not then, but no one coats arrows with anything good.”
Pettimore: “I get the feeling that whatever is pulling his strings won’t stop here. He’s building a power base, that’s for certain. Be careful.”
“You too, Bearkiller. Good hunting.”
Pettimore: “Forest Brother, do me a favor. Warn my …heck, apprentice, I guess, about these guys, okay? He’s filling in for me as far as hunting goes, and…well, you know.”
Leks: Leks nods to Filip. To be passed along. “I protect this village.”
Pettimore: “Glad you’re there, my friend. Thanks, gents. Good luck. Bearkiller out.”
Filip will accept hospitality if offered. He’ll sleep for a shift, then head out in the morning.
Stanislaw shows up the next morning, looking exhausted, pleased, and oddly disinclined to discuss where he’s been.