Vladimir Kruschovic: The Rise of Madness

[Craig Ashley]

Welcome to Vladimir Kruschovic: The Rise of Madness. If your not familiar with this character, I suggest you take a look at Free Company Book IV: Last Bastion of Empire. Vladimir Kruschovic or Kruschovic Bey as he is known by then appears in the begining of chapter two I believe and goes on throughout the book up until his death at the very climax of the story.

This is the main story thread for Rise of Madness, the tale of Kruschovic's origins. Please do not post OOC comments in here. I do want to hear from you, so I have created the Rise of Madness OOC Thread. Please direct all feedback there.

As a quick word of warning, this is a mature AAR. Strong language, graphic violence, and who knows what else will be in this AAR. This is your only warning. If these things offend you, please do not read this AAR.

To everyone else, thanks for reading.


Vladimir Kruschovic: The Rise of Madness


“Hurry up, damn you. I'm not about to freeze to death because of you.”

The young boy struggled to catch up to his father, but it was a losing race. For ever step the burly man took, the child needed to take two or even three just to keep pace. Finally the father had enough. He turned to face the laggard child, his meaty hands squarely on his hips. The boy looked up, his lip quivering.

“Vladimir Kruschovic, if you want to cry, I'll give you something to cry about. Is that what you want?”

“N ... n ... no, father.”

An enormous paw reached out and grabbed the boy's arm. “Let's go. If we get caught out in this fuckin' blizzard, I promise you'll have something to cry about.” The father, a rugged blacksmith named Ivan, half pulled half dragged his six year old son through Novgorod's streets toward their modest home. Luckily for Vladimir, they reached the house before the coming storm hit.

“Go fetch me a drink, Vladimir, and be quick about it.”

The boy hurried off, fully aware of what the penalty would be if he took too long.

Ivan Kruschovic turned to his wife. “Can you believe that bastard Dovensky? He fucking has the nerve to tell me his horse threw a shoe, and somehow it's my fault. I almost killed the son of a bitch right there.”

She pushed her long dark hair out of her face. “Don't worry about that now, dear. I'm sure you two can work something out.”

“Yeah,” Ivan snorted, “he can shut the hell up, or I can do it for him.” Ivan turned his head over his shoulder. “Vladimir! Where the fuck is that jug?”

“I'm coming, father.” the boy answered. Moments later Vladimir appeared with the heavy jug.

“Well don't just stand there like the village idiot. Bring over here and put it on the table.”

Obediently, Vladimir did as he was told. The boy struggled with the jug, placing it precariously on the table's edge and doing all he could to push it to a more stable resting place. For a moment, disaster seemed inevitable. The jug teetered back, ready to crash to the floor. Vladimir fought against gravity, and won today's battle.

Satisfied, Ivan Kruschovic deftly grabbed the jug and pulled a long drink from it.

“Good work, my boy.” Ivan's massive hand ran through his son's hair. Vladimir's eyes lit up in pride. “Here, have a swig.”

“But I don't want ...”

Before the sentence could be finished, Ivan was pouring the burning alcohol down his son's throat. The taste hit the boy like a runaway horse. It felt like fire in his mouth. His eyes watered and his throat burned. For a moment he could feel the bile rise up inside of him.

“Swallow it. I'll not have you wasting good drink.” The boy grimaced and with effort downed the dreadful liquid. “Better. I'll make a man out of you yet, Vladimir.”

“Very well, father.”

“Now get out of here. Get your mother some firewood for supper, and don't take too long. I want to eat sometime today.”

The boy hurried off and began what would be an endless list of chores.

 

[Craig Ashley]

“Momma, why is father always so mean?”

“Oh, Vovochka,” Marina Kruschovic looked at her son with sad eyes. “You musn't say such things.”

Vladimir smiled up at his mother. “But he is.” Marina fought back a tear. “Sometimes, I think he hates me.”

“No, no, Vovochka. Your father cares for you very much.” Marina choked on her words, her lie. “Now get some sleep. There is a lot to be done tomorrow.”

“I don't want to be like him. I don't want to be mean. I promise that when I grow up, I won't be like him. I won't talk like him ... I won't look like him ... I won't be like him ... I won't be mean.”

“Go to sleep, Vovochka. You have a busy day ahead of you.”

Vladimir nodded slightly and closed his eyes. His father's eyes. “I promise, Momma.”

Young Kruschovic drifted to sleep. His small body tired from a hard day's work. In the other room Ivan sat at the table, drinking from his jug. The drunken blacksmith leered at his wife as she entered.

“Marinushka, come over here.”

“It's late. Go to bed, Vanya.”

“I'll go to bed when I'm ready. Right now I'm not ready.”

“Of course not. The jug isn't empty yet.” She half muttered.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means. You're a drunk, Vanka, a filthy, no good drunk.”

“Watch your tongue, woman. I won't take your shit in my own house. So shut the fuck up before I do something you'll regret.”

“No, Vanya, I won't be quiet. Do you know what your son just told me?”

“Do you think I give a damn what he says? I'm the head of this house, not him or you.” Ivan thrusted a stubby finger forward, pointing at his wife.

“He said that you hated him! He thinks his own father hates him. And you know what is really sad? I had to lie to him. I can't honestly tell him his father loves him, or cares for him. I had to lie to my son, because how can a mother tell her little boy that yes, his father does hate him and everything in this world besides himself?”

Ivan Kruschovic stood up, knocking his chair over as he did. His legs wobbled as the alcohol ran through his blood. “How dare you. How dare you fucking speak to me like that.” Ivan took a shaky first step towards his wife.

“It's the truth, Vanya! Are not even man enough to face the truth? No you're not. You're nothing but a coward, hiding from the truth.”

“Coward? I'll be damned before I'll cower in fear from your mouth.” Ivan Kruschovic closed in, his face just inches away from Marina's.

“I'm not afraid of you, Vanka.” She trembled as she spoke. “You've already killed my soul, what could you do that is worse? But I won't let you do that to Vovachka. Our son will have a future in this world.”

“That lazy lump of shit? He'll have a future all right. I'll make him into a man, just like me.”

Marina's hand slapped her husband's face. “No. He will never be like you. He's a kind, decent boy, and nothing you can do will drive that from him.”

Ivan Kruschovic was done talking. He let his fists speak for him. The only sound other than Ivan Kruschovic savagely beating his wife was the faint breath of Vladimir Kruschovic, trying desperately to stay quiet.

 

[Craig Ashley]

Marina Krushcovic's breathing became more irregular with each passing moment. Her once beautiful face was shattered and swollen. Hideous shades of blacks, blues, and purples distorted her soft features. She had laid nearly motionless for four days before Ivan could be bothered to call for a doctor. Now it was too late.

This was not the first time Marina had suffered brutality courtesy of her brutish husband, but it was apparent to all it would be the last. The physician looked down at battered woman, a look of utter helplessness on his aged face. Ivan stood behind the old doctor with an impassive look etched into his face. Young Vladimir was carefully staying back in the doorway, with great concern tarnishing his tender young face.

Then there was a whisper.
“Vovochka.”
The men standing over Marina did not hear it. Licking her swollen and dry lips, the mother tried again.

“Vovochka.”

If Ivan heard his dying wife's words, he made no sign. However, the good doctor's ears were still sharp and leaned down to his patient.

“Try to get some rest, Marisha. Don't strain yourself.”

She repeated her plea.

“Vovochka.”

The physician smiled sadly and then looked carefully to Ivan. The hulking mass said nothing. Instead he turned away from his wife for the last time and stormed away. The doctor, an elderly Jewish man by the name of Moisei, slowly walked towards the boy still standing in the doorway. Moisei put a gnarled hand on the child's shoulder and led him to his mother's deathbed.

Vladimir hesitated as he neared his mother, he labored breathing ringing in his ears. The old doctor looked down at the young boy. His care worn face smiled gently and he said, “It will be fine, Vovochka. Your mother just wants to speak with you.”

Vladimir nodded and then came forward. Marina reached slowly for her son's hand. Even though each word she spoke racked her body with pain, she said, “Remember ... Vovochka, you can ...” A fit of violent coughing overtook Marina Krushcovic. A trickle of blood started to run from the corner of her mouth. Moisei deftly pulled a kerchief and dabbed it away. “You can .. you can be your own man, Vovochka. Someday .... you can leave this place ... I ... love you .... Vovochka ... Your ... mother ... loves .. you.”

Marina fell silent. Finally peace had come to her and she drifted away into eternal slumber. Vladimir stood motionless by his mother's side. Only a single tear ran from his pale blue eyes. Meanwhile, outside, another set of pale blue eyes went off in search of a drink and maybe a loose woman.