Anonymous
8/12/2025, 3:45:44 PM No.213736538
Ahhhhhh...
*Barely having stepped onto the ship's gangplank, a man of about forty closed his eyes and, with obvious pleasure, inhaled the fresh air of Russian Alaska.*
*Then he took off his worn hat, shook it out and struck his old, well-travelled imperial naval officer's boots twice - boots he, of course, had not been an officer in for a long time: a French-made pirate musket ball had left him with a damaged tendon.*
- Let's go, Rasul, great things await us, - said the captain of the old corvette, putting on his officer's hat and, turning half around, glancing back over his shoulder.
*From the hold came a Tatar boy of about sixteen - whose parents had been mauled to death in Siberia by a 4chan spammer(and faggot) in a bearskin; that predator later fell by the captain's hand, and the captain had taken the boy into his care when he was only five years old.*
- I obey, Vladimir Vitalyevich,- the Tatar lad called out hastily.
- Check the pistols; I have a feeling nature here is meaner to people than usual, - the captain said, squinting toward the traces of /k/opium beyond the port and slipping five spare silver bullets into his cloak pocket.
- Aye, captain! - Rasul replied shortly.
*The captain flung open his cloak and quickly pulled something out.*
- Hide this, - he whispered, stealthily handing the boy a knife engraved with ancient symbols. Rasul snatched it up and silently tucked it into his belt.
Having finished the preparations, the ship's registration and the luggage declaration, they headed for the port inn - to hire a carriage to Yekateringrad in the morning. The storm bell tolled a warning, its sound angling toward the horizon like a displeased dog barking at the woods; dark clouds gathered over the ocean.
Voskresensk. Alaska. The Russian Empire. An autumn evening, 1801.
*Barely having stepped onto the ship's gangplank, a man of about forty closed his eyes and, with obvious pleasure, inhaled the fresh air of Russian Alaska.*
*Then he took off his worn hat, shook it out and struck his old, well-travelled imperial naval officer's boots twice - boots he, of course, had not been an officer in for a long time: a French-made pirate musket ball had left him with a damaged tendon.*
- Let's go, Rasul, great things await us, - said the captain of the old corvette, putting on his officer's hat and, turning half around, glancing back over his shoulder.
*From the hold came a Tatar boy of about sixteen - whose parents had been mauled to death in Siberia by a 4chan spammer(and faggot) in a bearskin; that predator later fell by the captain's hand, and the captain had taken the boy into his care when he was only five years old.*
- I obey, Vladimir Vitalyevich,- the Tatar lad called out hastily.
- Check the pistols; I have a feeling nature here is meaner to people than usual, - the captain said, squinting toward the traces of /k/opium beyond the port and slipping five spare silver bullets into his cloak pocket.
- Aye, captain! - Rasul replied shortly.
*The captain flung open his cloak and quickly pulled something out.*
- Hide this, - he whispered, stealthily handing the boy a knife engraved with ancient symbols. Rasul snatched it up and silently tucked it into his belt.
Having finished the preparations, the ship's registration and the luggage declaration, they headed for the port inn - to hire a carriage to Yekateringrad in the morning. The storm bell tolled a warning, its sound angling toward the horizon like a displeased dog barking at the woods; dark clouds gathered over the ocean.
Voskresensk. Alaska. The Russian Empire. An autumn evening, 1801.
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