The sun was just beginning to rise as the door to the tavern was politely knocked on, surprising the bar owner and making him wonder who would possibly have any business with him at this time in the morning. Sighing deeply, he put down the wooden cup and drying rag on the nearest table and cautiously walked over to open the door.
The heavy oak door creaked inward, revealing a figure that looked like it had crawled out of the depths of the marshlands. Standing on the threshold was a man covered from neck to toe in drying, caked mud that flaked off with his slightest movement. Despite the thick layer of filth, looking carefully, the tavern owner, whose name was Bern, could tell that the stranger was wearing clothes that were far too expensive for a common vagrant; the cut of the fabric beneath the grime hinted at high-quality tailoring, most definitely stolen, as they were clearly too large for him, being rolled up slightly so as not to get in the way.
"We aren't open yet, friend," Bern started, his voice wavering slightly as he took in the stranger's appearance. "The kitchen is cold, and the kegs are sealed."
The stranger didn't immediately speak. His head was hung and hooded, hiding his face in darkness.
"I don't need ale," the stranger rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. "I need a fire and some water."
Before Bern could protest or ask for aether-glass, the man stepped forward, forcing the innkeeper to stumble back to avoid being barged into. The stranger walked with a stiff, mechanical gait, his body shivering slightly to stay as warm as possible. He made straight for the large stone hearth at the centre of the common room, where the embers of last night's fire were still fighting a losing battle against the morning chill.
Bern watched, paralysed by indecision, as the man dropped heavily onto a wooden bench near the hearth and let the small sack on his shoulder fall onto the stone floor. The stranger dragged the bench as close as possible to the hearth and leaned forward to come as close to the warmth as he could without falling in.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Bern slowly closed the door to shut out the damp morning air. Curiosity began to override his fear. This man had clearly walked a long way; the nearest settlement in the direction of the marshes was the military barracks, at least a day's travel on horseback.
"You look like you've been through the wars," Bern said, moving slowly toward the bar to grab a pitcher of water, deciding that hospitality might be the safest route to take with such a mysterious individual. He placed a cup of water on the bench next to the stranger. "Those are fine clothes beneath the muck. Too fine for walking through the swamp."
The stranger ignored the comment on his attire. He picked up the water with a hand that still trembled slightly from the cold and downed it in a single gulp. He slammed the cup back down, the sound echoing in the empty tavern.
"The fire," the stranger commanded, pointing a muddy finger at the dying embers. "Stoke it, please."
Bern, hesitant at first to comply, threw a few logs onto the pile and blew on the coals until flames licked up the dry wood. As the orange glow illuminated the room, it cast long, dancing shadows across the stranger's face, highlighting the sharp features and the jet-black hair that shimmered like silk despite the dirt. A small stone was strung around his neck, with a few cracks running through it and glowing ever so dimly.
Bern wiped his hands on his apron and leaned against the nearby pillar, unable to contain his questions any longer.
"You aren't from around here," Bern stated, more than asked. "That pendant around your neck. You're a foreigner; you don't speak our language." The stranger turned his head slowly, fixing his eyes on Bern. The first thing Bern noticed was the deep crimson colour of his eyes; the second thing he noticed was the void that lay behind them. A shiver ran down his spine; he had seen many empty eyes before, but this was more that of a walking corpse.
"Is that a problem?" Asked the stranger, his voice hoarse.
"No, no problem," Bern stammered quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "It's just... a man gets curious is all."
Bern paused, steeling his nerves.
"Who are you?"
"I'm nobody." Came the reply. "A relic of the past that nobody cares for." The stranger continued to stare into the fire; a faint sadness flickered in his eyes for a moment and disappeared just as fast.
"Alright then, what's your name?"
The traveller looked at Bern, almost carefree, and sighed heavily. "Does it matter?"
Bern stayed quiet for a while, sharing the stranger's moment of silence before the ringing of a bell could be heard slicing through the early morning air.
Bern groaned inwardly as he got up to leave, the bench scraping against the floor as it got pushed back.
"Would you like to come along?" Asked Bern, more confidently this time as he grew accustomed to the stranger's presence.
"What for? I have no business here." The reply was intentionally distant, as if he found comfort in solitude.
"To show you around the place, I suppose. Come on, there's more to see than you think." Bern's cheery attitude was having some sort of an effect on the stranger, as he shifted slightly on the bench as if prepared to stand.
"What's the occasion?"
"A farewell and a celebration, I believe." Replied Bern after a brief pause. "About damn time too."
"I suppose I'll go and see what it's all about." The stranger stood up and stomped out the fire, waving his hand around to dissipate the smoke.
"Perfect!" Cried Bern. "Follow me then."
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Sergei was now sufficiently dry and warm, but the thin robes were clearly not designed for travelling long distances in and did all but nothing to keep the cold out as he stepped out of the door that the bar owner held open. The sun was out now, casting long, haunting shadows on the ground. A thin fog rolled along the ground as some of the frost thawed out into morning dew. The streets were wide, and the gardens around the houses were spacious, with most of them having little plots of crops and maybe a few flowers. Further into the village there were three buildings that were much larger compared to the others. At the front steps of one of the buildings was currently a sizeable crowd, and at the top of the stairs were three people, presumably one adult and two adolescents, one boy and one girl, based on height.
"Come on, it's already started. We might just make it in time to not have missed anything important." Said the bar owner, picking up the pace to a brisk jog. Sergei quickly followed suit, and the pair silently joined the back of the crowd.
The man at the top of the stairs was reasonably well dressed. His shoes were polished to a mirror-like shine, and his trousers and shirt were perfectly ironed out. He wore a black tie and a dark grey blazer, the same colour as his trousers.
"It is with a mixture of great sorrow and boundless joy in our hearts that this pair of our next generation must travel to the capital in pursuit of greatness..." Sergei tuned into whatever the man was saying for a moment and promptly lost interest. Looking around, Sergei noticed something extremely odd. Peeking through the crowd, it was possible to tell what profession some people held. This in itself wasn't odd in the slightest, but the stark contrast between the attire that Sergei was used to seeing back on Earth and the simple, almost mediaeval clothing that the majority of the people there were wearing was too great to be glossed over. Namely, he noted bankers and lower government representatives amongst the crowd.
Looking back at the man giving the speech with a critical eye, something on his chest flashed for a fraction of a second, catching Sergei's attention. It was an eagle perched on top of a circle with a cross inside it. A hooked cross.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The ambient noise of the crowd, the rustling of fabric, and the distant whistle of the wind carrying faint birdsong all faded into a dull roar, drowned out by the thundering of Sergei's heart.
No fucking way.
Sergei squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, focusing his eyes on the man's chest. There was no mistake. The sharp, angular lines of the eagle, the wreath, and the hooked cross—it was the Parteiadler. The symbol that had burnt down most of Europe before Berlin was nothing but rubble beneath his feet.
A cold, predatory focus washed over him, instantly suppressing the shock. The exhaustion and the ache in his healing limbs were shoved into a mental box and locked away. His breathing was heavy, and everything but the man speaking fell out of focus. Kill.
"Friend?" The bar owner's voice broke through the haze. He was looking at Sergei with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost. You're as white as snow."
Sergei forced his facial muscles to relax, slipping back into the mask of the lone traveller. He couldn't kill the man here. Not like this—injured, unarmed save for a knuckleduster, and surrounded by a crowd that seemed to respect this figure.
"The man," Sergei rasped, gesturing vaguely with a muddy hand. "The one speaking. Who is he?"
The bar owner stood on his tiptoes to get a better look. "Oh, that? That's Magistrate Kiedis. He's from the Fourth Reich. I don't really know what it is, but it's pretty popular. They send officials around to the villages every now and then to oversee the 'selection', as they call it. Nasty piece of work if you ask me, but he keeps the bandits and beasts away."
"The Fourth Reich," Sergei repeated, testing the words. They tasted like ash. "And the symbol on his chest? Is that... common?"
"The Eagle?" The bar owner shrugged, oblivious to the storm brewing next to him. "It's their crest. Means unity and strength, or so they say. They've been gaining a lot of traction lately." Sensing something after a brief pause, he continued, "Why? You have something against birds?"
"Something like that," Sergei muttered. He turned his attention back to Magistrate Kiedis. The man was finishing his speech, his voice rising in a crescendo of fanaticism that Sergei recognised all too well.
"Let these children go forth!" Kiedis bellowed, raising a gloved hand. "Not just for their own glory, but for the purity and order of the Realm! For the preservation of our blood and the eradication of the chaotic elements that threaten our borders!" The rhetoric was almost verbatim. It was sickening.
The crowd erupted into polite applause as the two adolescents were led down the stairs and into the crowd to be praised by them. Kiedis shook hands with the village elders, his smile tight and practised, before turning to scan the crowd. For a split second, the Magistrate's eyes swept over Sergei.
Sergei instinctively slumped his shoulders and lowered his head, becoming just another dirty peasant in the background. Kiedis's gaze slid past him without stopping. Good. He didn't notice.
"Well, show's over," said the bar owner, clapping his hands together. "Best get back to the tavern before the regulars start waiting outside. I can fix you up with something to eat, on the house. You look like you need it."
"Thank you," Sergei said. His voice was steady, but his mind was already planning on a hunt.
As they turned to walk back away from the thinning crowd, Sergei took one last look at the Magistrate. The "Fourth Reich" was clearly not just a name; it was a resurrection. How it was possible, he didn't know. Had they found a portal too? Or was this ideology a cancer that transcended worlds? It didn't matter.
For the first time in a long time, Sergei felt like he had a purpose, a reason for existing again. Not to simply explore this new world, like he had been ordered by Will Fletcher, but to relive history. For his comrades, and for the complete and utter annihilation of Nazis.
"Hey, barkeep," Sergei said, his stride lengthening as they hit the dirt road.
"Aye?"
"Tell me everything you know about the Fourth Reich. And explain what this selection is."