Have you see the OVA or read the manga series of Hellsing? If so how far have you gotten? If not please direct your attention to YouTube, and watch OVA 1-4 at least. Warning: If you have watched the anime we require you watch the OVA, or read the manga. The anime is not canon. This is not our opinion. This is the law set down by the creator of Hellsing, Kouta Hirano. All mediums that pertains to Hellsing sans the abominable Hellsing TV as it features silly concepts like an albino African vampire which invokes Set and some other nonsense has been watched. The manga and OVA that is... not the TV. All of it.
Name: Carsten Zoeller, formerly Father Zoeller of the European Vatican General Directorate. His loved ones call him Carsy, but he tends to cram his fist into their faces despite the affection. That was a time they must never know.
Age: 110 years old, biologically appears in his early 30's for those unable to distinguish his biological age with their EYES.
Gender: As he possesses male genitalia within swollen proportions, it is obvious that he is of the male demographic.
Physical appearance: Standing about 6'3" feet tall, which is above average, having brown hair, weighing about 180lbs whilst having a mesomorphic build, Carsten is a man that carries the light of both, that of the soldier's bearing, and that of a priest's zeal alike. Perhaps a reminder of his former life now turned to the cause of zealous war in his so called love for God, and the wiping out of Heathens as he has delved into that of Viking beliefs. Though his eyes are blue, pale in its saturation, he has small irises and a normal appearance when considered of the facial structure. Broad jawed, narrow nosed, and furrowed eyes, his appearance betrays that of harsh strictness which is not true considering his demeanor. He has a harsh, yet youthly face that despite such a veil of deceit he dons, his is that of ancient time spent on Earth well beyond that of a human's lifespan as a result of his unnatural affliction. His hair is rather worn to be messy as it is a victim of oiliness, hence the feathery texture as a result of it. His complexion is as pasty as a Aryan coconut whilst he remains incredibly pale more so than usual without being as grey as a corpse, as he is not of those necrophiliac undead Millennium counts among their ranks.
His torso is rippled with sinews of muscles that are far more defined than the usual as the need to actually maintain musculature is lessened in regards to his supernatural make. That in which retains his constitution to remain consistent with the aid of his latest transition as a man neither human nor fully one with the wolf spirit. Or whatever it is werewolves commune with in their ritualistic want to actually be in part of nature. Carsten is not that sort of person and neither a furry, but one who is savage and in touch with his feral side. But he hates furries, just to get that clear, and the wolf form is JUST a natural part of him, not his otherkin, not his other side, but a utility to be dispensed with when the moment calls for it. Carsten views this as but a second nature, and will never forget his human origins, as he disdains the abominable those that relish in their animalistic side obsessively to points disturbing and morbid.
Delving in between his thighs is an Equestrian girth that forms a lined furrowed bump often left hugging tightly to make space that he has to conceal within clothes, in such a strategic manner would make it rather less vulgar as much as it were not his intention so. He has a well exercised set of musculature upon his legs that are more fitting akin to athletic build, as much as for running as much as for punting things, which he excels in both aspects based on... practice, with orphans, using them as soccer balls, in his rampage. Sometimes. His fists as a result are calloused from repeated stress and healing, and thickening over punching things hard enough to split his knuckles with wounds, and his feet hardened from the bones enough to help him punt things even better. Those were the leftover remnants of his life once human, now honed even further at his transcendence to one that retains the predator gnawing within him. His fingers are spidery and nimble, dexterous and yet leathery, with knuckles calloused from punching things, a lot. Preferably his mother-in-law.
Clothing of choice: Wearing not any cladding when partaking in the act known as showering, Carsten prefers the civility of wearing an attire to conceal his pride lest lesser people faint or be cast with envy upon sighting illuminating greatness that only few can fathom visually. He prefers wearing the attire of the Waffen SS, as opposed to his former raiment of priestly garb that he once was a part of. Iscariot is no longer a part of him, as he finds it distasteful to strap the juvenile in between his thighs as a practice, and abhors the association with the tasteless organization so easily swayed in the early days of WWII to have some semblance of collaboration. Nay, but when preferential that he is operating in civilian environments where his clothes may attract attention, his preference of attire tends to be polo shirts matching the colour of the fauna, cargo pants, and typically a utility belt as well as a pants with several pockets. Wearing combat boots underneath with rubber soles, a cap, and shades.
His Waffen SS attire on the other hand consists of a camouflaged dotted swamp pattern garb over his normal feldgrau button up uniform shirt. His grey pants goes one further and is held up not by a belt, which is worn over his camouflaged tunic, fastening it there, but rather from suspenders that go underneath both his upper attire, JUST over his wife beater sleeveless shirt. Typical of Nazi fashion, he also wears rubber soled water proof jackboots of black, reaching up just beneath his ankles, On his hands, he wears leather gloves, and on his head, he wears an M43 Feldgrau cap. Typical Nazi uniform he prefers to wear suited for the field, where he prefers it.
Weaponry of choice: Personally he prefers the Glock brand of pistols that he can use, but alas, those are weapons denied to Carsten, hence his equipping of specific armament in the form of WWII era weapons, some labeled Wunderwaffe, and others typically the mainstay of the army. His Iscariot equipment of which he formerly donned is no longer in his belonging as he has ditched those away in disgust, also because he hates them. Either of those.
His assortment of firearms carried is a modified FG-42, Mauser C96, Spanish Zabala Sawed-off Double-barreled Shotgun, and an SS fighting knife which is polished and sharpened all the time, so he may stab people with it. That's what a knife is for, to stab people. Sometimes used to pick the tooth for any crumbs, but for mysterious reasons, that tends to leave wounds in the gums.
The FG-42, also called that gun which can shred limbs and shoot with the power of a rifle, and also HOT DAMN THAT'S ONE POWERFUL GUN, is the preferential main form of armament for Carsten when it comes to blowing people's faces up... in a violent way, not the sexual kind. It's the later edition of the FG-42, termed FG-42-2, which though the recoil of being fired at full-auto is too much for most shooters, Carsten is by no means a normal man, capable of controlling the spread to be right on contact due to some, ahem, visits to the brothel. (In truth, it's because he is a werewolf, and he practices often times with it to know the power of the weapon.) The FG-42 has 20 ammo ammunition magazines each, carried in a bulk of seven all around his belt for easy deployment. It can be toggled to full-auto, or semi-auto, either configurations, and lacks a scope as Carsten's eyes are good enough to substitute for it. The weapon has been retrofitted to match up to the modern standards with steel of specialized alloy to make it far more durable, with the internal mechanics also given a far more robust treatment to make sure the mechanism isn't fragile as the standard make, whilst the grip has been given that of the classic pistol grip whilst straightened out and the stock has been shortened by a quarter its original size, but it remains with a weighted butt so it can make up for the reduced length as well as tame the recoil. He has a strap on it so he can sling it around his shoulder and deploy at a moment's prompt.
The Mauser C96 is a pistol that has seen usage from all around the world aside from its birth place of Germany. Famed since its inception back then, he has a variant designated by the Wehrmacht as M712 Schnellfeuer. A select-fire pistol, short-recoil operated, single-action trigger, it is chambered for the 7.63x25mm Mauser and has a detachable box between 10 or 20. The one Carsten uses is the 20 bullet box magazine. He keeps it at his holster to his right waist, and carries about 4 detachable box magazines also around his belt.
Also he has an SS fighting knife, which he uses to stab stuff with. It's not for decoration but for actual combat, hence the lack of dagger-like appearance it possesses. The blade is of sharp carbon steel, and of rosewood handle, whilst retaining a hard sheathe to slide into. It's kept at his left waist. Standard size.
The Spanish Zabala Sawed-off Double-barreled Shotgun is that same shotgun used to shoot at Tony Montana. As in the model, not the actual gun. That shoots blanks, and Carsten doesn't want to shoot blanks like an infertile squirter, but shoot actual 12 gauge shots, which is its caliber. The stock has been sawed off to give it only the grip left, and the barrel also has been shortened, to leave for ultimately 20 inches overall in shotgun length. It's double barreled, so that means two bullets fit into the breech. The shotgun shells come in a quantity of 16, with two shells already preloaded. All of them 12g buckshot, in case he needs to hunt ducks, or people.
Race: Werewolf (Cub).
Abilities: Great weakness to blessed and silver weaponry (fatal), regeneration (takes up to 20 posts max to regenerate major wound damage such as limb loss), decent super strength, agility, stamina, reflexes, durability and senses, inability to either transform into a human or werewolf (depending on how they were at first) though only with the aid of the full moon.
The increase of perception that aids him through enhancement comes not as something sensory embedded within him biologically but as an extra-sensory perception triggering upon the conditions of wounding or death alike being imminent on Carsten in its threat to him, the source of the danger in itself not the detected, but rather the direction of it within the span of two seconds in its oncoming offense or even lesser in measurement of time, depending on the nature of attack in itself. The feeling derived from the sense of danger beckons from a feeling too ineffable to describe within any context but to Carsten himself.
As he is a former Iscariot Agent, he bears much of their training and discipline, with knowledge pertaining to demonology, otherwise what kind of an Iscariot Agent would he be? Exorcism, and a great understanding of many recorded supernatural foes typically considered pertinent for him to know. His training comes additional with hand to hand combat in a swirl of mixture between Iscariot combat and furthered by Millennium Waffen SS military style of tactics. Between the two a synergy of combat exists as he disciplines himself zealously as the traitor from the Vatican.
As he has learned to punch things from experience, besides melee combat which tends to be often in his case out in his Iscariot days, and later Millennium days, he has learnt the spots where it hurts, a lot. Mostly due to a mixture of being in fights, and making fights, and sometimes fighting before someone learns there is a fight, also called sneaking around. A full several decades of constantly being in service has made him a proficient combatant whom knows how to shoot with just about every weapon he can get his hands on, and make use of a versatile fighting style out of his own concoction from the necessity of which motion needed.
He speaks Bernese accented German, Swiss accented French, Swiss accented Italian, Latin as dictated in his priestly years, and English. It's easy to know these languages when one actually has SEVERAL DECADES to learn them. The fluency with each varies, but his English carries a strange accent about it, that many would merely mistake him for an Austrian as a result of his Ahnold slur.
Organization: Millennium.
Personality: Once there was a man whom sternly believed in the Catholic Church, their zealous ways, the means justify the ends. That perhaps to slay enough heathens and heretics, and maybe some odd Protestant or two, would bring along the wayward Kingdom from down to Earth itself where Rapture is enjoyed. Where all their efforts for some good two millenniums, would bear fruit to the greatest of rewards deserved righteously by the faithful. His zeal notable in his tasks carried out as he asks questions, but ultimately stayed true to what he saw as the path. He found himself not in doubt in his service to Iscariot, that he loved vanquishing those that stood against the Church, destroy them, unmake them utterly that they never dare defy their conventions and preserve the greatness of their cause, the eternal crusade against evil itself. He fought with the efficiency of a killing machine, unwavering and without negotiation, but even those most vigilant in duty find cracks in the most well oiled of machines.
He saw hypocrisy, the great stagnation of the Church, and then there was a doubt lingering in his mind for so long that plagued him, that why does he know when he does good, it doesn't feel as gratifying as the bad? That he knows he has done bad, but he derives guilty pleasure out of it? That there is no winning with it? Learning to desensitize himself to it as he remains questioning and suspicious of his own make, he delved into the warpath. Where his love for blood overrode his faith in the Catholic Church. In a time where war was rampant, two of them where he had lived through both of them, his experiences, the foes he fought, and the origins of them, ultimately culminated in a doubt that drove his long harbored suspicions to explode into full heresy.
Ever since his full conversion into worship of the Nordic Pantheon, of Odin and the Viking cult, Carsten has come to embrace war as a way of honour as opposed to mere bloodletting his Millennium compatriots taken to love. To embrace the blood as a proof of worth, to conduct battle as a symphony to judge himself as worthy into entering Valhalla, and ultimately become one with his fabled resting place where all warriors lay. The reason being that there is no corruption, no stagnation, but pure honest battle where lies and deceit are things that do not determine whom he is to kill, but his own whims. Though he is by no means a fool as he is still well versed in tactics, he merely enjoys battle as part of the perks of being in the Viking theology, a follower.
Typically his statements vary for he is once of a human mindset, and his interactions differ from sheer abrasiveness to politeness depending on the situation and what it calls for it. He disdains the Catholic Church with a passion, but all else has yet to earn his ire, except for the French. Those egotistical apes are seen as untermenschen to him. Actually scratch that, whomever he sees as untermenschen is seen with disdain. From Heathens to full blown prejudice, a full cycle that convinced him with such hate and fervour considering the fact that he forsaken his priestly vows, only to get his heart punched HARD, literally. He is considered slightly strange in regards to his Millennium peers in that he has aberrant ideas when it comes to war, namely that they are done in service to his new found creed as opposed to wishing for death by battle, though largely ignored as that does not prevent him from doing his duty earnestly, and Millennium is literally the only group he now can belong into.
Despite the lust for warfare, by no means is Carsten a fool, as he understands the distinction between the suicidal, and the tactically adequate in situations meriting such response.
Rank: Sturmscharführer/Assault squad leader (Sergeant Major in US equivalent to those unaware of the comparative ranking).
Biography: Carsten was not always a member of the bloodthirsty Millennium group that loves to kill and stab people, and neither was he a subscriber to Teutonic/Viking beliefs of Valhalla, and stabbing people in the face in combat to earn himself a place in Heaven, namely to die in warfare. Though then again, he seems to also be looking forward to Hel just as much as Valhalla, but that is a story for another time. Back in his native Switzerland where he was born and raised, it was said that his father was a Swiss Guard for the Pope, whom inscribed in his son the love for the Catholic Christianity in itself, and encouraged his son to pursue studies into the rather mundane (though it has nothing to do with pedophilic pursuits the Catholics are accused of today) theological affairs. But due to his physical excellence and vitality demonstrated consistently as a potential candidate put forth for the Iscariot indoctrination training, as well as a familial bond to the Vatican Church and professed love for Catholic faith with a lack of evidence to diminish such a claim, the young Carsten was soon offered a position by a Bishop among many other candidates pooled up from outside the orphanage establishments, and what pull his father had in the Swiss Guards to be instated for training into the Iscariot Organization. His intimate and obsessive knowledge with the Bible also aided in his selection as one of the few specimens for entry into the organization, the combatant arm, as a result, as one of their many numbers, where he was assigned from an early age to be trained in the Church... not as an alter boy, but as a homicidal killer in the name of the Church and all that noble what have you.
His childhood in the Iscariot for a better word, was considered tough as he was given training and lessons that expanded from theology, into fullblown demonology, exorcism, the moral reasons of why it is best to stab a vampire in the heart and see them dead as they were heathens, to shoot heathens so that their impurity wouldn't plague the Earth, and it tends to get repetitive from there. Carsten learnt and absorbed the knowledge like a sponge, as that was literally the only information given to him in regards to his education and knowledge, to mold him into something of a zealous agent, which is to say so far, had worked into making an impressionable young person who was once in a Catholic School to be something of a fanatical believer in the Christian faith. Little was known about his connection to any fellow classmates or much of the past records about Carsten due to some documentations were sketchy, with even more obscure facts about his own treatment at home before his internship into Iscariot, in his relationship with either parents, aside from a reception most lukewarm.
That he had to take an oath of celibacy as part of becoming a priest, in those early days where on the premise of a World War, the first, the Great War was called, boiled over in the surface. A time where the undead flourished most, and became active, on a yet to be deployed Carsten and his fellow classmates as they had much to learn. That was early adulthood for your normal average Iscariot sociopathic vampire killer-to-be though.
Time went on that despite what he can survey and learn from the outside world that Italy has gone to war with Germany and the Central Powers, but that applied none of the concern to him as he was in studies, furthermore, his cause called for beyond the borders of politics and the realm of man, but that of heavenly judgement on all unnatural abominations. He is a Swiss, and those of his kin in country are of neutral stock, not to be involved in the affairs of the warring powers over something as trivial as a 'War to end all Wars'. Fools, all of them, thought a then young and still impressionable Carsten whom delved into the indoctrination of his studies. Taught the ways of combat, how to best kill a supernatural, to study the anatomy and weakness of each enemy that he may encounter, how to fire a gun, how to use a knife or even his fists when the situation calls for it. To leave no inch unprotected, and to leave no struggle without defiance.
The years went and the troubles back in Europe escalated, but he had none of the problems that came out of it. It was by that years later still mid-Great War, Carsten was given his Iscariot colors finally, and as a junior member, attached to a senior as he was sent all over Europe, and sometimes in the mouth of North Africa to get rid of some more exotic cases of supernatural foes. Dutifully executing his tasks, with some close calls but ultimately ridding his foes as he worked in a team, to slam the fist of Catholicism wherever so threats arise to threaten it. To kill so that others do not, to sin so that others do not.
For a time, it was good. Everything was as clear and crystal as the sexually deprived and frustrated Carsten had to go through despite his vows of celibacy, taking it out in much better fervour in killing his enemies despite the denial of what carnal rights he has been given biologically speaking. Garnering himself an impressive kill streak, among which baffles many Iscariot agents to this day was his feat of lining up a shot that killed three vampires with a single rifle shot, all of them headshots. By Carsten's account, he did NOT expect there to be two others behind the first vampire. Even then, during the duration there was not much change besides his eventual promotion at the end of WWI into that to be called Father due to his performance of excellence. It was where from then on, under the request of another Bishop that'd rather have Carsten along, he was added to the European Vatican General Directorate in 1922, finding himself more in agreement than ever with the Bishop over theological matters, and how the radical methodism of taking out vampires demands drastic measures. Some final solution, and also to eradicate the heretical Protestants and the heathen Jews and Gypsies among other deviants that stand against the convention of the Church. It was the teaching from the Iscariot schooling days that muddled his good sense to be something akin to longing for the olden days where the Inquisition could easily round up and evict if not outright kill anyone suspected of heresy, a national imperative for all Catholic governments to cooperate with the Church. Those days were long past, and Carsten wished it back.
It was also a time where he had seen corruption in the Church that had formed the first crack inside him which left him to deny it ever happened, but sowed the seeds of doubt in the convention of the Church despite his zeal. Cooperation between the Protestants and the Catholics for the common goal of eradicating the heathens. He felt disillusioned, though it was a chance moment and in Ireland, where he had operated alongside a few operatives from Great Britain of an esoteric familial organization of ridding the supernatural, a strong distaste lingered and his mind strayed further and further from the Church.
It was also something he lacked. Warmth of another woman's embrace that he longed for. Why does he have to prove celibate, or not be rewarded for something that was natural? To deny him the fruits of siring a child? Frustrations that stirred and culminated for quite a long time as not once he had seen himself partaking in the abhorrent practices many lesser men of the cloth succumb into as a result of this.
He continued to try to distract himself hunting for the supernatural and perform further jobs for the Church till 1933, where he met her, and by meet her, try to score a headshot. It was supposed to be just like any other job. A target in the remotest regions of Arctic Norway. He was told to kill her, a sniper shot to the skull was required, and everything was needed. That she was a werewolf, and he had only to fire a shot if the initial attack by one of Iscariot's best swordsman could not down her. The back up, the man who was to lay in wait as she was not in his sight, but they all knew the location to be that in the cabin, obscure from behind Carsten's Gewehr 98's scope, that in the event she comes to view, to fire.
But as always expected in scenarios like these, the maxim rung true. When all plan is in place, ALWAYS assume something may go wrong. This was one of the few scenarios that went wrong, as the werewolf was more powerful than expected, flinging his comrade out of the cabin, breaking apart the wood as she leapt out in her human form. This was the chance for Carsten to take a shot, aiming down his scope to see the enemy, to fire and save his comrade, but from behind the scope, he saw the werewolf in her slender bare form. His pants swelled a bulge, and his heart skipped several beats at the sight of such a beauty he had never seen. Often when one is overridden with lust, and the mistake for what was love for first sight, bad decisions were made. Carsten was to see a battle unfold, and the Iscariot swordsman though debilitated for a moment, was about to manage a strike on the werewolf. Aiming down his sight, Carsten pulled the trigger as a bullet soared at his target.
A head exploded outwards with a force of gore littering the snow, and the Iscariot agent fell limp and dead with not even a twitch to indicate any semblance of leftover life in him. The werewolf, surprised for what was to be her last battle, instead, turned her sight on her would be rescuer as Carsten realized the dumbest mistake he has ever made. That he has stepped into the threshold of sheer and absolute betrayal. Suddenly his doubt exploded into sheer loathing as he had realized his days of freedom were numbered, unless...
Approaching the werewolf whom remained in her human form the whole time, as she tensed her muscles, ready to attack, but his supposed help stilled her from an immediate hostile reception, he explained to her that he saved her life, that she does not need to live in fear of the hunt, as he will report her dead. Confused, the female werewolf, only to learn later her name is Elsa, had asked why he had saved her, an Iscariot Agent to forsake his Order for some supernatural creature. His only response was how captivating she was, and she was by no means evil if she looked like an angel to him. The answer baffled the werewolf, but the two agreed, with Elsa more skeptical of Carsten's offer, to keep in contact. Sparked with another brilliant idea, Carsten even asked her for her assistance in naming any supernatural threats she wants taken out of the picture, and he'll get it done, to which a glint of predatory cunning flashed in her eyes, and they both shook hands over this mutually beneficial agreement.
In truth, Carsten just wanted to be close to her, to win her affection, that he has been struck with a sense of lust he cannot quench regardless of the situation. Their partnership came to much benefit as Carsten not only won many accolades for him eliminating many threats often thought long hidden, apparently with a penchant for finding those that were otherwise 'untraceable', but had also been garnering a closeness to the Bishop that he remembers as fond friendship as the years went on at the rise of the Nazi Party, and later in WWII. Meeting on occasion Elsa whilst the two grew closer and felt that there is trust between them, building up a relationship and a sense of ease and comfort, till eventually, in 1944, many years later, even as aged as he was, the two engaged in a carnal affair that made his fall into damnation complete. What was left of Carsten was a fully spent man whom found himself not only robbed of his virginity, but of his humanity as they partook in Pagan rituals that Elsa had prepared in anticipation to accept a new member into their fold. Carsten awakened not only a man free of his own shackles of celibacy, and more importantly the Iscariot, but from his humanity. Though he had felt great guilt that he had made his betrayal complete, turning his back on the institution that raised him practically, and dashing his father's whims... he saw no other path but to continue down this road of damnation. He was Hellbound, he thought, so what is another sin or two along the way? His mind grew muddled with delusions such as these as he had snapped into lusting after Elsa, being her very brood mate as his very vitae became that to embody the spirit of the wolf. The werewolf, and in the name of a new patron he learnt to love and worship named Odin, as months had been spent in tutelage of his new duty as a wolf priest of Odin, a dying religion, and furthermore, of a state rather sympathetic to his kind. One that he only has to look South from Norway, and that is Nazi Germany.
Hitler's fascination with the Teutonic mythos and Viking/Germanic beliefs have made him rather open to the ideas of Occultism, and it was through Elsa, by now he had found her out to be a newly Christened Nazi, that introduced him to the German SS-Ahnenerbe, whom had told Carsten much to his surprise, there were already collaborators on the Vatican, and he wasn't the only one from the Vatican to have joined them in their effort, but he IS exceptional in being a werewolf, AND an Iscariot member, thus warranting his insertion into the Schutzstaffel, to which he joined out of having no other choice but either to be part of an institute, or to be eventually hunted when the Iscariot Organization learns of his disappearance to be in fact defection and treachery. He signed up, and subsequently after training in the Waffen-SS standards, with much of their combat techniques tempering his Iscariot monster hunting experience, he has been shifted over in 1945 to join Millennium as part of the transfer. Judged adequately loyal, and just as zealous to the Nazi cause, with his new belief in Paganism after seeing the appeal, the honesty in it, and its fondness spurred by his love for Elsa, he would be part of the Millennium group that fled to South America, but without Elsa, whom stayed behind at Norway to tend to the Pagan sites, only to later succumb to death by an Iscariot executioner squad, having finished what Carsten could not. He never learnt of her death, ignorant of the events that transpired there.
But that doesn't end his tale, as he refused to stay put in the base at the end of WWII, and remained as an active agent, going out and planting the seeds of dissatisfaction, performing hits, increasing Nazi sympathies, and weaving tales among many others to inspire their service to Millennium. He hasn't remained inactive in those decades where Millennium was in wait, and participated in many operations, even against Iscariot, his original organization, without fail or sympathy. What was left was a former shadow of a man, Christian and Catholic, but rather Pagan and Viking. To the modern day, decades of experience under his belt, he is ready to act once again, but to what end?
RP sample: - Spoiler:
(Taken from my Alfred application.)
He smoked his cigarette as the Winter of Russia swept over the building, some snow sneaking in, invading his space. The men inside were Germans, covered in lumpy and fat clothes that warmed them up, bristling by the fire in the metal box. Warming their hands as Alfred continued to let the death stick comfy him. It was a very brief respite from the long battle outside in Moscow, having killed a family in front of a Partisan to demoralize him. Only it served to enrage the man and swear vengeance and haunting from the afterlife. He was shot in the face and unceremoniously dumped in a ditch. Tanks counted for nothing in these streets anyways, tight fitting quarters where an anti-tank grenade can easily be dropped overhead, as much as a Molotov cocktail lobbed through an unsuspecting tank commander's head. For practical reasons, he was here as an infantry man and to maintain repairs through whatever equipment needed, but decided to separate for a while to huddle up around the fire. They were socializing clearly.
"Peh, fucking cold. Only vermin can thrive here." Remarks Alfred in contempt, sniffing up the mucus wet in his nose.
"Explains why they are so hard to root out. This is a whole den of rats... cold and unforgiving. They should've just shelled this entire city and be done with it. Nothing worth holding here but death for our troops with little to gain..." The Frankenfurter comments, brushing his hands over the pooled flames.
"Watch what you say of the Fatherland, lest I have you shot for insubordination. Our countrymen, MY comrades, too many of them died, and I intend to honor their memory by winning this battle no matter what costs it take. Either you serve in the frontline or on the firing line... it makes no difference to me." Alfred replies in his hateful venom, before turning away.
The Wehrmacht soldiers scoffed and kept their talks to whispers, at least not talking about defeatists sentiments anymore. Just the general of how they missed their home, how warm it is, and particularly one that had to do with strudel and sauerkrauts.
Murmurs and talks continued, about families from Dresdin, Berlin and Frankfurt continued, exchanging talks between one another. So relaxed in spite of the pitched execution and the battle before that. They tried to console themselves by remaining off guard completely, forget the fact they were in hostile territory, live in a moment of bliss. The Wehrmacht were weak willed fools. Alfred wasn't in the Wehrmacht. The whole time he clutched his MP-40, ready to unload a full ammo on the first thing not German that comes into his view. Only such an illusion of safety was shattered, and Alfred was proven right with the skull of Frank, the soldier who spoke of Berlin, his hometown, being sprayed across the ground, putting out the fire as a powerful rifle shot bore a hole through his cranium. His brain matter oozing out as quickly the soldiers desperately went for cover, apart their guns. Alfred peeked out, looking at the place of the shot, the general location. He couldn't make out which building was where the shot originated, but he didn't have to. A flash flickered on a scope, followed by a muzzle flash as he pulled back. He was too late. He got hit. Just not wounded. His helmet was bent, grazed in fact and given a nice groove. A trophy he'll have to carry of having a close call with death herself, as Alfred eyed something far better than his MP-40, something which he could not hope to shoot the sniper with. Kar98k, scoped.
"Pass the weapon!" Beckons Alfred, the Wehrmacht soldier, without even consideration to the gun, to use it, gave the responsibility of slaying the enemy to Alfred. Alfred didn't really have time to care about circumstances or cowardice right now as time took it's toll. Once again he scouted the sniper, and once again he had a close encounter with death. Only this time nearer to his throat -- his scarf ripped and so did the enemy's throat as he was repaid in kind. The Kar98k's muzzle smoked, as Alfred sighed in relief. Sinking down from the window as once again, Moscow proved to be the rat's nest. Cornered and desperate, lashing out at every opportunity it got. He has got to move away from the window anyways, maybe got somewhere with perfect concealment...
Subject: Carsten the Millennium Falcon 
