Epic of Alexei

At the beginning you can recall when your existence was formless. You had no tangible existence merely a consciousness floating in an ether. Your world was glimmering sphere, a veil of light that blinded you from the outside. Yet as time passed you grew more aware of something around you. Another world. Its sights: brilliant and dramatic colors a canvas foreign in memory, but you felt at home in. The warmth of spring air wrapped around and the gentle, cooling breezes. The texture of the earth and wood-hewn floors. You knew all of these things innately. They had always existed in you mind. Yet, there were the sounds. You knew the sound of rustling brush, the pattering of rain, the roar of thunder, the eerie silence of a gentle snow. Even the chorus of birds and howls of creatures in the night. These you understood. However, one day came a sound you knew naught of. A gentle hum, a murmur. Gentle and melodic, evoking, yet implacable. It escaped the very edge of your understanding. You needed to know this noise. Perhaps that's when you first took form. Wrapped in a blanket you first saw your silver furn small black paws. The warmth and texture of everything was changed, juxtaposed against the nature of your new form. You could not admire this for long though.

A figure stood before you. An attractive slender woman, with golden hair and azure eyes. Soft features, a kind smile. She wore simple clothes, a delicate silver chain hung from her neck. She took you bundled in the blanket, and lifted you, cradling you close to her.

"Hello, little one." She gently placed her finger on your nose. The voice is warm and familiar, with a gentle gaze. Gently, she unbound you from the warm blanket placing it aside, and gently placed you on the floor, her hands soft and warm handling you with a delicate touch. You feel the floor beneath your feet. Wooden, hard and cold the varying texture. The air warmed by a gently crackling fire. Using your legs for the first time seems quite natural; they are quick and strong. You spend sometime getting used to this form.

As you admire this sensation, you hear a rustling a ways off. A rapping on the door. The woman abruptly picks you up and cradles you close to her. She approaches the door with a sense of trepidation.

A rapping again. She opens the door slowly. As it slowing swings out you see a stout figure reveal itself. Somewhat imposing, he's a gruff looking sort, graying hair, a long beard. He's bundled in furs, a scarf drawn around his neck, a cap held over his head. A cold wisp of air strikes your face. He eyes seem content and complacent, hinting at a sense of wisdom.

"Please, come in." She speaks to the man. He simply nods and heads in. The man lays his cap down, and throws off his furs and scarf draping them over a chair

"So this is the new child." He looks at you with a certain affixment. "Please put him down."

The woman carefully places you back on the floor.

"Now come to me." the man motions you towards him bending down slightly.

"

In awe of the new sensations and experiences, the molodof ponders this request for a moment and then bounds towards the new person with innocent glee. He stops about a foot away from the person, and then sits. looking at the man in curious wonder, he is prepaired to go bounding back to the woman.

In a surprisingly quick motion, he grabs you firmly and holds you just above his head.

"What a beautiful child. I can tell he will be strong." His expression changes to a faint smile. He grabs the blanket from before, and carefully wraps you in snuggly. Cradling you in his arms he nods to the woman, who simply nods backs. Her expression is considerably colder.

"Now, little one we must go. We have much traveling to do." He throws on his cap and coat, and heads out.

You leave the small cottage, bundled in his arms into the eerie silence outside. Everything you can see if dead, covered in snow. He carries you out a ways to where a small merchant carriage awaits, with a single horse at the head. He lifts the covering upon the rear of the cart and places you gently down beside some barrels.

"Now, lay still child, this weather is unkind for travelers." He disappears from sight, and the covering is raised back over you. The only illumination is what light permeates the cover. You here a bit of shuffling in front, a crack of the reigns, and then the cart lurching foward. The ride is bumpy, the cart gently tossing to and fro on the uneven path. The only sounds are of the clattering wheels, slowly turning, grains shifting in their containers. Strangely soothing sounds. You find yourself slowly drifting off to sleep.

Looking back, this was perhaps the last time you saw that cottage.

The next thing you recall is the waking to a rustling noise, the cover being pulled away from above you. A set of massive arms lift you from the cart. It is the man from before.

"It seems you rested well." he retains a bit of the smile from before. You are in a small wooden shack. The only light is a small lantern hanging beside the doorway. He unwraps you from the blanket, and places you down on the straw floor. A sudden chill grips you, the air is freezing. You can see wisps of your breath in the air, and feel the draft through the walls. Your coat makes it bearable, but only just.

"Now, follow.", calm and assertive his voice booms in the cold air. Towering above you he heads towards the door and grabs the lantern gingerly by the handle. He steps out holding the door open behind him.

Giving a yawn at the awakening and then contracting a little at the chilled air around him, the molodof walks slowly towards the man, curiostity in his eyes and straw brushing at his feet. Staying close to the man for warmth and a vain sense of familiarity, he peers out into the world and its snow.

Outside you see the courtyard of a manor. The complex is large and sprawling, a massive stone fountain in the center, an angel holding a gourd inlaid with intricate engraving, rules over the courtyard. The stables with straw laying all around, the faint noises of the horses settling in for the night. A massive building, upon hill, stone steps leading up all the way to it. There are several other less unique buildings, many of the smaller, used in some manner you can't quite figure out. All are seemingly expertly crafted from a fine wood, elegant and simple in design. Yet, despite the size of the complex, you see no other souls. It is deathly quiet all around. Snow covers everything it can, the fence posts, the roofs and the ground itself is buried beneath a blanket of snow.

It is dusk, the sun just hidden beyond the horizon. The clear sky is alight with vibrant hues of purple, gold, orange and blue. It cascades into deep purple the night sky, where the first stars begin to shimmer through. Stepping out you feel the cold snow beneath you. Your paws with each step are buried in it. The fur protects your paws from the snow, hardly comfortable, but is sufferable. As you are out the door, the man shuts and bars it, shoving the door to check it is secure. He then lumbers out towards, apparently, the largest building of the complex, the snow crunching beneath each step.

Contracting even more now, the molodov holds his tail and ears close against his body, fighting for warmth. He tries to keep pace, following the old man as he walks, feet crunching and sinking into the snow around him. Occassionally he looks up at the old man's face to understand his purpose, and towards the large building in a questioning manner.

The man has a certain air of austerity about him. He focuses forward, without so much as a glance backward.

As you fixate on the man, something begins to tug at the edges of you mind. The bitter cold air begins to grasp at your chest. The door seems to drift further and further away. The steps ever increasing in number, regardless of how far you climb. Your thoughts begin to wane. Slowly the scenery around you dissipates, until only the form of the man in front of you can be seen. The cold disappears, no other sights or sounds. All you can do is follow his steps. Only hearing the sound of heavy footsteps steadily climbing, step after step. Then, suddenly, the man stops in place. A moment passes. and everything comes back to you. The buildings that once surrounded you now are far below, and now you sit at the immense doorway to this mansion.

On the worn door a iron caste head of a lion, a large metal ring dangling from it's maw. The man grabs the ring firmly, letting loose a thunderous knock. After a moment the door creeps open, the man letting loose of the ring. As the door swings open a young woman fair skinned, garbed in simple servants' clothes, a plain colored dress, hair bundled, hidden under a dust cloth. Without a word she nods and lets the man in. He walks in side taking off the his fur cap. She notices you out of the corner of her eye. She shows a kind smile, and motions you to follow inside.

The molodov enters the large home, glad to be out of the snow for now. Once inside he takes in the sights of this new place, and the people within.

Entering inside, you hear the door shut behind you. You find yourself in an immense parlor, the vaulted ceiling above seeming almost unreachable. The room is sparsely decorated, the wooden floor mostly bare. A few chairs, rustic wooden things fairly mundane sit around a small table, everything draped in golden furs, these complemented by a fur rug sitting between them and a fireplace that remains unlit. What bit of dim light is apparent filters through the window, and the by the few flickering candles scattered about. No paintings, or anything else for that matter adorn the walls, just bare wood. Everything clean and plain. Far across the room sits a double-door, leading to somewhere you are unaware of.


The man has disappeared from sight. The housemaid sits attentively in front of the door, watching the parlor.

Then from a ways off you hear the subtle sounds of footsteps approaching. One of the doors opens, and unfamiliar face comes out, followed shortly by the man from before. The new stranger seems old, hunched over a lacquered walking stick. His face is obscured by a large silver beard and mustache draping from his face to his chest wiry and tangle. His hair is long hanging loosely draped across his shoulders. He immediately sees you and hobbles over, a glint of enthusiasm in his glassy eyes.

"Well, well this is the young one you were speaking of.", his voice is a bit shaky, with a hint of glee. Moving a bit closer he continues, "He is a beautiful child, isn't he."

He looks to the housemaid who bows slightly in agreement. He begins to pace around the room a bit.

"It never ceases to amaze me. No matter how years pass a newborn is always remains the most beautiful thing I can recall. Not even the first bloom of spring or the finest painting is comparable." He chuckles a bit, the housemaid as well, the other man still sticking to his rather austere appearance. He pauses for a moment, clearing his throat.

"Yet, the beauty lies not merely in this moment. It lies in the future. The thought of what he will become." He stops in place and looks back at you. "What shall you become young one? That is what I want to see. I need only for you to show me." He turns away and begins to head for the door. Just before he passes through he turns to the other man.

"I will trust him to your strength and wisdom Gennadiy. Help him become something fantastic, something brilliant." Gennadiy simply nods. With that he heads past the door way, disappearing behind the closing door into the room beyond.

The room remains silent for a moment, before Gennadiy approaches you. He takes a quick look at you, then towards the housemaid.

"Find him a place to rest for the night. This will be the last good rest he has for sometime.", he booms authoritatively. She simply nods and motions for you to come to her.

The molodov tilts his head slightly in question at the austere man, thinking of what could the man mean. Turning his gaze onto the maid, he trots after her and looks at her quizzically, following her.

You follow the woman, up the stairs, two flights, then a series of winding hallways, and eventually reaching a room with the door cracked open slightly. There is no lighting in the upper story and the warmth of the parlor a fleeting memory. You can just catch a glimpse of what lies inside. The room inside is very minimalist. The only furniture is a bed, and an armoire, both worn and tattered. The wood has warped and cracked, yet they seem to be holding together just fine. The housemaid ushers you into the room, towards the bed. The cold floorboards creak and unsettle beneath you. The air carries a chill, bearable, but only just so.

Walking in and stopping only to shake away the cold, the molodov, at the urging, runs towards the bed. With a leap, he latches onto the side of the bed, and tries to desperately climb his way upward. Once on the bed he walks towards the head of the bed, and then lazily walks a circle on the pillow.

With a great leap you just catch the side of the bed, you hind legs barely gripping on the wooden frame. Just as you feel your legs slipping beneath you, you are hauled up by your haunches, and are raised to the top of the bed. Looking back the housemaid seems rather amused by this, though you aren't terribly sure why. That aside, taking your place at the head of the bed and after circling to find just-the-right spot, you plop down in the soft down of the pillow. Once at rest the housemaid draws the cover over you, nicely buffeting the bitter-cold air. Then a faint noise of the floor boards creaking and the door shutting tightly, though you are far to comfortable to investigate this. The warmth washes over you, as well as an overbearing drowsiness and no later do you drift gently off to sleep, like dusk turning to nightfall.

The next thing you can recall is a loud ringing dredging you from your slumber. A bell tolls incessantly, demanding to disturb the peace of all those who slumbers it seems.

One eye opens, then closes again as the molodov rolls over among the covers. After a few moments of burying his head against the pillows, he slowly rises from the bed and comes out from under the covers. He looks around the room from atop the bed, surveying the area around him. After a few moments, he hops off the bed and toward the doorway.

Upon, finally rising from you slumber you see that the door is slightly ajar. As best as you can, you peer down the hallway through the slight opening, not a soul to be seen in the cold dark corridor. You can see just barely the railing where the stairs begin, a lantern casting flickering soft light from beyond your view. Then suddenly a whiff of something brushes against your nose. Something nice and warm and delicious smelling, evoking a hunger in the pit of your stomach. The scent seems to melt away the bitter coldness nipping at you incessantly, with every breath a momentary reprieve. You can hear faint distant sounds, metal clanging together in rhythm, then faint murmurs of conversation. These all seem to permeate from somewhere downstairs, though you aren't quite sure where.

The molodov peers down the stairs ignoring any cold he feels and begins his careful decent. As he climbs down he follows his nose toward the delicious smell, in hopes of finding its source and appeasing the hunger in the pit of his stomic. During his decent he listens to the rythmic clangs of metal on metal in mild curiosity, but does not allow it to distract him from the warm smells.

You find the stairs to be a bit more treacherous than imagined, almost tripping on several occasions, though saved by you natural nimbleness. Once you reach the base, it becomes clear the sounds an smells emanate from the same place. As you follow the proverbial trail, the rhythmic clanking gives way to other noises. Sizzling, scraping, and someone humming of a docile tune. The smells gradually surround you, and become more pungent. Thoughts of freshly cooked meat, eggs, and potatoes flow through your mind, granted you are not sure how you know what these things are, but satisfying all the same.

As you sneak down the corridor you see a door just ahead in the middle of what appears to be an intersecting hallway. Straight ahead lies a door, cracked open only ever so slightly. A good deal of the noise seems to come from there as well as the tempting smells. You can see some light escape from the foot of the doorway.

The left seems rather devoid of life and light, and not terribly inviting.

To the right some light seems to flicker and filter in. A seemingly warm, inviting light

The molodov creaps forward toward the door with tentalising scents, and pokes his head past the door crack and peers inside.

Inside you find a rather discordant scene, with two housemaids furiously juggling pots and pans, all filled with all manner of delectable looking foods. Around the countertops sit bags and jars of innumerable ingredient all precarious laid out in sort of sense that only seems applicable in practice. All in all there are dishes of meats, eggs, and finely cooked vegetables all which seem to amount to a feast fit for a king. The cooks are too busy to notice your presence and go on about their business at a furious pace.

The molodov sneaks into the kitchen, in search of food. He prowls around the edges of the room looking for anything edible within reach on the ground floor while taking extra time to examine any containers within reach.