Post by Aksel Bavenn on Jan 6, 2010 15:57:46 GMT
OOC: This is set before the main thrust of Aksel's story. He hasn't joined the HJ yet, he still has a faint idea of his identity and he is on the streets of Paris. And he has a knife. Fun. 
Country: Paris, Occupied France
Current Time: 22:15, February, 1943
Weather Conditions: Numbingly cold. Harsh wind coming from the East. Light but very annoying rain dripping down.
______________________________________________________________________________
SS- Gruppenführer Reinhard von Karstenn ambled down the shady alleyway, his thickset form cloaked in darkness. He was huge; rock-like muscles rippled under the material of his tarmacadam uniform, sausage fingers tightened around his favoured sidearm, a clenched jaw stood defiantly against the miserably Parisian drizzle. A trio of Wehrmacht soldiers trooped by, hob-nailed boots beating a rhythm against the cobbled streets. They stopped upon seeing the officer and saluted elaborately. Von Karstenn ignored them with relish. One of the men was clearly of Mediterranean stock; such a man was hardly fit to wear an Aryan uniform.
The soldiers exchanged glances uncertaintly, until von Kartsenn waved them away gruffly. They scuttled off, rifles over their shoulders. The Gruppenführer sighed, his mind laden with a symphony of worries and concerns, and continued on his way. The street was illuminated by the dull glow of the sickle moon, etched elehantly into the rich tapestry of the night sky. The day’s light had long since flickered and died. Reinhard von Karstenn was in the dark. In his element.
And unbeknown to him, he was being watched.
A thirteen year-old boy leaned against a cold stone wall, hollow eyes watching the German’s every move. He was haggard, lean, pathetic. No one paid him any notice. Paris was one of the largest cities in Europe; there were disshevled children staring into darkness on every street corner. But this one was different. He looked as if he had lived the lives of a thousand men. He seemed to reek of pain and suffering and loss.
He was an empty shell of the boy he had once been. He had crossed more borders than he had known existed and had found himself alone. And lost. And afraid. He clutched a jagged knife in his right hand. Apart from a faded photograph of his lost family, it was all he owned in the world. It was the weapon that would kill Reinhard von Kartenn.
At last, the boy stepped from the shadows, concealing the blade behind his back. “Herr Gruppenführer! Herr Gruppenführer!”
Von Karstenn span around, narrowing his eyes as he was the pathetic specimen before him. “Ja?” he said, surprised that any villager would be foolhardy enough to approach an SS-Officer in the middle of the night.
“Ein Soldat ist verletzt!” the boy sobbed, his German perfectly fluent but oddly accented. “ Partisanen! Sie schossen ihn in den Rücken! Bitte, müssen Sie so bald wie möglich!” Without waiting for a reply, he sped down the alleyway. Van Karstenn stood stunned for a split second before stumbling blindly after the lad, swearing under his breath at the audacity of the French partisans.
He rounded a corner, breathing heavily. It was the last time he would ever do so.
Before he could even glance around the dusky street, he felt merciless metal biting into his soft underbelly. The boy twisted the knife viciously, tears pricking his eyes, sending the dagger deep into the German’s abdomen. Von Karstenn stared him straight in the eye, a look of utter surprised etched onto his flabby face, as blood began to dribble from his lips. The boy wrenched the knife back; the soldier staggered backwards and slammed down onto the indifferent earth. He was dead.
The boy blinked back tears and kneeled down at the man’s side. He searched through the officer’s deep pockets until coming across and pocketing a slim, leather-bound wallet. Reinhard von Karstenn had died so that James Bevan could live. He just hadn’t had a choice in the matter. Suddenly, James heard a sound. A rustling. A single, light footstep. Someone was watching. Or something. The boy wiped his dagger on the officer’s sleeve and got to his feet. “Hallo?” he called, his voice cracking. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade.
Country: Paris, Occupied France
Current Time: 22:15, February, 1943
Weather Conditions: Numbingly cold. Harsh wind coming from the East. Light but very annoying rain dripping down.
______________________________________________________________________________
SS- Gruppenführer Reinhard von Karstenn ambled down the shady alleyway, his thickset form cloaked in darkness. He was huge; rock-like muscles rippled under the material of his tarmacadam uniform, sausage fingers tightened around his favoured sidearm, a clenched jaw stood defiantly against the miserably Parisian drizzle. A trio of Wehrmacht soldiers trooped by, hob-nailed boots beating a rhythm against the cobbled streets. They stopped upon seeing the officer and saluted elaborately. Von Karstenn ignored them with relish. One of the men was clearly of Mediterranean stock; such a man was hardly fit to wear an Aryan uniform.
The soldiers exchanged glances uncertaintly, until von Kartsenn waved them away gruffly. They scuttled off, rifles over their shoulders. The Gruppenführer sighed, his mind laden with a symphony of worries and concerns, and continued on his way. The street was illuminated by the dull glow of the sickle moon, etched elehantly into the rich tapestry of the night sky. The day’s light had long since flickered and died. Reinhard von Karstenn was in the dark. In his element.
And unbeknown to him, he was being watched.
A thirteen year-old boy leaned against a cold stone wall, hollow eyes watching the German’s every move. He was haggard, lean, pathetic. No one paid him any notice. Paris was one of the largest cities in Europe; there were disshevled children staring into darkness on every street corner. But this one was different. He looked as if he had lived the lives of a thousand men. He seemed to reek of pain and suffering and loss.
He was an empty shell of the boy he had once been. He had crossed more borders than he had known existed and had found himself alone. And lost. And afraid. He clutched a jagged knife in his right hand. Apart from a faded photograph of his lost family, it was all he owned in the world. It was the weapon that would kill Reinhard von Kartenn.
At last, the boy stepped from the shadows, concealing the blade behind his back. “Herr Gruppenführer! Herr Gruppenführer!”
Von Karstenn span around, narrowing his eyes as he was the pathetic specimen before him. “Ja?” he said, surprised that any villager would be foolhardy enough to approach an SS-Officer in the middle of the night.
“Ein Soldat ist verletzt!” the boy sobbed, his German perfectly fluent but oddly accented. “ Partisanen! Sie schossen ihn in den Rücken! Bitte, müssen Sie so bald wie möglich!” Without waiting for a reply, he sped down the alleyway. Van Karstenn stood stunned for a split second before stumbling blindly after the lad, swearing under his breath at the audacity of the French partisans.
He rounded a corner, breathing heavily. It was the last time he would ever do so.
Before he could even glance around the dusky street, he felt merciless metal biting into his soft underbelly. The boy twisted the knife viciously, tears pricking his eyes, sending the dagger deep into the German’s abdomen. Von Karstenn stared him straight in the eye, a look of utter surprised etched onto his flabby face, as blood began to dribble from his lips. The boy wrenched the knife back; the soldier staggered backwards and slammed down onto the indifferent earth. He was dead.
The boy blinked back tears and kneeled down at the man’s side. He searched through the officer’s deep pockets until coming across and pocketing a slim, leather-bound wallet. Reinhard von Karstenn had died so that James Bevan could live. He just hadn’t had a choice in the matter. Suddenly, James heard a sound. A rustling. A single, light footstep. Someone was watching. Or something. The boy wiped his dagger on the officer’s sleeve and got to his feet. “Hallo?” he called, his voice cracking. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade.
