Post by Julian Rosenthal on Jul 7, 2012 1:34:25 GMT
[If you are interested in taking part in this thread, please PM me. I have a set idea in mind that is a bit…unorthodox. I’ll fill you in if you’re interested. A maximum of two people.]
Country: Northern Italy
Area: 35 kilometers outside of Florence
Current Time: 21:50, July 1944
The patchwork of wheat fields and crisscross of vineyards seemed to retain a glow from the heat and sun of the day, resistant against the shrouding dusk. Leaf by leaf, ancient brick by ancient brick, the darkness overcame, sucking the color out of every grove and copse. The foliage became muted, feasting on the night and plumping on darkness, sinking into a palette of grey and black. The Tuscan countryside became a concubine of the evening, monotone and sinister. In the medieval halls and chapels, fleeting shadows became the spirits of long-dead abbots and slain dukes, pantomiming their lives and deaths with only the roar of crickets as an audience. Each twig leant its underfoot crack to fear, the wind sold itself to terror by swaying every stray blade of grass. The only color that broke the darkness was the scorch of red, hot and defiant against the black. From the deep orange of a smoldering cigarette to the blinding yellow heart of a campfire, red refused to collapse. It was always present, the bright and angsty chaos of a flighty flame against the faceless tyranny of the moon. It was never constant, twisting and writhing around a wick or log, but it was never to be extinguished. The two colors, warm and cool, fought in perpetual quarrel.
Orange danced across the straight blade of his razor as Julian slipped it under the stream. Locks of shaving cream ebbed with the current, stretching in the water before disappearing into the fronds. In his other hand he held a small brass mirror, another instrument of the leather-bound shaving kit that lay next to him on the bank. His face was reflected in a shimmer of red, drawing hungrily on the light coming from the small fire behind him, as he drew the razor down the contours of his jaw. Moonlight glittered grey, fractured by the branches and leaves above him, drawing twisted and swaying patterns on his bare torso. Grass, fed by the creek and black in the night air, tickled his broad back. A grey tunic and white officer’s shirt lay beside him, folded neatly on the cool earth. The scent of manure, wafting in from beyond the trees, flirted with his heady aftershave. An open bottle of Chianti stood, dignified, atop his clothes, his only companion by the streamside.
A wisp of laughter was carried on the breeze, pricking at the SS-Obersturmfuhrer’s ears. His squad and the other men from their platoon had set up a small fire between the trunks behind him, where they lay and joked and talked. However, there was an air of anticipation between them, nearly palpable. None of the soldiers could completely relax, the thought of the coming action nagged excitedly in the corners of their brains. It wasn’t going to be necessarily strenuous, definitely not life threatening, but it was still exciting. There was something inside of them that strained at its bindings, a primitive essence that squirmed to be let loose. Tonight they would have the chance to do it.
The same eagerness was building within Julian. As the last smear of cream was cut from his cheek a restless darting welled up in his gut. He rolled forward onto his knees and washed the razor again, honing the edge of the blade with his thumb as he dried it with a square of clean linen. With a final flick he closed the razor back into its mother-of-pearl handle and lowered his hands into the stream, washing his smooth skin. It felt nice to be clean. He was pure now, a golden knight, a virgin angel. Julian sat back again and retrieved the leather case from the earth beside him, straightening and organizing each stainless utensil. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer replaced his razor in a leather flap, his fingers then moving towards the lid, where a neat little line of glass fragrance bottles were strapped in. He chose a sapphire eau de toilette, French in manufacture and spicy in note.
A shadow stretched across the orange light, a man rising from the campfire, giant compared to Julian’s seated silhouette. He ignored the determined tread of jackboots as he undid the fastening on the aftershave, peering at the label in the weak light as the steps drew nearer. A corporal descended the bank with a rustle of reeds and crouched beside him, staring into the water. Julian didn’t have to look at him; only SS-Rottenfuhrer Hannes Treke would care to approach him like this. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer didn’t take his eyes off of his work, gently but swiftly uncapping the vial and twirled it under his nose. He touched the fingertip to its nozzle and tipped the bottle up as Treke spoke.
“The men are eager.”
Julian dabbled the scent across his cheeks and glanced into the trees on the opposite bank.
“The other officer won’t give the order.”
He tipped up the aftershave again, repeating the process before returning the vial to its resting place. Treke was a good man, he had served with Julian all up Italy and in France before. He was a career soldier, a bachelor edging on 35 whose temples were already shot with grey and voice gruff with seen horrors. Julian knew little about his life before the war, he could only assume it hadn’t been an easy one. Treke was anxious to move as well, a culminated messenger of all the other soldiers’ anticipation. Something crawled in Julian’s chest, egging him on. He slapped the shaving kit closed, the sound vorpal through the warm Tuscan night.
“Hannes, what do you expect? I want to know. This is…a new experience.”
The SS-Obersturmfuhrer rose, his bare torso glowing. The distant firelight played on his hair. Julian bent down and unfolded his white service shirt, tossing the bottle of Chianti to Treke. The corporal remained crouching, taking a strong draw from the wine and looking at his lieutenant as he turned and dressed.
“They deserve it. They’re not right, they’re not like us. Just remember that. Even the bible says so. Children of Lilith, they are, not of Adam and Eve. They cheat and steal for a living. They need to be gone, you know? Like rats, or bugs. Like the Jews. It’s what’s best for all of us, for all of god’s people. It just takes the Fuhrer and men like us to do what’s right. Just remember that.”
Julian smiled at Treke’s naïve religion, his back towards the corporal. He reached the collar button and tucked the crisp white tails into his trousers, thinking about the speech. They’re not like us. That was true. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer retrieved his tunic.
“Ja, Hannes. You remember that too. We’re doing god’s work.”
Julian smiled again at the irony. He buckled on his belt, every ammunition pouch heavy with Kar98k stripper clips. Turning, he saw Treke with his head bent towards the ground, eyes shut, and lips moving with prayer. A twinge of guilt and insecurity pulled at Julian, mingling with anticipation. Who is one to be sure, anyway?
Country: Northern Italy
Area: 35 kilometers outside of Florence
Current Time: 21:50, July 1944
The patchwork of wheat fields and crisscross of vineyards seemed to retain a glow from the heat and sun of the day, resistant against the shrouding dusk. Leaf by leaf, ancient brick by ancient brick, the darkness overcame, sucking the color out of every grove and copse. The foliage became muted, feasting on the night and plumping on darkness, sinking into a palette of grey and black. The Tuscan countryside became a concubine of the evening, monotone and sinister. In the medieval halls and chapels, fleeting shadows became the spirits of long-dead abbots and slain dukes, pantomiming their lives and deaths with only the roar of crickets as an audience. Each twig leant its underfoot crack to fear, the wind sold itself to terror by swaying every stray blade of grass. The only color that broke the darkness was the scorch of red, hot and defiant against the black. From the deep orange of a smoldering cigarette to the blinding yellow heart of a campfire, red refused to collapse. It was always present, the bright and angsty chaos of a flighty flame against the faceless tyranny of the moon. It was never constant, twisting and writhing around a wick or log, but it was never to be extinguished. The two colors, warm and cool, fought in perpetual quarrel.
Orange danced across the straight blade of his razor as Julian slipped it under the stream. Locks of shaving cream ebbed with the current, stretching in the water before disappearing into the fronds. In his other hand he held a small brass mirror, another instrument of the leather-bound shaving kit that lay next to him on the bank. His face was reflected in a shimmer of red, drawing hungrily on the light coming from the small fire behind him, as he drew the razor down the contours of his jaw. Moonlight glittered grey, fractured by the branches and leaves above him, drawing twisted and swaying patterns on his bare torso. Grass, fed by the creek and black in the night air, tickled his broad back. A grey tunic and white officer’s shirt lay beside him, folded neatly on the cool earth. The scent of manure, wafting in from beyond the trees, flirted with his heady aftershave. An open bottle of Chianti stood, dignified, atop his clothes, his only companion by the streamside.
A wisp of laughter was carried on the breeze, pricking at the SS-Obersturmfuhrer’s ears. His squad and the other men from their platoon had set up a small fire between the trunks behind him, where they lay and joked and talked. However, there was an air of anticipation between them, nearly palpable. None of the soldiers could completely relax, the thought of the coming action nagged excitedly in the corners of their brains. It wasn’t going to be necessarily strenuous, definitely not life threatening, but it was still exciting. There was something inside of them that strained at its bindings, a primitive essence that squirmed to be let loose. Tonight they would have the chance to do it.
The same eagerness was building within Julian. As the last smear of cream was cut from his cheek a restless darting welled up in his gut. He rolled forward onto his knees and washed the razor again, honing the edge of the blade with his thumb as he dried it with a square of clean linen. With a final flick he closed the razor back into its mother-of-pearl handle and lowered his hands into the stream, washing his smooth skin. It felt nice to be clean. He was pure now, a golden knight, a virgin angel. Julian sat back again and retrieved the leather case from the earth beside him, straightening and organizing each stainless utensil. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer replaced his razor in a leather flap, his fingers then moving towards the lid, where a neat little line of glass fragrance bottles were strapped in. He chose a sapphire eau de toilette, French in manufacture and spicy in note.
A shadow stretched across the orange light, a man rising from the campfire, giant compared to Julian’s seated silhouette. He ignored the determined tread of jackboots as he undid the fastening on the aftershave, peering at the label in the weak light as the steps drew nearer. A corporal descended the bank with a rustle of reeds and crouched beside him, staring into the water. Julian didn’t have to look at him; only SS-Rottenfuhrer Hannes Treke would care to approach him like this. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer didn’t take his eyes off of his work, gently but swiftly uncapping the vial and twirled it under his nose. He touched the fingertip to its nozzle and tipped the bottle up as Treke spoke.
“The men are eager.”
Julian dabbled the scent across his cheeks and glanced into the trees on the opposite bank.
“The other officer won’t give the order.”
He tipped up the aftershave again, repeating the process before returning the vial to its resting place. Treke was a good man, he had served with Julian all up Italy and in France before. He was a career soldier, a bachelor edging on 35 whose temples were already shot with grey and voice gruff with seen horrors. Julian knew little about his life before the war, he could only assume it hadn’t been an easy one. Treke was anxious to move as well, a culminated messenger of all the other soldiers’ anticipation. Something crawled in Julian’s chest, egging him on. He slapped the shaving kit closed, the sound vorpal through the warm Tuscan night.
“Hannes, what do you expect? I want to know. This is…a new experience.”
The SS-Obersturmfuhrer rose, his bare torso glowing. The distant firelight played on his hair. Julian bent down and unfolded his white service shirt, tossing the bottle of Chianti to Treke. The corporal remained crouching, taking a strong draw from the wine and looking at his lieutenant as he turned and dressed.
“They deserve it. They’re not right, they’re not like us. Just remember that. Even the bible says so. Children of Lilith, they are, not of Adam and Eve. They cheat and steal for a living. They need to be gone, you know? Like rats, or bugs. Like the Jews. It’s what’s best for all of us, for all of god’s people. It just takes the Fuhrer and men like us to do what’s right. Just remember that.”
Julian smiled at Treke’s naïve religion, his back towards the corporal. He reached the collar button and tucked the crisp white tails into his trousers, thinking about the speech. They’re not like us. That was true. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer retrieved his tunic.
“Ja, Hannes. You remember that too. We’re doing god’s work.”
Julian smiled again at the irony. He buckled on his belt, every ammunition pouch heavy with Kar98k stripper clips. Turning, he saw Treke with his head bent towards the ground, eyes shut, and lips moving with prayer. A twinge of guilt and insecurity pulled at Julian, mingling with anticipation. Who is one to be sure, anyway?