Painted Veils

[∬: Gero A. Fritz]

Wine, Wine, Wine… That’s all the locals had! Corporal Fritz was becoming annoyed, the Italians had no taste for beer or liqueur, just Wine and other fruity beverages. Sure, he’d seen many cascaded yards of orchards on his journey to the small inhospitable town, but he didn’t actually realise that’s all the Rural town had to offer in it’s local bars and restaurants. Schnapps was a German Favourite, a fruity brandy, which most of the men he was alongside all though the Italians may have a lot off; yet they proved him and the other’s wrong, the Italian woman giving them bewildered looks to what Schnapps was, same with the old fogie men behind their low top bar counters, who hoisted up a total different brand of beverage to what they wanted.

Kicking his feet upwards through the musk dirt, Gero thumped his heavy feet downwards afterwards against the cobbled ground on a slant, his feet stepping heavier against the uneven ground so he didn’t topple over, the almost vertical street causing the backs of his legs to hurt. How on hell did the locals manage to build on the side of a hill? His body strutting upright to accommodate the uneven terrain, the rifle of his thrown over his shoulder, hanging against his back and his free nimble hand supporting it by grasping onto the worn leather strap that pulled against his collar bone, the butt-end of his rifle clunking against his hip with every careful and hard putted step he made against the ground, walking downwards against the hillside.

Slowly, his feet became complacent as he stopped, his eyes feverishly looking outwards along the landscape from the height of the rural town situated on the bedrock of a hillside. The sun shimmered along the horizon and orchards blessed the sun-kissed terrain all around the small rural village, local people moving back and forth, almost like ants upon a mound of dirt, all knowing their jobs and routine, most likely able to find their way around with their eyes closed. An old woman on the opposite side of the street gave him a slight mean look, as she walked ‘backwards’ up the hillside, something Gero tried not to laugh at, a funny sight, but most older locals walked backwards within the small rural village - sounds strange? No, they used their wit to realise, walking backwards was much easier on the legs, rather than walking forwards. Gero thought that was clever minded, but he couldn’t help grinning or laughing quietly to himself every time he saw someone attempting it. Childish behaviour he had.

Stepping onto a small concrete wall by his side, the Corporal wrestled his hand against the hard stone, levering himself over the wall to drop down the other side. The locals weren’t the only ones who began to know their way around, as Gero briskly took stride in walking down a nearby alley and crooked lane, that had two towering buildings either side. His feet padded against the foreign grain beneath his heels and his eyes glanced around quietly, forever cautious of his surroundings, even as a few chickens fluttered by his feet, the Corporal itched to swing his gun around - twitching a little from the surprise of the noisy animals brushing passed his feet. Some may say he was Cautious or perhaps just paranoid? The locals didn’t seem too eager to have him or his comrades there, even though it was a planned short stay by his superiors.

Taking a hairpin left, the Corporal began to wonder down another crooked and narrow alley, his body firming up to the sound of voices emitting from inside some of the buildings he passed, their windows clambered shut with wooden skirting. Abruptly stopping, Gero’s eyes darted towards something behind him, a silhouette vanishing into another turn-off down the long alley, his lungs closing up as he held his breath, wondering what it was? Dropping his rifle down against his hip, instead of it hanging against his back, the Corporal continued to walk patiently and quietly, forever glancing behind him, feeling quiet weary. The Italians were nice people when they wanted to be, but he also knew from prior experiences they were callous and strong minded when they wanted to be too…

[monty2]

Corty, a light blush of intoxication spreading across the hallows of his cheeks, stumbled once over his own boots, straightening up quickly as if to save some dignity. Not that the young soldier had much of that and, once his mind stopped swimming, would remember this moment with shame and come to the conclusions that he didn't have much wits either. It didn't take more then a couple of hours for a group of Italian locals to find the boy, wandering away from the rest of his comrades, and to pull him into the local tavern. It wasn't at all like German taverns: old, rustic and homely, and he didn't really want to get involved with any sort of alcohol. Wasn't really supposed to. True, they were, in a way, being given a break, but Cort, no matter how insufficient, was a soldier in the respected German army, and should not be caught off guard.

But the men were smiling, offering compliments and wishing for him to share some drinks and company. He did not realize that behind such eager faces and kind remarks they were all taunting with slippery intentions. Their eyes reflected such wishes when they took the young, stupid soldier and dragged him into their taverns, and he was as helpless to defend himself.

He didn't much care for the drinks, as had been said. Alcohol was not his thing, but the Italians kept on pushing sweet and odd things into his face, relishing as his vision became blurred and his sentences weak. The last thing they gave him -he was not told the name- was a small glass of cool and silvery liquid. They told him to slam it: the substance was not for the taste but for the feeling, but he must not have heard. He took a small sip, and held it there while his groggy mind debated in a panic if he should swallow the acidic fire or spit it out. Not wanting to be mocked, he swallowed, and almost choked on the mucus glands the heavy alcohol had dissolved. The Italians thought it was funny, even when he spit up all over their table.

That was enough for him, and Cort made a quick escape with the laughter and whoops following after him. Cort had decided he didn't like Italians. But now- what was he supposed to do? He couldn't very well show up for call like this, but doing any thing else would be deserting. Running = death, he knew. As he stumbled and worried, scenarios playing and skipping through his brains, Corty saw another figure up ahead, and quickly ducked back the way he came without thinking. It wasn't an enemy, but another member of his party, and he wasn't ready from an assault or confrontation from anyone, least of all someone that was supposed to trust him. Or that could laugh at him.

[∬: Gero A. Fritz]

Gero’s eyes slithered around slowly, the rural feel of the small local town had the male completely on edge. He wasn’t used to such small lively towns, sure, he was brought up in a small lively town - but this was uneasily different? The people had an edge, a strange mask, a painted veil in which they snickered behind. Like all countries, people stuck to their own, he couldn’t help but feel the same here, the stories of the Italians somewhat making him wonder - were they true? The German stories certainly were, his so called race were a bunch of prideful arrogant people, but the Italians were just; something else.

Wearily grasping his wooden splintered rifle between his firm fingertips, the Corporal couldn’t help but keep a distant weary look upon his face, the quick brush and noise of something behind him had stirred him; he was sure he saw someone acting peculiar, perhaps following him? Gero wasn’t one for causing trouble, but the locals had certainly spooked him lately, causing the dear Corporal to become paranoid - something he stubbornly refused to admit, his instincts were always right in his eyes, he was adamantly sure the local folks were planning something devious… The Italians weren’t to be trusted… Especially when more and more of them turned to the Partisans, the Italian Revolution.

Biting his lower lip, he continued to walk ahead, his rifle by his side. Turning his head forwards, the Corporal’s body shuddered to a stop, almost looking surprised for a split second, his bones jumping beneath his rugged meat of flesh beneath the uniform. A male?! Someone quickly caught his attention, darting off the pathway and down another street - Gero had already bit his tongue enough from saying anything, he was a soldier, not a beggar, something most casual people would avoid or divert their direction in the street from, to avoid the inevitable ‘Spare change?’ and open dirty palms, something that would make you feel guilty for the rest of your day.

Clutching his hard warm rifle, Gero suddenly pushed off his feet, acting on instinct. A haste took to his vocals also, as his body made chase in perusing the presumed suspicious local. “He! Wartezeit!” the Corporal shouted out a little, his voice bouncing off the walls around him, his feet unevenly patting to a stop as he neared the turn-off in which the suspect vanished from view, his mind drawing a blank on what else he would say when he’d caught up with the male…

Pushing his hand out against the wall, temporarily stopping him from slipping as he came to an abrupt stop, the Corporal looked off down the street, seeing someone walking away; the uniform now becoming apparently clear, as Gero’s eyes narrowed and his face beckoned a curious look - why did they change course? The smell of ale drifted within the air and Mr Fritz couldn’t help but swallow, oh how he needed a drink. “Entschuldigen Sie mich, Soldaten, ja - Sie!” Gero said aloud, his body swooning down the road, his finger pointing a little towards the male. Gero was only a Corporal, nothing major. So he didn’t expect a big ‘Ta Doo’ about it, as he began to summarise another question within his head, curious to the suspicious behaviour - approaching the man slowly.


Translations:

He! Wartezeit!
- Hey Wait!

Entschuldigen Sie mich, Soldaten, ja - Sie!
- Excuse me, soldier, yes - you!

[monty2]

A pillow of giddy terror pressed against his eyes, and Cort found it rather difficult to keep his knees from buckling as he walked. In the state he was in, he found it curious that he should be losing control, as both the alcohol and the need to escape clashed with his already unstable mind. He didn't belong here. How could anyone expect him to perform?

Ahhhh.
The order to halt stopped him in his tracks abruptly, instinct falling back to make room for his programming. He could not disobey any command, even if it was only from a petty Corporal. Bah…. Cort did not turn around right away, weighing his options slowly. His body went ridged for a moment, expecting to ward off some form of discipline or another. Slowly though, grudgingly, Cort did turn around to face Mr. Fritz. He gave a none-too-hearty salute, clicking his heels together best he could. This was not required in situations like this, but he was especially eager to please, and it was a good habit to get into, saluting was.
"Guten Abend mein herr!" He squeaked, his voice slightly husky and frail. Cort started to shake, unable to sort out the jumble of feeling bouncing in his sickly body.

He backed up as the Gero slowly drew closer to him, misunderstanding his intentions. Usually when people came slowly his way, Cort was being stalked.

Translations, courtesy google
Guten Abend mein herr
Good evening, sir

[∬: Gero A. Fritz]

As the Corporal approached slowly, his eyes wandering along the soldier’s uniform, he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on? Gero was obviously paranoid, particularly to the fact that he thought the straying wanderer was an Italian - maybe a partisan, an Italian Rebel who might’ve been making numbers on how many of the Nazis were in the town or something, but curiosity struck his tongue as he looked upon the German who staggered around to face Mr Fritz; Freezing almost instantly as the man drunkenly looked onwards towards him, before displaying a total full helmed salute.

Grinning to himself Gero shook his head downwards, cuffing one of his hands up against his brow to rub slightly, bemused by the man’s display of honour towards him. It took a brief moment before Gero could wipe the untidy smug grin from off his face, before eventually looking up towards the soldier who swayed within his spot. “Herr?” Gero questioned amusingly, a slight laugh beckoning from his throat as he shook his head to twist his arm around, thumping his hand against the patch on his shoulder, before tugging at his own collar to say “Ich bin kein Herr, Kamerad”, his face still trying to conceal the amusement he was withdrawing from the male’s drunkard state.

Shrugging slightly, as Gero dropped his hand from off his collar, showing the ‘Corporal’ lapel, he glanced around slowly to softly say “Ist jemand anders hier vorbeigekommen? Ich denke, dass ich können darf, hat Sie für jemanden anders verwechselt” Gero’s eyes trailed off towards the towering buildings around them, nothing large or grand, but compared to them standing beside them - they did feel a little intimidating to be standing beside, mainly so, when many of the windows were shuttered closed and some of them withheld quite talking behind closed doors; eyes all around them, looking down upon them. Gosh, Gero was terribly paranoid, right? The Italians were nice people… Right!?

Taking a long sigh from off his tongue, Gero smirked to himself and nodded in agreement within his head - He was wasting time, the man held no significance to his paranoia, he was just - drunk. Slowly turning upon his heels to nod towards the man without anymore question, nor’ listen to any answers to his questions, Gero went to take a step away until something clicked? Not mentally, like he realised something, but physically, as metal hit metal, like a mechanism. Widening his eyes, the Corporal spun back around towards the Drunken male, looking on in ore as someone from a balcony window above stuck their gun out, about to pull the trigger -- “STEIGEN Sie herunter!”

OOC: You may control the outcome; feel free to injure my character with the enemy NPC, may as well spice it up.

Translations:[/b]

Herr?
- Sir?

Ich bin kein Herr, Kamerad.
- I am no sir, comrade.

Ist jemand anders hier vorbeigekommen? Ich denke, dass ich können darf, hat Sie für jemanden anders verwechselt.
- Did someone else come by here? I think I may've mistaken you for someone else.

STEIGEN Sie herunter!
- GET DOWN!

[monty2]

In the end, Cort always was the butt-end of some sort of joke or another. In ways he could not comprehend, the other soldier found something terribly amusing about the younger. Was he so drunk that he couldn't understand what social cue he missed? Was it terribly unnatural to treat any superior with respect? Cort didn't feel so drunk, just a little toasty, but it was possible he was just as jumpy as the Corporal, who didn't seem particularly paranoid, just a little weary.

Corty relaxed his stance slightly, unsure of what to do with his hands. He couldn't keep them from shaking, so put them in tight fists by his sides. To prevent at stupid comments from just finding a voice, he also bit his tongue, and glared fretfully at the Corporal, who didn't seem to be paying him any mind. Gero was looking around, distracted by the heavy, unfamiliar atmosphere around them.

The question if anyone passed through was asked, and Corty just shook his head. He was obviously not the one Mr. Fritz was after, and so figured he could relax. He did want to know why the other felt it was safe enough to just go wandering after some stranger at a time like this. What if he found the character he was perusing, and that character was an angry Italian rebel who had no undying love for the Nazi occupation? Gero could end up missing, and his body could be stored in a number of places that the Germans would never search.

Cort relaxed when Mr. Fritz started to turn away, assaulting him with no more question. He himself was about to go back the way he had come, hoping to find a familiar path to lead him back, when a thing clicked, and Gero shouted. Unable to react so fast, Cort looked up towards the direction of the other's fear, and was hit by something very heavy around his middle. He was knocked back, slamming into Mr. Fritz. In an instant, three men fell on top of the two, offering out casual beatings while they attempted to strip them of their weapons. Cort blindly fought back in a daze.

[∬: Gero A. Fritz]

OOC: Was you shot or knocked back by something physical?

Flinching as something hit the male in front of him, Corporal Fritz twitched and blinked sharply to feel the weight of the man before him stagger backwards into his grasp, Gero’s hands grabbing onto the man’s tunic to support, but soon found his grasp being toiled with, as the man struggled away from in a fit of confusion, battling what seemed to be shadows bouncing around them, but soon faced the harsh reality too late, as a few Italian males circled them like hungry eagles - one of them swinging a rough punch outwards for Gero’s face, but ended up hitting his neck from a quick reaction, causing the Gero to go limp briefly.

Grunting beneath his breath, Gero felt the imprint of the stubble rings dent against his flesh, before one of the men began to grab at his rifle hanging against his body. Unhesitant, he threw his hands onwards, grabbing at the dull musk leather strap he’d come to love; the leather was soft and worn, comfortable against his shoulder, Gero’s fingers entwining ghastly around the strap to hold, his forearms pinning the opponent from yanking the weaponry from out of his grasp.

“Arghh…” was perhaps the only sort of wording that could emerge from his dry lips, as Gero pulled angrily against the flimsy strap, almost expecting it to break, whilst his leg kicked up to stamp onto the man’s coiled fingers around his rifle, managing to pride one of his hands off, before yanking the weaponry free. Falling backwards a little from his limp position on the floor, Gero quick and nervously pulled at the bolt on the side of the rifle, loading it quickly, a bale of sweat breaking against his forehead as he began to feel the heat of the situation, before he darted the barrel end off towards one adversary than another, his lips quivering the whole while.

The Corporal was in no position to make demands or threats, as he shuffled backwards across the floor, holding his rifle like a tainted spear towards the unknown. “Werden Sie hinter, werde ich schießen!” Gero said nervously, a slight tweak in his voice as he glanced between the males, one of his hands roaming outwards quickly to pat against the wall behind him, slowly using it to help him stand, his rifle trained on the general direction of the men still with one firm hand gripping at the rifle, before realising, he still had the drunken soldier to comply with -- “Soldat, wird über hier…” he quietly said, yet firm enough for the man to hear, before catching a glimpse on one of the men who slowly tried to step towards him, a big grin on his face, a long knife in his grasp.


Translations:[/b]

Werden Sie hinter, werde ich schießen!
- Get back, i'll shoot!

Soldat, wird über hier...
- Soldier, get over here…

[monty2]

[ooc]Physical. Sorry for my absence. I promise to be on more, or at least excuse myself in the future x-x

[bic]

Crot gasped as the man he fell into squirmed underneath him, and then as he was both pushed off by his comrade and pulled up by large Italian man, who passed him back to another while he dealt with Gero. Cort heard the dull impact of flesh on flesh as the punching began, and felt it himself soon after. One of the men pulled his arms behind his back, straining the shoulders. Roughly, the man hoisted him to one side, his fingernail digging into Cort's forearms as he moved him, jarring the fragile joints as he did so. Cort gave a groan, but could not really do anything to save himself. Too much movement would only worsen it; he was completely at his opponent's mercy.

His opponent was hard, though, and breathed a pungent fragrance of sticky smoke and alcohol down Cort's neck. He twisted the boy again, and Cort heard a sharp tearing sound as the tendons broke in the unnatural strain the Italian induced. The young boy gave a pained cry, and went limp, trying to ease the tremors that bled through his nerves. This was it, then. He was unable to fight. They would have to board him up in some medical station along with all the other injured and dying. Here now came a man with a knife, surely he would be stabbed and mauled. They had been warned about this. As hospitable as some Italians were acting, there were some who wanted them out. Cort couldn't fight with a sprained and dislocated arm, followed by a rib shank.
…Was that such a bad thing, though? Not to fight would mean he could rest, maybe even given a discharge and allowed to go home. A war hero, maybe, however weak his exclusion to battle was.

He felt a snag on the rifle that hung from his side, and instant terror and anger overrode the anguish and hopeful suggestions. No. This was his gun, and these men were only lowly Italian dogs. Not even properly uniformed, probably civilians. Cort squirmed away, gritting his teeth to the heavy throbbing in his arm. He manage to kick the man behind him. Not enough to injure, but enough to cause his release.

Just in time, his comrade told him to move, and he ducked out of the way of the man's rifle, moving quickly to his side. His one arm was limp, but not unusable under the circumstances, and he grabbed onto his own run, creating a protective cover over Gero's shoulder.

[∬: Gero A. Fritz]

OOC: Oh, didn’t see you posted. Been checking this site for a while, haven’t seen the need to login. Thanks for posting.


A small dribble of blood seeped down the back of Gero’s ear, the wound upon his head casting a small river of crimson blood to soak up into his hair, he must’ve been hit during the scuffle quite hard, the throbbing sensation illuminating throughout his body like a hardened pulse. Wavering his rifle off towards one direction, Gero soon darted the rifle off towards another, as if worriedly and unsure what target to hit or threaten… They all seemed intimidating…

Briskly, the Young boy broke free and trotted over beside him, the young soldier’s rifle obscuring a small dot within the corner of his eye, a relieved feeling to know he was pointing the barrel into the right direction. Gripping his clammy and sweaty hands onto the wooden frame of the rifle, Gero quickly began to push his weaponry forwards, almost like he was gesturing for them to get back without needing to say anything. Their smug faces said it all. One of the men quietly calmly taking his flat-cap off, causing his grey bristle hair to cascade down against his forehead, a man that wasn’t young, yet symbolised the Italian Elder’s strength - these were men of the resistance, not just a crude mob of youngsters looking for an extra gold tooth to add to their stash.

Hesitantly, the Corporal straightened himself slowly and pulled the rifle up against his shoulder, as if taking aim towards the larger man of the crew. “Macht Sie nicht... Nehmen Sie einen Schritt! Nicht ein!” beckoned Gero worriedly, not quite knowing what to say, his body shuffling sideways as his feet padded out to take careful steps towards the side. His eyes momentarily glanced back to the boy, nodding his head off towards the direction he was walking slowly, insinuating he best do the same. The Italians stood coldly still, looking quite normal and relaxed, the brute with the knife quite casually lifting his hand to start picking the dirt out from under his nails, taking a slight look to the two Germans now and again in an effort to say “Are you gone yet?” - another younger Italian began to laugh beneath his breath, the lot of them not seeming phased in the slightest by their antics in pointing armed weaponry at them.

As Gero felt the beam of sunlight brush against his leg, he took a quicker and eager step onto the path they’d used to come down the crooked alley. The Italians gave the first sign of nervousness as their bodies jumped and the Brute with the knife gripped at the handle, as if they’d expected a shot to be made. Gero’s lips formed a weak grin and his arms began to lower the rifle ever so slightly, as if the aching in holding it began to strain him. “Kommen Sie Junge, schnell”[/I] ushered Gero quietly to the young man over his shoulder, hoping he was still following, not daring to take his eyes off the Italians in front of them, as one of them began to slowly step towards them.

Translations:[/b]

Macht Sie nicht... Nehmen Sie einen Schritt! Nicht ein!
~ Don't you... Take one step! Not one!

Kommen Sie Junge, schnell
~ Come Boy, Quick

[PuNk! ™]

Thread Closed: Due to Inactivity.

The following CP has been awarded;

• Gero A. Fritz: 12CP
  ~ Showed a compassion for conspiracy & Fighting.
  
  
• Cort Hoch: 12CP
  ~ Putting up a fight and complying with Gero, you have earned the following CP.
  

~Danny