Visions of the Animus [Reference Material]

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:10

Day Five

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

"Blasted Iberians attacking a defenseless village?!"

The seething Sir John Norreys marched into the barn that had served as makeshift barracks for the last few days to the sight of his entire personal guard reduced to emotional wrecks; he was accustomed to worse atmospheres than this, having served in the brutal conquest of Ireland only a few years previously, yet the sense of despair and fear in the air was completely alien to him, a foul stench that seemed to have permeated the very being of everyone present.

He motioned to speak, yet the cause of the tense atmosphere in the barn became apparant as he reached the far end of the building where two soldiers were kneeling at the foot of a large haystack, the lifeless form of a barely-dressed man laid peacefully among the straw; Norreys recognised the deceased as Choxorn, a decent lad from Norfolk who had served under him in many a battle.

The decorated war hero didn't wait for an evaluation of the man's death; he ushered his battalion out of the barn and into the fields for further training, his mind playing heavily on both the morning's discovery and the events of the previous night as he sparred with one of his more accomplished men.

Queen Elizabeth I peered at the golden sphere resting in her hands; it seemed to emanate a warmth that she couldn't explain, and she always felt tranquil and at peace whenever she held it for prolonged periods of time.

Today, however, she felt exhausted and the orb only seemed to exacerbate that which it would normally soothe; she had reacted to the bombardment of East Budleigh with her usual indifference, though she had secretly harboured feelings of doubt over the whole war effort, and the reported death of a major Spanish figurehead did little to ease her worry.

The war effort would have to be doubled, and perhaps her own involvement was the best means of rallying the troops; either way, there was much to do.

Alive Players (29):

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Diamondeye2 will replace Beefy187.

Begin Day Five
Ends 00:00 GMT, 15/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:11

End of Day Five

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Looking through the slender gap of the marginally-opened barn door, Chimpyang peered out, waiting for the cover of night to make his escape; the afternoon sun had begun to melt into the horizon, her fiery orange glow gently subsiding to shades of indigo and violet... darkness was beginning to take hold over the Netherlands, yet the hurrling could spot a large number of figures stood in the fields outside, all fixed intently upon his sanctuary.

Earlier that day, during the early hours of dawn when few are awake, Chimpyang had led a group of rebels against a Spanish encampment, setting fire to their supplies and releasing their prisoners before fleeing the scene; across field and fen, they ran from the swift retribution that was sure to follow, seeking refuge among known sympathisers and the churches. Chimpyang had chosen to act as a distraction, continuing to lead the Spanish forces away from his fleeing allies at his own expense.

Now, in the growing darkness of the barn, he began to realise that this would be his final hour, his last stand, a notion that was confirmed moments later when a voice called from outside; it was a gentleman, assured and almost mocking in tone, speaking in fluent Dutch with an audible tint of Spanish in his accent.

"You have nowhere to run, traidor!"

This ellicited a shudder from Chimpyang, and he had to steady himself quickly before he could collide into the door and fall out before his pursuers; he recognised the voice as Governor Farnesio, a man renowned as much for his fierce rivalry with the stadtholder as he was for his keen diplomatic mind and military brilliance. The implications were clear now; if Farnesio was here, then it was definitely all over, he would see Chimpyang hang as an example to the other rebels.

Remaining brave and resolute, he lifted his rifle, quickly muttered a prayer under his breath and kicked the barn door open; he managed to fire a single round, grazing one of the soldados in the shoulder, before he was overcome by return fire. The last thing that he saw was the face of Farnesio, looking down upon him with a look of sheer disgust...

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It appears that we're going to require more replacements; Insanious needs to drop out, so that's at least one... we'd rather not be forced to WOG, because that shortens this game and there's been too much effort gone into it for that to happen.

So, if you know anyone willing to replace, let myself and Beskar know and we'll try and fit them in at some point. :3

Begin Night Five
Ends 00:00 GMT, 16/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:11

End of Night Five

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Under the blanket of darkness, a trio of ships were headed northbound towards the Dutch coastline, but the journey had slowed in the last few hours as the sails had caught little of the westerly wind; the convoy, known as the Flota de Indias, was traveling with a full cargo hold of precious metals, Iberia's finest and other assorted goods, both to assist in financing the campaign against the English as well as convince the United Provinces to lend their aid rather than oppose the Spanish.

The journey had been rocky, the seas particularly bothersome as the convoy sailed around Finistère, but there was very little that the seasoned sailors onboard could not handle; that was, until the lookout starting screaming from the crow's nest, having spotted a single English galleon hurtling over the horizon, wind in her sails.

One of the escorting galleys was ill-prepared to face such a foe, and found herself victim to the Golden Hind's opening volley; dozens of cannonballs slammed into the galley's portside, shredding through the hull as though it were made of paper and crippling the mast, leaving the usually-capable sailors onboard to try their best to keep the ship afloat and retaliate, but they wwere taking on water far too quickly for them to concentrate on returning fire.

One man refused to go down without a fight, however; a gentleman whose name was completely inoffensive, he ran to one of the few cannons to have avoided the water thrown upon the deck and blindly fired it, only for another volley from the English galleon to rock the ship and send the shot off-kilter. The misfired cannon had caused the flailing sail from the mast to ignite; the sailor attempt to snuff it out by dragging the cloth onto the decking and stamping voraciously upon it... in his vigorous frame of mind, the Spaniard failed to notice a stray spark hit one of the gunpowder barrels; he was blown skywards, the ship following suit as the explosion completed the groundwork set by the English ship.

The Golden Hind took a sharp turn, with the wind in her sails, to easily bypass the other escort; the famous ship was barrelling straight for the treasure ship, attempting to move into a boarding position. Unfortunately, there are always overzealous sailors who wanted a taste of the action a little too soon; gibson was one such man, his attempt to jump aboard the vessel falling flat as he thudded against the hull of the treasure ship face-first, dropping into the churning waters below entirely unconscious.

The boarding then proceeded as planned, with dozens of Englishmen leaping aboard, weapons-in-hand; men were fighting openly on the deck of the ship, so much so that even the Spanish bucket boy was using his broom to attempt to stave off the English. In the confusion of battle, several gunshots were fired across the ship, but only one seemed to strike it's target; Warman felt a shot slam into his back lower back, causing him to stumble onto the blade of one of the English attackers.

Nearby, Double A was fighting with an Englishman; sword-slash for mace-swing, blow-for-blow, it was a pretty even match between the two of them. Two other duelers stumbled upon their fight, knocking both themselves and Double A's opponent to the ground; sensing the opportunity, Double A leaped forward to kill his foe, only for the fallen Spanish dueler to thrash out, his sword piercing Double A's neck and killing him instantly on the spot.

As the fight was clearly leaning in favour of the Golden Hind, Sir Francis Drake decided to make his grand appearance; swinging onto the deck of the Spanish treasure ship, Ironside dispatched the battling Spaniards with the upmost ease, his foes unable to cope with his superior swordsmanship, balance and agility. In the heat of the moment, he almost struck the arm of one of his shipmates; he began to mouth an apology when the man swiped his shortsword horizontally through the air, slicing a neat crimson line across the privateer's throat.

As the battle raged on around him, Drake rotated on the spot, his free-hand clasped at his neck as he continued to fight despite his failing strength and fading vision, his curved blade still claiming lives even as he began to die; eventually, he could fight no more, and he collapsed in a heap upon the deck of the treasure ship, cries of "al dragón está muerto!" echoing in the air.

With the death of their famous captain, the English morale began to falter, enabling the remaining Spanish forces to repel them from the ship, though not before the fleeing sailors could carry Drake's lifeless form back to his quarters.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:12

Day Six

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Queen Elizabeth I stood quietly as she watched the procession walk by, the casket containing the fallen Sir Francis Drake lifted above the shoulders of four pallbearers; she remained emotionless, even when those around her were engulfed in the throes of mourning and despair. Through the service and the burial, she avoided speaking to a single soul, and swiftly departed from the chapel soon after.

Back in her bedchambers, Elizabeth looked down at her pillow, the golden sphere resting upon it as though it were a giant egg in a nest; there would be retribution, and though she did not know how swiftly it would come for the Spanish, she knew that it was merely a matter of time... as inevitable as death and taxes.

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Yaseikhaan will replace Insanious.

Begin Day Six
Ends 00:00 GMT, 18/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:16

End of Day Six

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

The dull clanging of wood against metal echoed along the length of the corridor, heavy leather-clad footfalls providing percussion to the peculiar rhythm; the prisoners within the Tower of London had just nodded off for the day, but the jailor had other ideas, dragging his cudgel across the bars of the cells with a twisted sense of delight.

His patrol ended at the western end of the corridor, at the cell of autolycus; the jailor turned to his captive, who was sat silently upon the small mound of hay that acted as a bed. The jailor always disliked coming this far into the Tower; the condemned man's eyes seemed to gaze into nothingness, as though there was no life left and he was nothing more than a soulless husk.

"T'executioner's axe awaits yer today, lad", he said dryly, attempting to hide the tint of delight in his voice with little success.

The captive climbed to his feet while the jailor opened his cell with a set of rusty keys; without uttering a word, the prisoner hobbled past his captor and down the corridor, his movement limited by the shackles that bound his feet. The jailor was momentarily impressed by such resolve, but the grim reality of what was about to transpire removed his grin within seconds, and he returned his focus to escorting the man to his fate.

Two soldiers were waiting to greet them back in the jailor's room; though he didn't let on, the jailor knew that one of them had taken a bite of the bread roll he had been eating before their arrival, and he was annoyed at how they had taken such a liberty. Nonetheless, he remained polite and straightforward, lest he become an addition to the cells; he nudged the prisoner forward with his shoulder, the man stumbling towards the nearest soldier.

"May God 'elp yer, lad!", one of the soldiers laughed heartily, dragging the condemned from the Tower and into the afternoon sun; the jailor sighed heavily, sparing a thought for the man before returning to what remaining of his supper.

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Begin Night Six
Ends 00:00 GMT, 19/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:17

End of Night Six

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

The scheduled patrol across the border between the Spanish-controlled Netherlands and the United Provinces had started late that night; Governor Farnesio had ordered them to scour the countryside for the remaining rebels that had escaped after torching a Spanish encampment, to little avail. After several fruitless hours, the ten-strong group had finally commited to their usual routine around the stroke of midnight.

The patrol provided ample opportunity for slacking off in the wake of their busy day, and the soldados saw fit to take a break at the slightest opportunity; within thirty minutes of departing their camp, they were resting at a crossroads having constructed a quick campfire.

One of the group dropped his equipment next to his friend and dashed over to the foot of a maturing oak tree, some forty yards away from his fellow soldiers; distracted in the moment, he failed to notice a figure slowly approaching him from the darkness, and within seconds he found himself struggling to fend off the attacker.

Peering into the eyes of his foe, the soldado noticed that the would-be killer's eyes were glazed over as though he had been possessed by the darkest of magicks; he shoved the enthralled man away and called for help, never for a second taking his sight off the attacker's sharpened dirk, glistening with an unknown substance beneath the moonlight.

One of the group had been nearby to keep an eye on his companion, and he jumped into the fray to protect the unarmed soldado; the enthralled attacker slashed wildly with his blade, grazing the new combatant across the left cheek but otherwise leaving him unharmed. Before the Spaniards could retaliate, the figure had seemingly come to terms with the situation and fled with his tail between his legs.

Maurits van Nassau had been preparing to depart from the docks for an audience with the English Queen when a messenger revealed that the harbour was currently being occupied by a Spanish strike force, intent on preventing any Dutch vessels from leaving the country; there was also two galleons patrolling the waters around the harbour, as added insurance.

The stadtholder had little choice but to retreat for the night, his rebels in tow.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:18

Day Seven

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

In his makeshift headquarters, Governor Alejandro Farnesio was poring over a strategic map of the United Provinces, marking various lines across the parchment to denote enemy movements, friendly patrols and supply lines; he had been made aware of the difficulties faced by the small patrol group the previous night, and he was determined to track the perpetrator down and bring him to justice.

A messenger entered the room in a hurry, fumbling through his knapsack and forgetting his manners in the process; Farnesio looked up from his work, annoyed by the apparant disrespect but cautious about reprimanding a messenger who had travelled so far across the provinces. After more searching through his messages, the new arrival found what he was looking for and began to speak.

"M-my Lord, we have news that one of our encampments was infiltrated... during the n-night", he stammered, nervous in the presence of the Governor, "one of our soldiers, Death is Yonder, was slain in the attack."

Farnesio slammed his fist upon the table, rattling his inkwell and sending it's contents spilling across the map in the process; the messenger knew to make a hasty retreat before the Governor's torrent of expletives was directed his way.

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Begin Day Seven
Ends 00:00 GMT, 21/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:18

End of Day Seven

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

"I asked you for the asesino and you bring me this man?"

Governor Farnesio was nonplussed, to say the very least; in the wake of the attacks against both the border patrol and one of their encampments, the Spanish military presence in the Netherlands had been ordered to go through their ranks with a fine toothcomb, weeding our the traitor responsible for the wounding of one man and the death of another. Their conclusion was that ByzantineKnight was the perpetrator.

"Was this not the man that was attacked along the border?", Farnesio asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, "what is the meaning of this?"

The various regiment leaders that had brought the suspected killer before the Governor shuffled nervously on their feet, unanimous in their silence; naturally, they had their suspicions as to where ByzantineKnight's loyalties stood, but they had found little time for questions before the summons from the governor interrupted their interrogation.

"Muy bien, capitanes", Alejandro growled, drawing his pistol and shooting the bound suspect dead in the blink of an eye; upon the governor's hand gesture, one of the captains began to rummage through the deceased's attire, but they found little of interest, a fact that only seemed to irritate Farnesio further.

The assembled leaders quickly made their excuses and left to search for ByzantineKnight's belongings, hoping to provide a clearer reason for his execution by the time the sun rose anew.

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Begin Night Seven
Ends 12:00 GMT, 22/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:19

End of Night Seven

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

The morale of the English naval personnel had fallen to an all-time low following the death of Sir Francis Drake, the talismanic privateer responsible for many of their victories against the Iberians; while Lord Howard of Effingham still lived, his standing among his men could not match the near-mythical status they afforded the deceased Drake, and it showed as they were beaten time and time again in minor skirmishes in the waters around the British Isles.

On the other hand, morale for the Spanish Armada had reached euphoric peaks following exaggerated tales of a treasure convoy outlasting the Golden Hind in combat and scaring the mighty English vessel back to whence it came; additionally, the death of the Duke of Medina Sidonia had resulted in a more-accomplished admiral taking his place, and thus the Armada was able to overpower the English navy and prepare for an invasion, first stopping by the Netherlands to unite with Farnesio's thirty thousand-strong army.

Queen Elizabeth I had been aware of these facts for little more than a day before she snapped out of her near-catatonic state of shock and set into motion a series of contingency plans that would prepare the entire nation for invasion; these plans had been drafted with the assistance of the white-robed individuals who had so kindly given her the golden orb, plans that she had originally mocked, for the notion of the English navy failing to protect the nation seemed ludicrous at the time.

And now she stood before the standing army of her beloved realm, gathered at Tilsbury to meet the incoming Spanish rowboats fit-to-burst with the strongest soldados they could muster from both the Netherlands and Spain itself; men trained for the sole purpose of taking the British Isles by force.

In comparison, England had largely been reliant on her naval superiority and thus had neglected to maintain a sizeable army; this had led to extensive conscription, with every able-bodied male aged sixteen and above forced to take up arms in defence of the kingdom, the unfortunate downside being that they were given minimal training or mental preparation for the monumental task that awaited them.

Dressed in a less-extravagant variation of her usual pearl-white velvet dress and protected by a newly-crafted silver cuirass, Elizabeth looked the part; along with her suitable attire, along with her proven skill with a blade, she had shown that she was capable of walking the walk... it was now time for her to talk the talk, and she prepared to do just that as she sat upon her regal steed.

"My loving people!", she shouted, her usual reserved tone having been ousted by a stronger and more direct approach, "let the tyrants fear the courage of England!"

"By the grace of God, I have placed my chiefest strength and wellbeing in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects", the Queen continued, her audience rapt with attention, "therefore I have come to walk amongst you, not for my recreation and disport, but because I am resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you all."

"I know that I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king... and of a king of England too! I think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm; to which rather than any dishonour shall grow by me, I myself will take up arms, I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field."

Elizabeth raised her sword into the air, eliciting a roar of enthusiasm from the gathered militia, before leading the charge to the Essex coastline, where the Spanish rowboats had beached, soldados storming through the fields under the cover of cannonfire from the mass of galleons and converted trade vessels massed in the English waters.

Twelve hours had passed since Queen Elizabeth I's speech and much had occured in the meantime; with much of the English militia unfamiliar with such intense combat, the initial assault from the Spanish forces had caught the defenders off-guard, a fact that the Iberians used to their full advantage by pushing the new recruits to their limits and making a sizeable advance through Essex in the process, only to have all their hardwork unravelled by a brutal cavalry charge led by Sir John Norreys.

Under the glow of an afternoon sun, lazily crawling across the sky as the day turned to night, the battle raged on as the two sides clashed once more deep in the Essex countryside; the inexperience of the conscripted English had been all but extinguished through a combination of Norreys' dynamic leadership and the sheer adrenaline of the situation, while the Spanish were finding it difficult to maintain the momentum of their initial charge without bombardment from the sea.

Sir John Norreys was right in the thick of it, his superior swordsmanship smiting many a Spaniard in mere seconds as he continued to dominate the battle and serve as a beacon of hope for the English; one soldado, known as TinCow, had managed to hold his own, his skill with a shield proving a difficult challenge for the accomplished English war hero, so much so that he managed to knock Norreys to the ground and gain the upper hand.

Prepared to embrace death after such a long career, Norreys closed his eyes, opening them shortly thereafter to find TinCow clutching his throat, hand stained with blood, with no apparant saviour in sight; breathing a sigh of relief, he retrieved his weapon and dashed several yards over to Queen Elizabeth, who had joined the battle alongside six of the royal guard, all of them occupied with fighting several soldados.

The arrival of Renata had boosted the morale of the English defenders, but in the same breath it had renewed the vigour with which the Spanish attacked, as the easiest means of securing victory was now within their grasp, or would be were it not for the strange gold sphere she held; beams of golden light darted from the artifact seemingly at her whim, striking the soldados fighting her royal guard and killing them all instantly, leaving Spanish and English soldiers alike to crumple lifelessly to the ground.

Wave after wave of invading Spaniards fell in this manner, but their numbers did not seem to dwindle and Elizabeth felt her strength draining with each successive use of the orb's power; she managed a weak smile when she saw a white robed figure approach her through the fray, a smile that quickly turned into a look of horror as he took the artifact from her feeble grasp and shot her at close range.

"Sorry, m'lady, but su... pow..r ca...t be le.. unche...d", the ro.... ...gur... whisp..... polog...ally......

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:20

Day Eight

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

Nicholas II looked around the room, his eyes hungrily taking in their surroundings as though they may never get another chance to do so; his time away from the western frontier were few and far between since the Germans stepped up their offensive and he knew, deep within his heart, that his return to St. Petersburg would not be a long one.

He had often felt that the nobility had a weak opinion of St. George's Hall, enforced by previous generations who regaled their successors with tales of Quarenghi's delicately-painted allegorical scenes upon the ceiling and sleek marble pillars displaying a variety of colours; the new decor was understated, perhaps, but Stasov's renovations maintained the regal aura of the throne room without being so blatant about it.

On this occasion, the great hall was alive with music, dance, fine food and wine; for Nicholas, it bore a stark contrast with the opening of the Duma over ten years previously, where the room was fit to burst with people yet seemed so lifeless, the air poisoned with animosity between the nobility, used to the great hall, and the peasantry who were permitted entry for the first time in the history of the Winter Palace.

The vibrant atmosphere was Alexandra's doing, that much he could be sure of; a grand ball to celebrate his return, but would people have come if they were aware of the truth? The armies of Russia may have been numerous, far more so than their enemies, but their poor equipment and training was slowly faltering under the pressure of the well-oiled German offensive, and Nicholas found himself asking exactly how many were aware of the truth.

Then he saw him, stood by the royal throne with staff in hand, women milling around him like flies to an animal carcass; there were many things said of Grigori Rasputin, most of them quite unsavoury, and yet nobody could doubt that he had been instrumental in helping the Tsarevich through his haemophilia.

As time passed by and Grigori's influence among the Romanovs grew, Nicholas found that he had come to rely on the monk in affairs of the state too, a judgement that he regretted on occasion but soon dismissed when he saw how effectively Rasputin seemed to keep things in check; whether this was due to his own charisma, the loyalty of the people to the Romanovs, the power of the staff or other factors, Nicholas did not know, and nor did he seek to ask.

Yet there were those who did not fall under the sway of Rasputin, those who viewed his hold over the Romanovs as a cancer, eating away at the very heart of the Russian monarchy and corrupting it to the point of no return; gathered here, at this prestigious event in celebration of a returned war leader, they began to plot the downfall of the monk and the potential abdication of Tsar Nicholas II.

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Begin Day Eight
Ends 00:00 GMT, 24/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:21

End of Day Eight

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

If there was but one thing that Alexandra could depend upon from her courtiers, it was that they could organise an imperial ball at a moment's notice; they had been given little time to prepare, but the party was as good as any that had come before it, with the finest champagne on hand and the guests dancing merrily to the pianist's most spectacular compositions.

Nicholas had long since taken his seat upon the imperial throne, tapping his feet in time with the music while secretly hoping that this decadent show of wealth and power would distract the guests from mentioning the war effort; Grigori remained close, staff in hand, his piercing gaze scanning across the room periodically but never straying from the fawning women around him for too long.

As the winter sky darkened as though it were stained by a disturbed inkwell, cheeks grew rosier and chatter louder as the expensive drink continued to flow; some of the guests were unable to control themselves, with the more rebellious elements present finding that the fine wine had wet their tongues and that they were no longer fearful of expressing their anarchic sentiments.

Naturally, Nicholas was furious, but he maintained a sense of dignity and grace despite the circumstances; calm and collected, he rose from his seat, gestured for silence from his guests and then demanded to know who had the audacity to question the monarchy within the halls of their ancestors.... there was momentary silence until a series of small arguments broke loose, hands flailing this way and that until a sense of agreement was made and two candidates were singled out.

The Tsar looked at them, in half a mind to have them both executed for treason before he remembered the last time that such bloodshed had occured and the diplomatic stance he had promised to uphold to the Duma; instead, he nodded curtly to them both and whispered solemnly.

"If you have something to say, say it now."

The first gentleman cleared his throat and approached Nicholas, kneeling before the monarch and bowing his head humbly; Nicholas could not distinguish whether this was in respect or shame, but he did note that the man was dressed in military finery and was clearly a man of rank due to his insignia.

"Apologies, m'lord... this fine wine caused me to have a funny turn", the officer said apologetically, "I made a passing remark about the war effort and that you should leave the responsibility of leadership to us, leaving you with the pressing matters back home. I cannot apologise enough for my loose tongue, and I accept full responsibility for my actions."

Nicholas looked upon the kneeling officer, visibly unimpressed with the question to his authority; however, the man had been honest and forthcoming with his concerns, and the Tsar decided to question the other man instead, gesturing for him to speak.

The second gentleman was clearly a member of the Duma, one of the peasants as indicated by his aroma if not his attire, which caused Alexandra to wrinkle her nose as he approached and bowed before her husband; she had only invited their ilk after Grigori informed her that they should be able to meet the monarch too, and she would gladly have them expelled from the premises if she did not hold the monk in such high regard.

"M'lord, this man has admitted to treason, he cannot be trusted!", the peasant said, a tone of exasperation in his voice.

The Tsar turned his gaze to the officer, who remained resolute despite such an accusation, before turning back to the second gentleman; he motioned to speak, but it was from Rasputin that the next words came.

"Is it true that you are a representative of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party?"

Slightly taken aback by the monk's sudden interest in the conversation, Nicholas remained silent and allowed Grigori to repeat the question; under the pressure, the peasant responded "y-yes, I am... what of it?", his voice stuttering somewhat.

"Is it true then, that you believe the monarchy should be abolished, and their power given to the people?", Rasputin continued, his voice remaining deep and gruff; this question elicited more than it's fair share of sneers and giggles from the gathered guests which were soon silenced when the monk banged his staff against the floor twice.

"Yes, and I hold to those c-convictions.", the peasant said nervously, his eyes darting from left to right as though seeking an escape route.

"So, despite your questionable convictions, you accuse this man of treason?", the monk asked, his questions continuing to leave the second gentleman blustered, his tongue failing to find the right words.

Nicholas had turned to face Rasputin, the pair of them completely silent as though they were telepathically deciding the man's fate between them; the Tsar then turned back to the man and spoke to the officer, who had remained silent throughout the accusations of the other gentleman.

"Earlier, you stated that you freely admit to your remarks and will accept punishment for them"

The first gentleman nodded once, his head remaining bowed in subservience; "that is correct, my Tsar."

"Bear this in mind; refrain from making such statements again, lest you be held for treason", Nicholas replied quietly, before gesturing for the first gentleman to climb to his feet and return to the crowd; he then turned back to the peasant, eyes burning with anger, voice seething with rage.

"You come into these halls as my guest, revel in the free food and drink while spouting your revolutionary views to all and sundry and then you attempt to shove them onto someone else!", the Tsar spat venomously, his tone reaching fever pitch, "guards, take this man away and deal with him as befits a traitor!"

Two armed guards emerged from the sides of the room, seizing the peasant by the underarms and dragging him from the room to cries of "you won't get away with this, the people will have their freedom!", before a swift blow to the back of the head rendered him unconscious.

The Tsar returned to his throne worse-for-wear, the night's events having taken a toll on what he had hoped would be a relaxing return to St. Petersburg; he barely managed to offer his guests a room for the night before he staggered off to his private chambers, with Alexandra in tow.

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Begin Night Eight
Ends 00:00 GMT, 28/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:22

End of Night Eight

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

It had not been long since the Tsar had dismissed the assembled guests, having offered them somewhere to sleep rather than make the journey home through the snow; Andres had been given directions by Rasputin himself, who had offered to accompany him personally before his attention was diverted by a woman with what the monk called 'a need for directions of a different kind'.

Thus Andres found himself making his way through the palace alone, and he found himself noticing additional shadows trailing his own as he wandered through corridors and climbed flights of stairs; he quickened his pace, his breath following suit to move in tandem with his footfalls, and he soon turned the corner to the corridor where his room for the night was situated.

There was a gentleman waiting outside the door, his visage masked by shadow; Andres heard footsteps behind him and it became abundantly clear that these men had been waiting for him to walk into their trap. The leader of the pack approached, looking his quarry over in disgust while his cohorts surrounded the man.

"What gives a low born like yourself the right to criticise the Tsar?"

Despite the overwhelming odds, Andres tried to remain calm, responding boldly with his head held high; "I merely suggested that the Tsar redirect his efforts towards domestic issues and leave the frontline effort to his generals, as is the tradition and the proper form".

Knocked off-kilter by this response, the group opened up, allowing Andres to walk into his bedroom and close the door behind him; he slumped to the floor and breathed a sigh of relief as a few clunky noises emanated from the lock above his head. He had been sealed in for the night.

Andres sighed, shouting through the door that he hoped this wouldn't lead to accusations of tardiness if he turned up late for breakfast in the morning; he didn't want to incur Nicholas' ire for a second day.