Not specifically, but I am familiar with the Russian impulse to build everything under the sun with a fuel-air warhead. Where do you think I got the idea from, if not from real life?Karelian said:
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Like portable thermobaric rocket launchers: RPO-A ShmelSimon_Jester said:
Ideal for leveling buildings in urban combat.
The Yogi said:
Fortunately, no one's perfect. However, as the reference to kidnapping shows, Fu's awareness of his limitations goes a long towards making up for them. Pride seems to be his greatest weakness, as those few times when his enemies have outmaneuvered him or done something very unexpected he's become very upset.
Ooh, the Commune of Chaos eh? Interesting stuff certainly, also I wonder if the Sonderkommando Hexen's Soviet counterparts have any tricks up their sleeves?
I finally caught up and I intend to keep on this, things are getting VERY interesting
I finally caught up and I intend to keep on this, things are getting VERY interesting
Well, I was remembering something you wrote earlier about "loving to slaughter those SS regiments" or something. Just seems those guys can never get a break when Durhn's has them working for him.
Edit: And out of curiosity, has anyone tried to tally just how many untold numbers of soldiers Duhrn has managed to get killed somehow in this story?
I don't think we can even count it; we don't have accurate sizes of some of the units he's taken in.Lyon_Man said:
I get the feeling that if Durhn managed to resurrect all those soldiers he'd be able to make himself a Field Marshal.
Skorzeny would LOVE that; finally he'd be able to skip a mission or two...
finally back from Spain - will answer comments later but for now, I'm posting an update before going to bed. Happy reading and sweet dreams!
Below the Kremlin, Moscow
Russia, Union of Socialist Soviet Republics
Wednesday, August 6th 1940
The underground car pulled to a stop next to a deserted station, small and claustrophobic with sheer concrete walls splotched with mould. There was a sign on the wall in Russian which Hauptmann von Völkersam translated to “Kremlin” for the benefit of those not adept in that language.
‘Very functional’, Duhrn observed disdainfully. ‘Of course, there’s no need of finery to dazzle the masses. Only the party elite ever come here.’
Skorzeny shrugged. ‘All the better – they do not even have guards. Let’s go.’
Even packed like sardines in the small rail car, only a single platoon of engineers had been able to accompany the Brandenburgers and the two SS-officers, although these included all the flamethrowers and two machine guns. The rest had stayed behind to defend the Metro Station and show the way to the infantry regiments of the 44. Division in case it’s commander, Major-General von Seydlitz, should wish to make use of the tunnel to infiltrate the centre of the city. The Soviets had no doubt booby-trapped the railway tunnels leading from the Aeroport Metro station within minutes of its capture by the Wehrmacht, but in all probability not those of the Metro 2 lines, since they were unknown to all save the innermost circle of the Party and the NKVD.
The troops spilled out onto the platform, looking around suspiciously for hidden foes. Finding no one save a few scurrying rats and some bugs crawling on the moist walls, the Germans headed for the single rust-sploctched iron door. Behind was a flight of stairs, too narrow for more than two men abreast. Leading with a flamethrower, the invaders ascended the concrete steps, trying to avoid making too much sound with their hobnailed boots.
Finally they reached another door, closed and locked. Of solid iron, it was strong enough that in all probability, nothing short of a demolition charge would bring it down.
‘All right, blow it up!’ Skorzeny ordered.
The commander of the pioneer company, Hauptmann Franz Eberhardt was a stocky fellow from Braunschweig who tried to hide how he disliked taking orders from a Waffen-SS officer by a masquerade of prompt obedience and strict Heer protocol.
'Zu befehl, Herr Sturmbannführer!' he barked, waving a demolitionist forward.
‘They’ll hear us coming.’ Duhrn objected.
‘Obviously, but that can’t be helped, can it?’
Duhrn smiled, not altogether a pleasant sight. ‘Maybe it can. I had time to learn a thing or two from Xaltotun while he was around. This was apparently a favourite of the Warlocks of the Black Ring during the Hyborian Age. Everyone stand back.’ He fastidiously removed the black leather glove from his left hand.
The SS sorecerer closed his eyes and muttered something with his left hand extended palm first. It tensed and trembled for a few instants before becoming absolutely still, while the palm itself darkned gradually to pitch black. The small hairs in the back of Otto’s neck stood straight up while Duhrn advanced to the door and softly pushed it with his open hand. The effect was akin to an high explosive shell hitting square on. The thick metal buckled into a concave semi-sphere and exploded out of its socket. It flew for three or four metres across the large concourse on the other side before it came to a bouncing stop on the concrete floor, causing a clangour akin to a colossal bell. The shape of an outstretched hand was etched in black where Duhrn had touched it.
Panting slightly, he regarded the open doorway with an expresion obscenely like rapture, while the soldiers watched him with heavy frowns and frigthened mutterings.
‘And this was more discrete than a demolition charge exactly how?’ Otto commented lightly, but with a slight tremor to his voice.
Von Völkersam regarded Duhrn with unmitigated horror. ‘Dear God, that was witchcraft, wasn’t it? What the Hell are you up to, Sturmbannführer Duhrn? What kind of threat is it we’re trying to undo?’
Skorzeny sighed and patted the Brandenburger Haupmann’s shoulder. ‘You’ll get used to it, eventually, but let’s just say there are things in the world that should not be – and I’m not talking about the Führer’s aquarelles.’ The joke did little to calm the Commando’s nerves.
The Brandenburgers and Pioneere poured through the opening into the large room on the other side. It was a large, circular concourse with four exits, one of which was manifestly ancient, a stone archway with a coat of arms carved in stone at its apex, while the other three were iron doors of the same kind as the one Duhrn had blasted open.
The one opposite the one the attackers had gone through was thrown open and soldiers in Red Army greatcoats and magnificent fur hats began to pour into the room, looking confused at the mixture of German and NKVD uniforms. The Germans opened up with their MP-40s and MP-28s and wiped out the few that had made it into the concourse. The first wave of enemies annihilated, the Pioneers placed the MG-34s and a flame thrower to cover that entrance. Clearly, there were others in the staircase, because hand grenades came bouncing down, rolling into the large room before exploding and wounding with shrapnel two of the pioneers.
Eberhardt, braving the hand grenades, ran up to the iron door and slammed it shut. ‘Flammenwerfer! he shouted. ‘Take up position at the door and fry anyone trying to open it!’
‘These are Taman Guards!’ shouted von Völkersam after examining the bleeding corpses left on the floor.
‘No kidding!’ Skorzeny growled. ‘Brandenburgers and two Flammenwerfer with me, the rest of you, guard that door and don’t let those fur-hatted faggots through while you still breathe!’
‘Jawohl Herr Sturmbannführer! Hauptmann Eberhardt confirmed.
Immediately, as if to confirm to Skorzeny that his orders would be followed, the guarded door began to open. The Pioneer guard instantly pushed the nozzle of his flamethrower through the crack and fired. A chorus of horrific screams exploded from behind the door and a group of human torches stumbled, shrieking and flailing into the concourse, where they were mercifully dispatched by the Germans. The Pioneer slammed the door shut again.
‘That should give them pause for a while!’ Duhrn commented, regarding the burnign corpses with a smile of cold satisfaction. ‘We should take advantage of it!’
Skorzeny said nothing but nodded in agreement. The reduced troupe of some twenty-five men moved through the stone arch and found themselves walking in a vaulted stone passage. Just like in the rest of the facility, light came from naked light bulbs which in the setting were annoyingly anachronistic. Smoking torches would have seemed more in place.
Soon, to their surprise, they heard unmistakeable sound of battle. There were screams and grunts, and the occasional pistol shot. Duhrn and Skorzeny exchanged a look of puzzlement, and hurried their steps. When the group emerged from the tunnel, it came upon a scene of carnage.
The room was large, the walls of old masonry, glistening with moisture and encrusted with mould. It had probably functioned as a form of main room, having a huge fireplace, a crude iron chandelier with dozens of candles, and once, probably, comfortable furniture for the demented Czar to relax while he studied the forbidden tomes the crypt housed. Now it had been turned into the main offices of the NKVD Occult Bureau, with desks and office partitions taking up much of the floor. Most of these were now overturned and scattered, debris of a modern office mixed with dozens of butchered bodies lying in huge pools of crimson. Among these ruins, two groups of men were fighting for their lives. The larger one, in brown Soviet uniforms with green patches were frantically trying to defend themselves with Tokarev pistols and military daggers, but without much apparent success; the bodies sprawled across the floor were almost without exception clad in the same uniforms. The attackers, less numerous but clearly with the upper hand, wore close fitting dark grey garments which covered their entire bodies, with the exception of small slits for the eyes. They were armed exlusively with arhcaic weapons such as short, straight single-edged swords with long handles, blow guns, sharp Japanese throwing stars and circular Indian steel chakrams with razor-sharp edges. They were cutting through the NKVD people like a hot knife through butter.
Skorzeny recognised them instantly. After all, he had once been one of them; ‘Si-Fan assassins!’ he shouted. He immediately had to dodge a deadly steel disc aimed at his throat. It narrowly missed decapitating the Brandenburger behind him before finally bouncing off the steel helmet of a third man.
‘Kill them! Kill them all!’ Duhrn shouted, and opened fire with his Luger. Skorzeny swore and did the same with his MP-40, as did the first few of the Brandenburgers, with more and more joining the fray as they poured into the room and spread out along the walls on either side of the tunnel opening. For some reason, their fire seemed to bring down only the hapless NKVD personel, some of which hesitated between firing back at the newcomers and their masked opponents, usually with fatal results. The Si-Fan somehow always seemed to be somewhere else than were the bullets were hitting. Ocassinally one of them would take time to send a throwing weapon against the Germans and a Brandenburger would go down, trashing and spurting blood.
As the last Soviet Secret Policemen were dying, Skorzeny re-assessed the situation, swore and lifted a hand.
‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ he ordered.
Duhrn looked at him with astonishment. ‘Have you gone mad? They’re enemies of the Reich! They have killed some of our men!’
‘Shut up or they’ll kill them all!’ the Austrian hissed back, then raised his voice. ‘I am the apprentice of Chiun!’ he shouted in the basic Mandarin he had learnt through hypnotic means during his conditioning to become a Si-Fan assassin. ‘We wish to parley! Who commands?’
The assassins came to a sudden stop, standing like statues among the wreckage of battle.
‘I give the orders here, Wěi dà Dé yì zhì*!’ one the Si-Fan answered, also in Mandarin.
‘You fight the allies of Fu Manchu. Why?’ Skorzeny asked, keeping things simple.
‘Fu Manchu has sent us to stop a great calamity from being done here’, the leader replied. ‘Our mission benefits your people. Do not try to stop us, or we will have to kill you too.’
Skorzeny arched an eyebrow and looked at Duhrn. ‘They have the same mission as we do! I’m tempted to just letting them be – it will save us losses and I almost pity the Russians. Look how they wiped this lot out!’
‘Absolutely not!’ Duhrn hissed, sending venomous looks at the Si-Fan. ‘There’s also the question of the... let’s say, ancient sources the Soviets have been using for this ritual of theirs. Would you like them in Pan-Asian hands any more than Russian ones?’
‘But if we fight, even if we win, we might well not be numerous enough to stop the “Commune of Chaos”!’ the Austrian objected. ‘Better we try to work together... we can’t risk a fight that might stop BOTH groups from preventing... well, whatever it is that we’re trying to prevent.’
Duhrn considered that for a few instants. ‘That does make some sense. All right, talk to them, see if we can put aside our differences... for a while.’
Skorzeny nodded and turned back to the Si-Fan. ‘Our mission is the same as yours. If we fight, both groups might be weakened enough that we cannot stop the calamity. I suggest we work together.’
The Si-Fan laughed, a bitter, humourless sound. ‘If we fight, YOU will be wiped out. WE will not be weakened in the least!’
Skorzeny bared his teeth in his trademark lopsided grin, dropped the MP-40 to hang from his shoulder in its strap, and drew the Rune Sword with a practiced flourish. ‘Come on then!’ he challenged, flowing into his favourite ward, the “Fool’s Guard”. The Brandenburgers, although ignorant of Mandarin understood the gesture well enough and readied MP-28s and hand grenades with a cacophony of metallic sounds.
Even Fu Manchu’s assassins couldn’t help feeling some hesitation faced with the barrels of so many automatic weapons.
‘Perhaps... there is some wisdom in your words, Wěi dà Dé yì zhì. The mission comes first. Very well, let’s join our forces.’
Soon the two groups, walking in two paralel lines of men, moved deeper into the dark, dank crypts of Ivan the Terrible.
*Big German
Russia, Union of Socialist Soviet Republics
Wednesday, August 6th 1940
The underground car pulled to a stop next to a deserted station, small and claustrophobic with sheer concrete walls splotched with mould. There was a sign on the wall in Russian which Hauptmann von Völkersam translated to “Kremlin” for the benefit of those not adept in that language.
‘Very functional’, Duhrn observed disdainfully. ‘Of course, there’s no need of finery to dazzle the masses. Only the party elite ever come here.’
Skorzeny shrugged. ‘All the better – they do not even have guards. Let’s go.’
Even packed like sardines in the small rail car, only a single platoon of engineers had been able to accompany the Brandenburgers and the two SS-officers, although these included all the flamethrowers and two machine guns. The rest had stayed behind to defend the Metro Station and show the way to the infantry regiments of the 44. Division in case it’s commander, Major-General von Seydlitz, should wish to make use of the tunnel to infiltrate the centre of the city. The Soviets had no doubt booby-trapped the railway tunnels leading from the Aeroport Metro station within minutes of its capture by the Wehrmacht, but in all probability not those of the Metro 2 lines, since they were unknown to all save the innermost circle of the Party and the NKVD.
The troops spilled out onto the platform, looking around suspiciously for hidden foes. Finding no one save a few scurrying rats and some bugs crawling on the moist walls, the Germans headed for the single rust-sploctched iron door. Behind was a flight of stairs, too narrow for more than two men abreast. Leading with a flamethrower, the invaders ascended the concrete steps, trying to avoid making too much sound with their hobnailed boots.
Finally they reached another door, closed and locked. Of solid iron, it was strong enough that in all probability, nothing short of a demolition charge would bring it down.
‘All right, blow it up!’ Skorzeny ordered.
The commander of the pioneer company, Hauptmann Franz Eberhardt was a stocky fellow from Braunschweig who tried to hide how he disliked taking orders from a Waffen-SS officer by a masquerade of prompt obedience and strict Heer protocol.
'Zu befehl, Herr Sturmbannführer!' he barked, waving a demolitionist forward.
‘They’ll hear us coming.’ Duhrn objected.
‘Obviously, but that can’t be helped, can it?’
Duhrn smiled, not altogether a pleasant sight. ‘Maybe it can. I had time to learn a thing or two from Xaltotun while he was around. This was apparently a favourite of the Warlocks of the Black Ring during the Hyborian Age. Everyone stand back.’ He fastidiously removed the black leather glove from his left hand.
The SS sorecerer closed his eyes and muttered something with his left hand extended palm first. It tensed and trembled for a few instants before becoming absolutely still, while the palm itself darkned gradually to pitch black. The small hairs in the back of Otto’s neck stood straight up while Duhrn advanced to the door and softly pushed it with his open hand. The effect was akin to an high explosive shell hitting square on. The thick metal buckled into a concave semi-sphere and exploded out of its socket. It flew for three or four metres across the large concourse on the other side before it came to a bouncing stop on the concrete floor, causing a clangour akin to a colossal bell. The shape of an outstretched hand was etched in black where Duhrn had touched it.
Panting slightly, he regarded the open doorway with an expresion obscenely like rapture, while the soldiers watched him with heavy frowns and frigthened mutterings.
‘And this was more discrete than a demolition charge exactly how?’ Otto commented lightly, but with a slight tremor to his voice.
Von Völkersam regarded Duhrn with unmitigated horror. ‘Dear God, that was witchcraft, wasn’t it? What the Hell are you up to, Sturmbannführer Duhrn? What kind of threat is it we’re trying to undo?’
Skorzeny sighed and patted the Brandenburger Haupmann’s shoulder. ‘You’ll get used to it, eventually, but let’s just say there are things in the world that should not be – and I’m not talking about the Führer’s aquarelles.’ The joke did little to calm the Commando’s nerves.
The Brandenburgers and Pioneere poured through the opening into the large room on the other side. It was a large, circular concourse with four exits, one of which was manifestly ancient, a stone archway with a coat of arms carved in stone at its apex, while the other three were iron doors of the same kind as the one Duhrn had blasted open.
The one opposite the one the attackers had gone through was thrown open and soldiers in Red Army greatcoats and magnificent fur hats began to pour into the room, looking confused at the mixture of German and NKVD uniforms. The Germans opened up with their MP-40s and MP-28s and wiped out the few that had made it into the concourse. The first wave of enemies annihilated, the Pioneers placed the MG-34s and a flame thrower to cover that entrance. Clearly, there were others in the staircase, because hand grenades came bouncing down, rolling into the large room before exploding and wounding with shrapnel two of the pioneers.
Eberhardt, braving the hand grenades, ran up to the iron door and slammed it shut. ‘Flammenwerfer! he shouted. ‘Take up position at the door and fry anyone trying to open it!’
‘These are Taman Guards!’ shouted von Völkersam after examining the bleeding corpses left on the floor.
‘No kidding!’ Skorzeny growled. ‘Brandenburgers and two Flammenwerfer with me, the rest of you, guard that door and don’t let those fur-hatted faggots through while you still breathe!’
‘Jawohl Herr Sturmbannführer! Hauptmann Eberhardt confirmed.
Immediately, as if to confirm to Skorzeny that his orders would be followed, the guarded door began to open. The Pioneer guard instantly pushed the nozzle of his flamethrower through the crack and fired. A chorus of horrific screams exploded from behind the door and a group of human torches stumbled, shrieking and flailing into the concourse, where they were mercifully dispatched by the Germans. The Pioneer slammed the door shut again.
‘That should give them pause for a while!’ Duhrn commented, regarding the burnign corpses with a smile of cold satisfaction. ‘We should take advantage of it!’
Skorzeny said nothing but nodded in agreement. The reduced troupe of some twenty-five men moved through the stone arch and found themselves walking in a vaulted stone passage. Just like in the rest of the facility, light came from naked light bulbs which in the setting were annoyingly anachronistic. Smoking torches would have seemed more in place.
Soon, to their surprise, they heard unmistakeable sound of battle. There were screams and grunts, and the occasional pistol shot. Duhrn and Skorzeny exchanged a look of puzzlement, and hurried their steps. When the group emerged from the tunnel, it came upon a scene of carnage.
The room was large, the walls of old masonry, glistening with moisture and encrusted with mould. It had probably functioned as a form of main room, having a huge fireplace, a crude iron chandelier with dozens of candles, and once, probably, comfortable furniture for the demented Czar to relax while he studied the forbidden tomes the crypt housed. Now it had been turned into the main offices of the NKVD Occult Bureau, with desks and office partitions taking up much of the floor. Most of these were now overturned and scattered, debris of a modern office mixed with dozens of butchered bodies lying in huge pools of crimson. Among these ruins, two groups of men were fighting for their lives. The larger one, in brown Soviet uniforms with green patches were frantically trying to defend themselves with Tokarev pistols and military daggers, but without much apparent success; the bodies sprawled across the floor were almost without exception clad in the same uniforms. The attackers, less numerous but clearly with the upper hand, wore close fitting dark grey garments which covered their entire bodies, with the exception of small slits for the eyes. They were armed exlusively with arhcaic weapons such as short, straight single-edged swords with long handles, blow guns, sharp Japanese throwing stars and circular Indian steel chakrams with razor-sharp edges. They were cutting through the NKVD people like a hot knife through butter.
Skorzeny recognised them instantly. After all, he had once been one of them; ‘Si-Fan assassins!’ he shouted. He immediately had to dodge a deadly steel disc aimed at his throat. It narrowly missed decapitating the Brandenburger behind him before finally bouncing off the steel helmet of a third man.
‘Kill them! Kill them all!’ Duhrn shouted, and opened fire with his Luger. Skorzeny swore and did the same with his MP-40, as did the first few of the Brandenburgers, with more and more joining the fray as they poured into the room and spread out along the walls on either side of the tunnel opening. For some reason, their fire seemed to bring down only the hapless NKVD personel, some of which hesitated between firing back at the newcomers and their masked opponents, usually with fatal results. The Si-Fan somehow always seemed to be somewhere else than were the bullets were hitting. Ocassinally one of them would take time to send a throwing weapon against the Germans and a Brandenburger would go down, trashing and spurting blood.
As the last Soviet Secret Policemen were dying, Skorzeny re-assessed the situation, swore and lifted a hand.
‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ he ordered.
Duhrn looked at him with astonishment. ‘Have you gone mad? They’re enemies of the Reich! They have killed some of our men!’
‘Shut up or they’ll kill them all!’ the Austrian hissed back, then raised his voice. ‘I am the apprentice of Chiun!’ he shouted in the basic Mandarin he had learnt through hypnotic means during his conditioning to become a Si-Fan assassin. ‘We wish to parley! Who commands?’
The assassins came to a sudden stop, standing like statues among the wreckage of battle.
‘I give the orders here, Wěi dà Dé yì zhì*!’ one the Si-Fan answered, also in Mandarin.
‘You fight the allies of Fu Manchu. Why?’ Skorzeny asked, keeping things simple.
‘Fu Manchu has sent us to stop a great calamity from being done here’, the leader replied. ‘Our mission benefits your people. Do not try to stop us, or we will have to kill you too.’
Skorzeny arched an eyebrow and looked at Duhrn. ‘They have the same mission as we do! I’m tempted to just letting them be – it will save us losses and I almost pity the Russians. Look how they wiped this lot out!’
‘Absolutely not!’ Duhrn hissed, sending venomous looks at the Si-Fan. ‘There’s also the question of the... let’s say, ancient sources the Soviets have been using for this ritual of theirs. Would you like them in Pan-Asian hands any more than Russian ones?’
‘But if we fight, even if we win, we might well not be numerous enough to stop the “Commune of Chaos”!’ the Austrian objected. ‘Better we try to work together... we can’t risk a fight that might stop BOTH groups from preventing... well, whatever it is that we’re trying to prevent.’
Duhrn considered that for a few instants. ‘That does make some sense. All right, talk to them, see if we can put aside our differences... for a while.’
Skorzeny nodded and turned back to the Si-Fan. ‘Our mission is the same as yours. If we fight, both groups might be weakened enough that we cannot stop the calamity. I suggest we work together.’
The Si-Fan laughed, a bitter, humourless sound. ‘If we fight, YOU will be wiped out. WE will not be weakened in the least!’
Skorzeny bared his teeth in his trademark lopsided grin, dropped the MP-40 to hang from his shoulder in its strap, and drew the Rune Sword with a practiced flourish. ‘Come on then!’ he challenged, flowing into his favourite ward, the “Fool’s Guard”. The Brandenburgers, although ignorant of Mandarin understood the gesture well enough and readied MP-28s and hand grenades with a cacophony of metallic sounds.
Even Fu Manchu’s assassins couldn’t help feeling some hesitation faced with the barrels of so many automatic weapons.
‘Perhaps... there is some wisdom in your words, Wěi dà Dé yì zhì. The mission comes first. Very well, let’s join our forces.’
Soon the two groups, walking in two paralel lines of men, moved deeper into the dark, dank crypts of Ivan the Terrible.
*Big German
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Wow. Poor NKVD, poor Commune of Chaos. Facing Si Fan and Skorzeny seems kinda unfair to me...
Rudie said:Wow. Poor NKVD, poor Commune of Chaos. Facing Si Fan and Skorzeny seems kinda unfair to me...
I have a feeling the Commune wont go down without a fightWell, of course. With that much concentrated badassery in such a small space there will be a fight. It's just that the Communards are going to lose, that's all.Jape said:
Big German. Heh. Maybe we can modify the game so that all leaders have their normal ranks but Skorzeny is just Big German. Heh.
Awesome update. I agree with Skorzeny that that is not a silent way to open a door. And how did the Si Fan get in tehre anyway?
DW
Awesome update. I agree with Skorzeny that that is not a silent way to open a door. And how did the Si Fan get in tehre anyway?
DW
Getting a Si-Fan team in would not be too big a problem:
1)The Soviets and the Pan-Asians are allies, so a Si Fan team could get into Russia easily enough as "diplomatic staff" or "military attaches." That would get them at least as far as the Russian lines closest to Moscow. It would also help them deal with the Soviet lines in Moscow.
Sneaking past the Wehrmacht forces surrounding the city would be harder, but would likely be possible. Especially for elite ninjas.
2)Alternatively, the Si-Fan strike team could have been sent into "Underground II" by supernatural means. Remember the ghoul portal in Lubyanka prison? It seems likely that there is at least one such portal linking somewhere into the Underground II system. And there may also be other supernatural methods unknown to me that Fu could employ.
_________________
This is totally unrelated, and I really hope it doesn't mess up anything Yogi has planned for the immediate future:
I wonder what that orb Fu recovered from the Mountains of Madness was supposed to be used for?
1)The Soviets and the Pan-Asians are allies, so a Si Fan team could get into Russia easily enough as "diplomatic staff" or "military attaches." That would get them at least as far as the Russian lines closest to Moscow. It would also help them deal with the Soviet lines in Moscow.
Sneaking past the Wehrmacht forces surrounding the city would be harder, but would likely be possible. Especially for elite ninjas.
2)Alternatively, the Si-Fan strike team could have been sent into "Underground II" by supernatural means. Remember the ghoul portal in Lubyanka prison? It seems likely that there is at least one such portal linking somewhere into the Underground II system. And there may also be other supernatural methods unknown to me that Fu could employ.
_________________
This is totally unrelated, and I really hope it doesn't mess up anything Yogi has planned for the immediate future:
I wonder what that orb Fu recovered from the Mountains of Madness was supposed to be used for?
This is on my list, Yogi, to be sure! I may not be up to speed for some time, but just letting you know that I'm aboard .
.I loved it when Duhrn used that old magic
I still remember how creeped out I was during the earlier chapters about Xaltotun and the Dreamland. Or when they found Xaltotun's tomb. Geezus Christ that were some creepy chapters. So everytime Duhrn taps into that dark magic it brings back memories to me
Rock on Yogi!!!
I still remember how creeped out I was during the earlier chapters about Xaltotun and the Dreamland. Or when they found Xaltotun's tomb. Geezus Christ that were some creepy chapters. So everytime Duhrn taps into that dark magic it brings back memories to me
Rock on Yogi!!!
Lurken: And yet my Awesomeness is not too great to say... Thank you!
Rudie: Life isn't fair. The Commune, as will soon be apparent, are nobody's victims though...
Jape: Exactly.
Dead William, Simon_Jester, discovery1: A ghoul graveyard within Metro 2 might be a little too much to ask for; but within the embattled city of Moscow there are bound to be any number of graveyards, mass graves and assorted other Ghoul eateries. So at least moving inside the German siege ring is no problem. Getting into Metro 2 is somewhat more difficult - but since the Germans coming from below had to Duhrn-blast their way through the door, the Si-Fan didn't break in that way. So either they had a key, or they picked the lock, or they came from inside the Kremlin. Which given that they could have perfectly legit reasons to be there (those mentioned by you guys earlier) isn't too far fetched.
As for the orb... it is not forgotten. When the time is rigth, Fu will use it, and the world will tremble.
TheHyphenated1: Great to have new readers, welcome on board!
Leviathan07: Hmmm... I hope one day you'll recall these capters as fondly. I wouldn't want to think this AAR has its best days in the past. On the plus side, Duhrn is waxing in power, so you should be happy in the future...
Rudie: Life isn't fair. The Commune, as will soon be apparent, are nobody's victims though...
Jape: Exactly.
Dead William, Simon_Jester, discovery1: A ghoul graveyard within Metro 2 might be a little too much to ask for; but within the embattled city of Moscow there are bound to be any number of graveyards, mass graves and assorted other Ghoul eateries. So at least moving inside the German siege ring is no problem. Getting into Metro 2 is somewhat more difficult - but since the Germans coming from below had to Duhrn-blast their way through the door, the Si-Fan didn't break in that way. So either they had a key, or they picked the lock, or they came from inside the Kremlin. Which given that they could have perfectly legit reasons to be there (those mentioned by you guys earlier) isn't too far fetched.
As for the orb... it is not forgotten. When the time is rigth, Fu will use it, and the world will tremble.
TheHyphenated1: Great to have new readers, welcome on board!
Leviathan07: Hmmm... I hope one day you'll recall these capters as fondly. I wouldn't want to think this AAR has its best days in the past. On the plus side, Duhrn is waxing in power, so you should be happy in the future...
Below the Kremlin, Moscow
Russia, Union of Socialist Soviet Republics
Wednesday, August 6th 1940
The joint group was moving through a series of small chambers in wich rotting wooden bookshelves buckled under the weight of heavy, leatherbound tomes, also in an advanced state of decay. Duhrn eyed the titles covetously and upon coming on some rare first edition or supposedly lost volume, he almost unconsciously sent stares full of suspicion and malice at the Si-Fan acolytes. If they noticed them, they gave no sign of it.
The sound of blasphemous chanting, the pounding of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of dispicable flutes gradually became stronger and stronger, although always muted, as if coming from some great depth.
Durhn listened to the odd music with eyes wide with horror. ‘I was right!’ he muttered. ‘The fools dare to try the summoning, but if they lack the strenght required to impose a limit...’ He left the sentence unfinished but gave Skorzeny a look full of fright and despair.
Suddenly all felt the air grow heavy and oppresive. There was a strange metallic tinge to it. Duhrn’s head flew up in shock. ‘Do you feel that? We must hurry, we might be too late already!’
Finally the party reached a sharp-vaulted room, reminescent in some ways to the nave of a gothic church. But the carvings and statues adorning it were far removed from what one should expect to find in christian temple. Hideous forms, amorphous and grotesque, lined the walls, magnificently wrought in painted but age-cracked wood. However spectacular, the Germans and Pan-Asians noticed the details of the room only in passing, because on the far end, in front of a set of huge bronze doors through which the otherwordly play of instruments was filtering, stood a group of men, less than half as many as the intruders. They were strangely attired, in long black robes decorated with an odd mixture of Soviet and occult symbology; a hammer and sickle inscribed in an unevenly shaped pentagram, spots of green at the neck akin to NKVD collar patches. The men, for they were all male, had shaved heads and hard cruel eyes. None carried any weapons, save wicked-looking serrated-edge daggers. As one man they raised their empty left hands and advanced down the length of the room, muttering guttural and vaguely horrific lithanies.
Günther Duhrn alone understood what was about to happen. ‘Fire!’ he shouted. ‘Attack! Kill them quickly, before...’
His words drowned in the roar from twenty sub-machineguns as the Brandenburgers opened up with all they had. The Si-Fan let loose with Shuriken stars and Chakram disks. And yet the Cultists of the Commune of Chaos continued their calm, deliberate march. Projectiles splintered the statues on either side of them, ricocheted screaming against the walls but none hit their mark. Suddenly and unexplicably, the Brandenburgers, crack shots all, had turned into the most inept marksmen immaginable. The Si-Fan assassins seemed equally affected.
Duhrn swore and began a counterspell, but immediately a dozen stone-cold stares converged on him. The Prussian sorcerer suddenly froze and began to tremble and sweat as under extreme exertion. Alone, he strove to resist the mental onslaught of the Commune warlocks. He knew at once he was the more powerful one, but his enemies were not only more numerous, but also more learned in the ways of the dark arts. It was all he could do to mantain his slowly crumbling defenses.
Instants before the clash, the two Pionere flamethrower operators sent twin streams of liquid fire against the cultists. Although not properly aimed either, the flame throwers were area weapons. Several of the shaved warlocks were caught by the firey blast and flamed up like human torches. Even they continued to advance, seemingly unperturbed, but collapsed in flaming, smoking heaps after a few more steps without ever uttering a shriek.
Then the Cultists reached the invading group and battle was joined in earnest. The Brandenburgers, disconcerted, discarded their empty MP-28s and pulled out combat knifes and sharpened trench shovels. Because of the close range of the melee, Skorzeny decided to fight with his SS dagger, rather than the Rune Sword. Even at close range the strange confusion of the senses which had made all projectiles miss still affected the soldiers and assassins. Their cuts and thrusts often missed, their parries were often miscalculated. Often, but not always; through their superior numbers, the attackers were inflicting many and hideous wounds on the monk-like cultists, and yet not one fell; there one fought on with his skull split by a sharpened shovel, another stabbed around viciously although eviscerated, mindlessly trampling his own hangning guts. The Germans and Si-Fan were not as resilient; already many were down, lifeless or howling in pain from frightful knife wounds. Even Skorzeny, who’s Sinanju-honed instincts helped him avoid strokes not even fully percepted, was bleeding from many superficial cuts.
As the cultists busied themselves with the fight, Duhrn felt the crushing weight on his mind ease somewhat. The cultists apparently noticed their superiority diminish, and one of them went straight for Duhrn with his evil-looking blade raised. Duhrn drew his own enchanted SS-dagger and calmly awaited the attack. The serrated blade sunk into his chest with a sickening sound of rent flesh and splintering bone. The German just grunted and plunged his glistening dagger into the heart of the cultist. The Russian stiffened, his eyes growing wide with surprise, and died.
The shock of this death travelled like an electric current through the linked minds of the Commune warlocks. Instantly Durhn was free from their oppressive mental attack, and the odd ofuscation which had marred the combat skills of the Germans and Si-Fan dissappeared. Suddenly the cultists were being cut to ribbons were they stood, but still they did not fall and continued to deal out death.
‘Use the sword, Austrian!’ Duhrn shouted. ‘They fall before enchanted blades!’ His mind free to work magic once more, the SS sorcer again prepared the Black Hand spell which he had previously used to blast open an iron door.
Skorzeny immediately discarded his dagger and fought as best he could with the Rune Sword. With each blow another shaved cultist fell dead into the crimson pool covering the floor stones like a fatly glistening mirror. Durhn extended a black-palmed hand towards a cultist and lightly touched his neck. There was a loud crack like a dry twig breaking and the man fell limply with the head rolling backwards at an unatural angle.
Those cultists not felled by Duhrn or Skorzeny finally began to feel the terrific punishment inflicted upon them; severed muscles failed to obey, cut tendons did not stabilise any more and one after another they fell writhing and kicking to the floor to be dispatched with pistol shots through their brains.
The Brandenburgers began to tend their wounded, but Duhrn stopped them with shout impatience. ‘Leave them! We must hurry, or we’re all dead!’
The leader of the Si-Fan assassins nodded in agreement. ‘Your warlock is correct. Time is short, we must not loose any more of it!’
Skorzeny nodded and waved the party forward. They reached the huge bronze doors after a sprint through the church-like room. They were adorned with bas-reliefs which at a glance could appear like chaotic abstract art, but which closer inspection revealed as portraying some alien thing, possibly organic, possibly gaseous and wholly dispicable.
The remaining men, less than half of those that had entered the room and none of them unwounded joined in pushing up the doors. Behind was a stone staircase gaping darkly like the maw of some subterranean beast. Up from the black depths, stronger than ever, hideous chanting, drum-beating and the monotunous piping of flutes drifted.
Russia, Union of Socialist Soviet Republics
Wednesday, August 6th 1940
The joint group was moving through a series of small chambers in wich rotting wooden bookshelves buckled under the weight of heavy, leatherbound tomes, also in an advanced state of decay. Duhrn eyed the titles covetously and upon coming on some rare first edition or supposedly lost volume, he almost unconsciously sent stares full of suspicion and malice at the Si-Fan acolytes. If they noticed them, they gave no sign of it.
The sound of blasphemous chanting, the pounding of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of dispicable flutes gradually became stronger and stronger, although always muted, as if coming from some great depth.
Durhn listened to the odd music with eyes wide with horror. ‘I was right!’ he muttered. ‘The fools dare to try the summoning, but if they lack the strenght required to impose a limit...’ He left the sentence unfinished but gave Skorzeny a look full of fright and despair.
Suddenly all felt the air grow heavy and oppresive. There was a strange metallic tinge to it. Duhrn’s head flew up in shock. ‘Do you feel that? We must hurry, we might be too late already!’
Finally the party reached a sharp-vaulted room, reminescent in some ways to the nave of a gothic church. But the carvings and statues adorning it were far removed from what one should expect to find in christian temple. Hideous forms, amorphous and grotesque, lined the walls, magnificently wrought in painted but age-cracked wood. However spectacular, the Germans and Pan-Asians noticed the details of the room only in passing, because on the far end, in front of a set of huge bronze doors through which the otherwordly play of instruments was filtering, stood a group of men, less than half as many as the intruders. They were strangely attired, in long black robes decorated with an odd mixture of Soviet and occult symbology; a hammer and sickle inscribed in an unevenly shaped pentagram, spots of green at the neck akin to NKVD collar patches. The men, for they were all male, had shaved heads and hard cruel eyes. None carried any weapons, save wicked-looking serrated-edge daggers. As one man they raised their empty left hands and advanced down the length of the room, muttering guttural and vaguely horrific lithanies.
Günther Duhrn alone understood what was about to happen. ‘Fire!’ he shouted. ‘Attack! Kill them quickly, before...’
His words drowned in the roar from twenty sub-machineguns as the Brandenburgers opened up with all they had. The Si-Fan let loose with Shuriken stars and Chakram disks. And yet the Cultists of the Commune of Chaos continued their calm, deliberate march. Projectiles splintered the statues on either side of them, ricocheted screaming against the walls but none hit their mark. Suddenly and unexplicably, the Brandenburgers, crack shots all, had turned into the most inept marksmen immaginable. The Si-Fan assassins seemed equally affected.
Duhrn swore and began a counterspell, but immediately a dozen stone-cold stares converged on him. The Prussian sorcerer suddenly froze and began to tremble and sweat as under extreme exertion. Alone, he strove to resist the mental onslaught of the Commune warlocks. He knew at once he was the more powerful one, but his enemies were not only more numerous, but also more learned in the ways of the dark arts. It was all he could do to mantain his slowly crumbling defenses.
Instants before the clash, the two Pionere flamethrower operators sent twin streams of liquid fire against the cultists. Although not properly aimed either, the flame throwers were area weapons. Several of the shaved warlocks were caught by the firey blast and flamed up like human torches. Even they continued to advance, seemingly unperturbed, but collapsed in flaming, smoking heaps after a few more steps without ever uttering a shriek.
Then the Cultists reached the invading group and battle was joined in earnest. The Brandenburgers, disconcerted, discarded their empty MP-28s and pulled out combat knifes and sharpened trench shovels. Because of the close range of the melee, Skorzeny decided to fight with his SS dagger, rather than the Rune Sword. Even at close range the strange confusion of the senses which had made all projectiles miss still affected the soldiers and assassins. Their cuts and thrusts often missed, their parries were often miscalculated. Often, but not always; through their superior numbers, the attackers were inflicting many and hideous wounds on the monk-like cultists, and yet not one fell; there one fought on with his skull split by a sharpened shovel, another stabbed around viciously although eviscerated, mindlessly trampling his own hangning guts. The Germans and Si-Fan were not as resilient; already many were down, lifeless or howling in pain from frightful knife wounds. Even Skorzeny, who’s Sinanju-honed instincts helped him avoid strokes not even fully percepted, was bleeding from many superficial cuts.
As the cultists busied themselves with the fight, Duhrn felt the crushing weight on his mind ease somewhat. The cultists apparently noticed their superiority diminish, and one of them went straight for Duhrn with his evil-looking blade raised. Duhrn drew his own enchanted SS-dagger and calmly awaited the attack. The serrated blade sunk into his chest with a sickening sound of rent flesh and splintering bone. The German just grunted and plunged his glistening dagger into the heart of the cultist. The Russian stiffened, his eyes growing wide with surprise, and died.
The shock of this death travelled like an electric current through the linked minds of the Commune warlocks. Instantly Durhn was free from their oppressive mental attack, and the odd ofuscation which had marred the combat skills of the Germans and Si-Fan dissappeared. Suddenly the cultists were being cut to ribbons were they stood, but still they did not fall and continued to deal out death.
‘Use the sword, Austrian!’ Duhrn shouted. ‘They fall before enchanted blades!’ His mind free to work magic once more, the SS sorcer again prepared the Black Hand spell which he had previously used to blast open an iron door.
Skorzeny immediately discarded his dagger and fought as best he could with the Rune Sword. With each blow another shaved cultist fell dead into the crimson pool covering the floor stones like a fatly glistening mirror. Durhn extended a black-palmed hand towards a cultist and lightly touched his neck. There was a loud crack like a dry twig breaking and the man fell limply with the head rolling backwards at an unatural angle.
Those cultists not felled by Duhrn or Skorzeny finally began to feel the terrific punishment inflicted upon them; severed muscles failed to obey, cut tendons did not stabilise any more and one after another they fell writhing and kicking to the floor to be dispatched with pistol shots through their brains.
The Brandenburgers began to tend their wounded, but Duhrn stopped them with shout impatience. ‘Leave them! We must hurry, or we’re all dead!’
The leader of the Si-Fan assassins nodded in agreement. ‘Your warlock is correct. Time is short, we must not loose any more of it!’
Skorzeny nodded and waved the party forward. They reached the huge bronze doors after a sprint through the church-like room. They were adorned with bas-reliefs which at a glance could appear like chaotic abstract art, but which closer inspection revealed as portraying some alien thing, possibly organic, possibly gaseous and wholly dispicable.
The remaining men, less than half of those that had entered the room and none of them unwounded joined in pushing up the doors. Behind was a stone staircase gaping darkly like the maw of some subterranean beast. Up from the black depths, stronger than ever, hideous chanting, drum-beating and the monotunous piping of flutes drifted.
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