Post-War Blues

[Guest]

Gone. Gone was the life that had been before, Moscow sent into hell in a hand basket so quickly by those bastards. Gone were so many good soldiers and comrades, some he had trained himself, some he had barely known. Gone were homes and precious items that belonged to the people of the city. Gone were any possible smiles for weeks or months to come. And for the moment, gone was Zabulon's faith in humanity. All this... this loss... It wasn't just for a revolution. Those bastards had come in and destroyed so much with so little care. Thus was the nature of war, and his efforts seemed to him to have done so little to protect this city, these people he managed to give a damn about. Would she have been proud? Would she have understood? No... No she wouldn't have been... A sip from a glass of red wine with a faint caw in his ear, a beak nuzzling against his cheek. His fingers stroked the raven's feathers gently, crimson eyes staring at the empty seats about him.

Destroyed. Destroyed were hopes and dreams that the revolution had brought about so intensely. A bright flame crushed out so quickly by the sound of that damned APC crashing into the Kremlin. His grip tightened on the glass as his frown grew. Destroyed was the seat of their government, their capital building leveled by a careless man. Destroyed was much of his home that he had once held a vague disdain for. Now, only a seething rage at the injustice of war as petty or stupid as it were. So far he had been channeling all of this negative energy into his work, refortifying the city and her defenses, trying to do something, anything to boost morale. Sekretar Alena had been doing rather well in picking up all the pieces, but to him, it was clear how the proud soldiers of Drachma were somehow... lessened.

The Head of Defense for Drachma was sitting in his empty makeshift base of operations that he had used during the war, some of the radios and equipment still laying around with no one but him to operate them. Narrowing his eyes at the sight, the tall man sighed and pushed himself up out of the chair he had sat in before, downing the rest of that red liquid. A bottle already sat empty on the top of the desk, the second opened and almost half empty yet he felt nothing. Picking up his scythe that was leaning against the wall, he slid it into its sheath on his back, the bottle in one hand as Olga took a shoulder. Yes... Yes it was time to head back and read something. Too long had he sat here amongst ghosts, amongst.... His normally impassive face was altered ever so slightly with a hint of a frown, walkng out of that empty room with its empty words spoken to vain ears.

Thanks to his height, his strides were long, the snow beginning to descend from the heaven's in the ever-dreary weather of Drachma. He did not mind the snow, he never had. Even as an urchin on the street hoping for kindness, he had never minded its bitter chill, its seeping wetness. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch... Such a soft sound, but it still offered some sort of comfort amongst the destruction of his home city. Where she had found him. No... no she would not be proud. Would she just touch his cheek gently with her hand like she used to? Whenever he would stare up at her after having failed at something despite his best efforts, she would always just stare at him evenly before cupping his cheek so softly in her weathered hands. Then that hint of a smile, like she knew. She had always been able see through him! Know exactly what was going through his mind though so few could read his expression...
But those days were past, and he was alone once more. Oh how lonely that sounded, yet that wasn't the point. He was content being alone, hell, he almost preferred it. Why else would he just shut himself in his home for his free time and read? Enjoy the company of a raven who could live so long? No... No he was fine with being alone.

But he wasn't alone anymore now was he? No, he had a little girl now. A haunting of his past who was currently being checked up on at the hospital. Svetlana. Eight years old. An orphan who knew not her past for sure. She was him, and yet she was his savior. Dark hair, striking grey eyes, and such a small frame.... Fate had such a sense of irony by showing her to him. By having her appear before him during the war. Before the armies of RIOTE marched through the streets of his city and wreaked their havoc, consuming all that stood in its path. The tall, tired man sighed heavily as he remembered all those emotions that had threatened to consume him as they had hid out in the apartment, how he... His crimson eyes flickered towards the ground. How he had actually felt tears roll down his face. Even as he loathed the rest of the world, he couldn't loathe her. She was someone he felt actually deserved the protection he offered, who wasn't like the masses. She.... was special. She was him. And he was now the magical one to her. That one kind figure who had reached out and pulled her out of the life she had known.

Glancing to his watch, he straightened up and dumped the bottle of wine into a nearby trash can, knowing he could no longer waddle about in the blues. He had to go pick her up soon. Though he'd certainly be early. Per usual. So with his long strides, he set off through the streets, quietly observing the new life of Moscow now that the world had changed.

[Guest]

{BUMP}

(( Though I do know Surealis is on Hiatus so don't move it please? ))