Bump for Putincat.

Ten minutes, nothing?
Maximum displeasure evident.

>>10944989
What more do you want? I still remember the original thread. While it was fun, they were kind of dicks, what with eating/ murdering everything that could have given them answers/ assistance.

>>10945005
Not much food in the Underdark. Elf is tasty.

That said: shall I begin?

idk whats going on itt

Hey, OP! I was in both threads and await more epicness! By the way, here's links for newcomers:

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/10702457/

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/10816539/

>>10945044
tldr

Also, OP, why have you vanished last time without warning? Anons were sad.

A recap from the last post, pic related to why it was the last post.
>Cerekgrad, capital city of the People's Republic of Faerun...
The newest recruits finished their training aboard the new vessels; the fleet's holding pen was immense, but now it was almost overflowing. The technological advancements were keeping the spellcasters busy, day and night, with the newest innovation about to be tested.
>Comrade Igor?
A white lab-robed figure held the sacred clipboard of office; one of the Engineer-Priests. He smiled, gesturing to his assistants, each one grunting as they set down their newest accomplishment.
>as per your order, we have fulfilled our quota, but would like to show you something we have done in our spare time, Comrade.
He beamed with pride, motioning for the assistants to activate it.
>What does it do, Comrade Belkin?
The Priest-Engineer smiled with obvious pride.
>Why... it kills. It kills all of its targets.
It resembled a long metal tube, with a trio of claw-tipped arms at the front, a large cluster of similar arms, albeit thicker, at the rear.
>How, precisely?
The lab-robed man motioned, showing its features.
>Using the same explosives we recreated for you called 'Shem-tax' (is that the proper word? Your tongue, it is confusing...) we have filled its inner portions with it, then loaded in a captive water elemental, located here..
A shrieking, watery blurble escaped from the gallon-sized aquarium revealed inside its complicated workings.
>... which propels it forward into an enemy vessel. Then, after it claws a hole in the vessel's hull, it frees the elemental, who then detonates the 'shem-tax'.
Comrade Igor smiled broadly.
>We have something similar, where I am from. We call them 'torpedoes'.

>>10944812

See, I actually figured this would have a Spetsnaz operative/team teleported somehow in the Underdark and treating the Drow as Chechens.

I am disappoint.

>>10945110

Oh, okay then. Please continue your epic writefaggotry.

>>10945135

I now realize this might be the case and am excited.

>>10945110
What link did you post? I remember posting one to help someone in /r/ out and got banned for the day as well.

>House Xorlarrin...
Her House army had swollen in size a hundredfold. It had absorbed free companies of mercenary Houses, loose tribes of hobgoblins, deep dwarfs, kobolds... it was a true army. It had with it the leaders of a dozen major combat groups: converts from the surface world, slaves who'd proven to be true believers and everywhere, the faces of the citizens of Waterdeep who had survived the trip below ground, to join their brothers and sisters of the Tan Tabards.
>People of the Underdark.
Her voice, augmented by magic, was heard throughout the mile-wide cave.
>We stand where the Red Horde once fought to save the life of their king, Maxim the Terror.
The shredded, looted remnants of the battlefield still showed signs of the siege; scorch marks along the walls, toppled boulder falls, the fragments of the exploded iron door above.
>Now, here is where we shall forge the new world. Let this hallowed place be our fertile ground, and let the seeds of war be sown here! Now! By us! For victory is ours if we strive for it! WE. SHALL. OVERCOME!
The upraised fists and salute gave her all the affirmation necessary.
>Now... we must build the tools for war. Frau Eva, show them.
A tarp was dropped, revealing the mass beneath. A thousand examples of stolen technology stood before them.
>We call them death-wands. They eat these.
She held up a single bullet.
>We now have the tools to fight... and to win.

>On the road to Chechen-held Anauroch....
Scenery became a blur as the miles were devoured by hungry treads. Ahead, the palisade of mountains was visible, the valley splitting them making a "V" of light, guiding them into its Hell-like embrace, and still they kept the hammer down on the accelerators. The machined parts, lovingly cast from admantine and steel mixtures, had heat tolerances in awe-inspiring levels; the magic of creation-based spells made reproducing them all too easy; enforcing spellcasters to labor was a simple matter of motivational exercises: survival was guaranteed for early-joiners. The factories now produced a tank a shift, three shifts a day, every day of the week. The growing fleet became a parking lot, the parking lot became empty as the battlefield maps expanded. And it refilled, again and again.

Smiling with his commanding officer, Alexander gestured to a distant castle-like building set into the cliff walls facing the road.
>Looks like a military outpost. Possibly a fortress.
The column drew to a halt, the assembling of officers almost herd-like behind Maxim's tank. Tents sprang up like mushrooms; a camp site was forged from the diminishing forest, the perimeter expanded like a battle-ready tumor. Sentries began their patrols as the scouts surveyed the land ahead. A report echoed back over the skyvoice to Maxim's aide, who handed him the radio.
>The fortress is owned by the Glimdarl tribe of Dwarfs, sir.
A look to his chief intel officer, the erstwhile leader of the KGB office in Cerekgrad, who relayed this:
>We sent an envoy there two months ago, sir. No reports back, assumed dead. You ordered us to break communications completely.
The aide, listening at the radio, reported:
>The envoys have reported success. We stand in the shadow of Glimdarlgrad.
The Dwarfs had picked a new ally.

>Waterdeep, the Council chambers...
The robes of the elders rustled softly in the wind as the new arrivals took their place. The room was filling to capacity with the Tan Tabards, each one a mercilessly familiar friend, lover, relative, respected stranger. None smiled, but the anxiety was not an emotion born of fear but of pure accomplishment and pride.
>Elders of Waterdeep, your time has come.
The boots of the leaders of the rebellion entered with clacking thuds, marching in their eternal lockstep. Outside, raw chaos settled into miserable order; piles of burning books and scrolls lit up the alleyways and streets; stacks of bodies marked the corners so valiantly fought over and lost; the screams of a thousand throats were being silenced by the blade, the boot, the bullet.
>Now begins the Thousand Years our Prophet spoke of.
A smile, twice-formed, shined in the darkness of the candle-lit room, the entire scene bathed in the red glow of the towers of wizards erupting in cataclysms of pointless fury.
>All hail the All-Father!
A hundred arms shot upwards and outwards.
The elders had turned against their traditions of pride, of bravery and of standing against evil.
The Ettinazi warlordess threw down the hefty bundle under her arm.
>Put them on if you wish to walk out alive.
The necromancer in the corner smirked, her black uniform adorned with the sigil of the double lightning bolt.
>Or don't.
They cried while they donned them, stripping bare without shame or modesty; they sacrificed those ideas to safeguard the lives of those they could.
Outside, the massive flags unfurled. Castle Waterdeep had become their new headquarters.

>>10945266
Castle Ettinstein!

F5F5F5F5

>Meanwhile, at Glimdarlgrad...
Moving through the corridors, Maxim inspected the workers with obvious respect and authority; work had been ceased in almost all areas in respect for their newly-arrived Comrades from Cerekgrad. Beaming with raw and exuberant pride, their commanding officer, former Politburo courier-turned-Spetsnaz officer Gregor Bardzecki, indicated their many advancements, in both sides: the Dwarfs had taken to the idea of life as a Soviet far faster than he'd ever dreamed of. Each one had a printed copy of the Manifesto Comrade Gregor had in his pack; their printing press was a thing of beauty.
>Impressive system, Comrade. What other books do you print here?
A smile, born of pleasant thoughts, shone across his bearded face; he'd taken to wearing one in their style, just as they had taken to wearing the ubiquitous jumpsuit of the Soviet factory workers.
>We produce manuals on proper living, diet, food storage, mechanical repair and books of law.
A tilt of Maxim's head brought the death sentence to Gregor's smile.
>Whose laws?
An awed whisper rushed through the factory floor, chilling spines.
>Yours, sir. Only yours.
Maxim smiled, showing maximum satisfaction.
>Why do these men wear these strange patches on their uniforms?
He indicated a stout Dwarf holding his pickaxe carefully.
>They are awards, sir. We do not issue medals for merit.
Maxim quirked a brow.
>Why not?
The dwarf raised a hand, speaking quietly in slightly accented Russian.
>We use the metal to make better things than a prideful medal.
Maxim smiled again.
>Such as?
The dwarf grinned.
>Weapons.

>>10945395
>The dwarf grinned.
>Weapons.

Suddenly, I started to like dwarfes.

>Cerekgrad...
The binoculars of newly-promoted Comrade Nellgan lowered, his expression carefully neutral. Below him in the trench, he handed down his rifle before stepping off of the ladder. With purposeful strides, he approached the Skyvoice tent nearby, giving a simple report. That report was fired through the airwaves, unseen and untapped, encrypted with truly magnificent structure unknown to Faerun's finest cryptographers. It arrived on the desk of Alexander, who summarized the situation.
>Apparently, we're due to be invaded.
The laughter of the other gathered Spetsnaz was a living thing, growing huge and happy.
>History demands we repeat the brave actions of our forebearers and show them the wisdom of rousing a resting bear in its home.
With gleams of pure historic evil in their eyes, they moved to the fleet of ships in their harbor, the tanks in the yard, the plants producing their growing arsenal.
Commisars were promoted from the rank and file, their pride a thing of awe and dread. With slow, careful deliberation, the Russian Army began to rouse.

History's pen readied itself over the inkwell of heroes' blood, ready to write the new chapter..

>House Xorlarrin...
The Matron of the House reviewed the maps, the strategic guides, the scouts' reports, the field intelligence her finest scryers could produce and summarized her thoughts.
>This can work. Its winter. Men fight slower in the snow.
A simple toss, and the collected paperwork scattered to the floor. She looked out her window, seeing the armies' march progressing up the ramps to the surface world, their fungal torches creating a lime-like glow in the dark, rich world of her shadowed domain.
>Lolth be praised, we shall show that Red Horde what it means to be in the Dark Winter.
The troops, carefully prepared for the snowy onslaught of a magically-engineered winter hoarfrost, moved on, step by endless step.
>Napoleon, you see.. had a flaw in his battle doctrine.
She addressed the dark figures of her assassins and siblings.
>He used the living instead of the dead.
Necromancy - their darkest art, was also their most prolific, due to House Xorlarrin's influence.

>Glimdarlgrad...
The troops reviewed, the inventories restocked, rechecked and replaced, Maxim found himself still nervous. Even after two dozen years and more spent bringing Hell on Earth to Russian enemies all over the world and beyond, he knew something was afoot with the recent report of scouts being spotted during Cerekgrad's winter troop training exercises.
>This... troubles me.
Glimdarl, the chief operations officer of the Soviet outpost and recruiting/training facility gave a nod.
>Aye. One can never trust a fool, for only a fool would march onto Icewind Dale's ground during the hoarfrost.
A frown from Maxim.
>Sorry, Comrade. Cerekgrad. Icewind Dale was a decadent place. My apologies.
Maxim nodded, patting the dwarf on the shoulder.
>No fear, Comrade Glimdarl. You have done far too much outstanding work here, to be honest, to worry over a misspoken word.
Beyond their meager torch's light, the uniforms of a thousand-strong squads merged into formations not used since The Great Patriotic War.
>Aye. These are fine soldiers, one and all. I am proud to say each one was battle-tested from birth, made harder with the heat of a Dwarven forge.
Maxim jutted out his chin.
>To be truly hard, one must be made from Soviet steel.
Approaching one of the figures standing at attention, Glimdarl rapped his knuckles on the head, eliciting a slight echoing "bing".
>Soon enough, they'll earn their name, protecting the Motherland.
The Warforged army moved out moments later, destination Cerekgrad.

>Outside of Cerekgrad, in a hastily dug trench...
The head rolled to a stop at the feet of Sergeant Luther Ibernon, causing him to spill his mug of warm tea.
>Damned fool.
The head was punted to the side, landing face down in a puddle of freezing mud. The body slumped sideways, almost landing by its former member. The dug-in troops had been exchanging fire for hours, neither one budging an inch. For every recruit on the Cerekgrad side, two more popped up, firing madly. For every recruit on the side of the Flaming Fist mercenary company, they lost a rifleman or bow-sniper.
>We're in need of ammunition, sir!
A fresh-faced private saluted Sgt. Ibernon quickly, his head bowed less out of respect for a commanding officer, more out of respect for enemy accuracy.
>This is not news, private.
A shot pinged off of a random helmet down the line, causing the wearer to go to his knees, groaning in pain.
>What do we do, sir?
A shake of his head, and the sergeant said:
>We wait for a damned miracle, is what we do.

Meanwhile, in a trench five hundred yards away..
The two snipers sat next to their cooling rifles, awaiting their turn on the sniping rotation, bundled in comfortable winter gear, sipping hot coffee from clay mugs.
>We're out of sugar.
The elder of the two shrugged.
>War is Hell, Comrade. War is Hell.

>incoming battle of warforged vs. undead
I am furiously stroking my beard in anticipation

also, writefag, as a fan of the last two threads, I just wanted to say YOU ARE AWESOME!

>Waterdeep, now known as Reichsburg...
The Tan Tabards marched through the now-peaceful streets, the decorative efforts of the people evident in bunting, banners, and flags, flags, flags. Their sigil was everywhere. The only place it was absent was on the dispossessed still allowed to stay in their ghetto; the Gnomes, each one forced to wear the red ring on their lapel or sleeve, indicative of their lower caste status.

Deep within their ghetto, the elders of the families gathered, speaking in quiet tones; they'd suffered immense losses, both personally and financially, with families and industries torn asunder by the march of the intruders now occupying their great city. Soon, their seers said, would come the night of the purge and they would be expunged forever.

This was not their plan to die.

Finishing up on their collective work, they examined what the combined spell power of five thousand years of effort could bring. With its completion, they would have a mighty sword to bring down upon their foes.
>Soon, brothers and sisters, we shall be saved.
The device clicked on, its red lights blinking in silence.

Som gnomes = new jews?

>>10945961
>So,

>On the road...
Glimdarlgrad grew to become a speck in the distances, its many forges now running at full capacity, its feeder lines active for the first time in almost a generation; it had become what the designer had only dreamed was possible - it would be the heart of a great war machine, printing out death and destruction to those who oppose their embraced path.

Riding astride the lead T-96, its exhaust belching steam and dust, Maxim was the point of the spear; dragging behind each tank in the column, a full dozen Warforged, each one with their steel mesh backpack bolted in place. They did not march - they were reduced to drogues.
>Another glorious day in Faerun, eh, Comrade?
The recruit operating the turret's upper gun grinned back.
>Absolutely, sir. I can not wait to find the Chechens and show them the error of their ways.
With that, he ratcheted the action on the heavy machine gun, eyes alight with the fury of the outraged, the damned, the Soviet grunt begging the gods of war to put something on the other end of his weapons.
>Permission to begin the shriek, sir?
Maxim nodded. Their war cry was one of awe-inspiring terror. Great monsters knew to run, run far, run fast, when you heard the noise.
Maxim began the "shriek".

>Броня крепка и танки наши быстры
>И наши люди мужества полнЫ:
>В строю стоят советские танкисты —-
>Своей великой Родины сыны.

And the column moved into the desert, the shriek still echoing as a warning.

Archived: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/10944812/

Damn, we need some drawfags here.

>Cerekgrad, the trenches...
The arrival of the tanks produced new problems immediately; with the use of spells designed to counter them, the Soviet drivers found themselves in superheated metal boxes, the rounds cooking off - fireballs and lightning bolts did little against them, but heating of the metal was an easier task. Spell-laden arrows rushed into their hulls, flooding them with water, drowning their crews. Others simply flew into the air and crashed back, upside-down, the crew a thick red goo. The reply to this was instinctive - fire teams began to rain poison gas shells down upon the spellcasters, reducing the battlefield into a morass of swamp mud, frozen blood, dead tanks and choking wizards. Holy men and commisars went about their appointed tasks, exhorting the men to stamp out the unholy. The gods were listening to neither faction.

On the eve of the fifth day of the Siege of Cerekgrad, the rats came out in swarms; both sides began to eat heartily of them. The Soviets had been instructed in the fine art of history, more so of the proud Great Patriotic War and battles with nicknames like Pavlov's House, the Rattenkrieg.
When the ground buckled, the earth torn aside, the first of their real problems poked its head out of the ground.

Shaven skull, cheap armor and simple weapons aside, the growing mound began to disgorge troops without apparent end; body after body fell.. and rose again.

The Twiceborn had arrived; the undead, forged in battles below ground, had finally reached the surface. They knew no side but their own; Flaming Fists fell by the dozens, Soviets by the scores. Shortly, the tanks were quiet, the factories deserted, the barracks devoid of life.

Cerekgrad had fallen.
Frau Müller stood taller than the majority of her troops, blood and gore drenching her battle armor like specks of dust on a new tractor. She was in her element, to be sure.
>Just as planned.

>On the road into Chechen-held Anauroch..
Maxim slumped down against his folding chair, dropping the microphone from the Skyvoice machine. Despair was a cloud across his features.
>No.
The men were silent, a thousand questions stilled by the tears from Maxim's eyes.
>No.
He rose to his feet, slamming his fist into a shield, denting it deeply.
NO.
He turned sharply, drawing his pistol, firing it at the Skyvoice machine, which quietly absorbed the shots, ruined utterly.
>NO!
He turned to his trusted lieutenants and said:
>Not one step back.
He looked to the great machines the Dwarfs had given him.
>New orders.
Before a word could be spoken, he drew his shovel from his pack, beginning to dig furiously.
>Not one step up.
And he began to dig, to weep, to rage, to plot unholy furious vengeance.

A passing minor deity of revenge took an interest in him, examining his mind briefly.

Throughout the pantheon his life was lived in, he was a being of frustrated rage. After seeing Maxim's heart for what it was, he took up farming, instead.

Somethings, needless to say, you can't un-see.

The Soviets became a tunnel-digging machine, the loose sand doing its best to make itself scarce under their shovels and picks.

>superheated metal boxes

>House Xorlarrin's new headquarters in Reichsburg...
The seer gave a short cry of dismay, dislodging the spoon in her mouth during dinner. With a quick control of her emotions, she deadened her face to visible signs, leaving the dining hall quickly, complaining of a weak stomach for surface food.
>Dear Lolth, oh dear Lolth, I beg you.. spare this one's wretched life.
She prayed as she had never prayed before; seers rarely saw the point, as it were. Outside, the first of the cries began - soon, it would echoed by thousands as they looked up.

Overhead, the sound was deafening. The effect was outstanding. The damage had not yet begun.
>whup
>whup
>whup
>whup
The skies were filled with the efforts of five thousand years of magical talent, all blossoming into one, beautiful moment.

Overhead, in flocks and in wings to make a squadron commander proud, were fifty of the world's most terrifying sights even under the best of conditions, now more terrifying than ever considered.

The Red Dragons had swarmed.

Atop the lead, a grinning Gnome, his hair dyed a brilliant crimson, matching the patch across his battle tunic.

The wings of the eldest bore the sigil of the Red Horde.

>Burn them! Burn them all!

And fifty voice raised in song.
>Союз нерушимый республик свободных
>Сплотила навеки Великая Русь!
>Да здравствует созданный волей народов
>Единый, могучий Советский Союз!

>The desert...
Maxim looked to his assistant, eyebrows filled with dust and dried sweat, showing maximum confusion.
>What?
The assistant, baffled and terrified, handed the Skyvoice microphone trailing from the digging machine's rear compartment to Maxim, shrugging helplessly.
>Sir? Sir?
The voice was tinny, the magic warping it slightly in the proud tradition of Soviet communications equipment in all worlds.
>Yes, Comrade Igor?
The relief in Comrade Igor's voice was palpable, as he sighed in exhaustion and nervous tension.
>The entire town of Waterdeep is engulfed in flames. We have sketchy reports that the Gnomish community summoned a host of aerial fire-breathing lizards. They seem ... effective, sir.
Maxim put the microphone down, removing one of his few cigarettes remaining, lighting it with his Afghani knock-off Zippo.
>Continue, Comrade.
He waved off a lieutenant's aid in climbing out of the hole, moving to the rear of the great digging machine before it would become operational and begin tunneling directly into the Underdark below.
>Sir.. they have the hammer and sickle on their wings, sir. I have seen this with my own eyes.
A look to the great men at his side, and Maxim gave a satisfied nod, unheard on the Skyvoice.
>Let it burn. Find the Gnomes, offer them full citizenship with retention of their churches and associated beliefs. These are strong warriors, and we need them now, more than ever.
Comrade Igor was silent.
>Sir, I've been their captive for the last three hours. They're offering you the chance to join them.
Maxim stiffened.
>Tell them to fuck off. We'll kill their dragons first.
The Skyvoice went dead moments later.

>>INTERMISSION FOR FIVE MINUTES
Enjoy this picture for the duration.
Its just a cat.

>The Underdark, House Xorlarrin..
The Matron heard the corpses' of the Spetsnaz singing again. That was rarely a positive development. With the arrival of courier after courier, each one bearing an unpleasant series of missives, it was confirmed.
>Not as planned.
She slumped into her throne-like chair, watching as her servants finished packing up her belongings for the arduous trip to the surface.
>This all seems in bad taste.
She sent out new orders to the servants; the packing finished, but the direction changed - she would rule from beneath Cerekgrad itself, in lieu of Reichsburg.

>Meanwhile, over Waterdeep..
The airship followed the drifting trails of thermals left by the multitude of fires below, the cries of the inferno-ridden people unheard at their altitude of ten thousand feet. The elders of the Gnomes had survived and brought forth their mightiest weapons, mindful as they watched them depart en masse from the battlefield, the favor expended, the catastrophic damage inflicted.
>Brothers and sisters, we have received word from Maxim that he will not join us.. and demands we join him, instead. Do we have an agreed-upon reply?
Conversations broke out, chatter was quiet and civil; the topics ranging from the simple to the extraordinary. The consensus took most of the afternoon to reach, allowing for the lunch break.
>Then we're agreed?
Slow nods, consensus reached.
>Better to call Maxim an ally than put him against us.

Wiser words were rarely spoken.

>The ground beneath the desert, altitude -450ft...
The great machine continued ahead of the marching formations, chewing the rocks to chunks and the chunks into vapor; it ate rock and spat smoky air, the bound elementals working at a feverish pace. Behind it, the tanks. Behind the tanks, the Soviets. Behind the Soviets, a hundred years of red-hot, boiling rage looking for a vent.
Two conscripts had a quiet conversation.
>These packs are heavy, no?
A roll of the eyes and Flarius replied.
>Carrying a half-dead monk was "heavy". This .. not so much.
An eyebrow quirked in the red glow of the tail lights of their tank/shield.
>When did you carry a monk?
Flarius chuckled.
>Last time I was down in the Underdark.
His companion paled visibly.
>You've been down there before?
Flarius nodded.
>And the last I went, I carried a pack all the way down, and a bloodied man all the way up.
Looking around the edge of the tank, he could see Maxim, face showing maximum displeasure.
>How did it go, the last time you were here?
Flarius gulped, pulling back into formation, mindful of the Commisars nearby.
>Maxim killed hundreds of people.. and he didn't even look upset doing it. Now... now I fear greatly.
>Fear what?
>For the Drow.

DO NOT RELENT, COMRADE! CONTINUE THE TALE SO WE MAY READ! IF NOT HERE, THEN ON THE ARCHIVES!

>Cerekgrad, now undead/Drow occupied territory...
The men worked in silence, their steps careful and slow. The machinery was resistant, almost as if it felt the pain and terror of its former owners. The factories came to life; the workers inside did not. The power plant was reassembled via magic - its workings were beyond the reckoning of the wizards. A group of goblins were brought through the mass of teeming undead, freshly-freed from their workshop prison, most bearing the scars of incarceration.

The Ettinazi looked to them, her twin voices in harmony.
>Make it work and you shall walk out free, alive and of your own accord. Fail me, and all three of those ideas will be reversed.
They began work immediately. The factories began to produce weapons again, with new owners readied and waiting for their skills to be magically introduced to their undead minds. Already, they had put on the newer armor forged by the Soviets, removing the sigils of allegiance.

The Drow army became an undead war machine, half of it marching back with the new stockpile in tow.

>Meanwhile, offshore ..
The crew of the Krasnyy Oktyabr finished the last of their work details, returning to their battle stations, awaiting their next orders. Commisar Ivan Maykov, commanding officer of the submarine, gave a checklist a slow, thorough review.
>Sir, all crews are ready for your command.
Commisar Maykov looked to the key in his hand, gleaming a shiny black; machined obsidian and steel, merged through arcane magics. He inserted it into the left-hand keyhole, looking to the Mad Monk, Cerek.

>We turn it on "one", Comrade Cerek.
Cerek gave a slow, steady nod.
>Three.
Both men bowed their heads in solidarity.
>Two.
Cerek gave a quick prayer.
>For the Motherland.
Commisar Maykov nodded back.
>One.
Spetsnaz units are trained in disassembling all manner of explosive devices; by default, they also know how quite a few are made from scratch. Their specific training included nuclear weapons; in this instance, they showed how to make a sun rise happen twice in a day.
They slid beneath the waves, out of harm's way by miles, the missile tube emptied.
>We sail for Waterdeep.

How do we update archived suptg-version?

>The desert...
Replacing the radio, Maxim looked to his lieutenants.
>The Gnomes will join us.
The Skyvoice technician returned to his monitoring and coordinating duties, unmindful of his commanding officers' exit from the modified steam-truck's cargo box.

Outside, in the tunnel, they kept up the brisk pace of the marching soldiers, fitting in between several squads of heavy gunners bedecked in war armor both old and new. A few words of encouragement here and there, a slight dressing down or three, and the group's morale swelled up, the knowledge of the fate of Cerekgrad still unknown to all but a select few officers.
>With their dragons gone, how much good can they do us, sir?
Maxim looked to his friend and comrade, replying:
>As much as they can, as long as they can, until its over or they're dead.
A pause, looking Igor in the eyes directly.
>Just like we will.

>Waterdeep, near the docks...
The Rogues' Gallery was packed again; this time, it was not with the Tan Tabards, but the survivors of all stripes who'd witnessed the dual onslaught of the Drow-led assault and the Gnome-driven dragon raid. The devastation was almost complete - few buildings stood intact. Few buildings stood, to be more accurate. The docks survived, but only by proximity to water to fight the fires.
>Waterdeep is dying, if not dead. Ladies and gentlemen.. we are at a crossroads. We can rebuild here... or relocate.

The voices went from mild and whispery to panicked and shouted. In the confusion of the heated debates, few took notice of the six armed men who entered and rose to the center of the dais. The leader of the pack fired off a burst from his rifle, his checkered scarf pulled aside as the smoke and noise cleared.
>People of Waterdeep... allow me to introduce myself. I am Movladi Baisarov.
He smiled. His accent, though thick, was easy enough to understand.
>We have a place willing to take on any refugees.. in Anauroch.

The Chechens had arrived.

And I'm spent for the night. After three-plus hours, I'm done. Stick a fork in me.

Thank you, folks. Be sure to tune in next chapter.

In the interim, a picture of Putincat's human guise.

>>10947787
>До встречи, товарищ.

Good luck, writefag!

>>10947787
Very good, comrade. Enjoy your rest.

>>10947842
>>10947844
Thank you both.
Putincat's face shows maximal pleasantness at you.

Bumping before it gets to page 10.