December 3rd, 1950
Somewhere in the wilderness of the Russian Taiga
USSR
Normally, the only thing that broke the dead silence of the never ending pine forests, tundras and, quite simply, indomitable wilderness of Russia east of the Urals was the whipping of a bone-chilling wind. The howling of a wolf. The rustling of the trees. Normally, there was no sign of human impact in the area, as if mankind did not even exist in this particular part of the world. However, these kinds of things could never remain just the way they are. The land would inevitably bend to the passing of time, and mankind would find some sort of use for this cold, unforgiving environment. While some chose to make their home their, there was only one other use for this land, now. The rail line east had been completed after much hard laboring, but it was ever expanding, and work was still needed on the tracks which guided the trains which were coming and going at regular intervals, now.
This day was one which saw the passing of an engine followed by the currently empty cars. Ten in total, eight large, empty cars and two guard cars at the front and back, fitted with warm furniture and lamps. A cozy fire for each. Men lounged in these cars that were much like mobile cabins, being able to remove their heavy coats and ushanka hats for the time being, until they arrived at their destination. One of these men was Mikhail Krishnokev, a large, intimidating man at 6'6, 258 pounds, with features solid as rock that were only tainted by a scar that ran across his right eye, though not rendering it blinded. The men knew him well, he had served with distinction in the Great Patriotic War. He had been appointed to be the warden for Labor Camp 4, South--though many would come to know it as Hell, Frozen Over.
The distant sounds of the approach train were what stirred many of the people dressed in rags from a half-passed out state. These people stood on a platform outside of a poorly cared for train station, awaiting the engine that was now rapidly approaching. Nearby, men in large coats and ushankas watched over them, gripping their AKM rifles and watching for any excuse to beat or humiliate these people. The people assembled on the platform, men and women both, were considered the worst of the worst to their guards. Political prisoners sent her for whatever reason by Stalin, lucky--or perhaps cursed--enough to not have been executed, they were sent to work in this far flung corner of the USSR. Among these was Nikolai Brusknov, sent here because of his art that spoke out against the regime, and the far more serious crimes of escorting families out of the country. If they had discovered him doing this, he would have surely been killed.
"EVERYONE LISTEN UP! You are allowed one letter, and one letter only to your families. They will be reviewed by us and edited as necessary. Be grateful for this opportunity." a guard spoke up. Several more of the guards began moving through the crowd, handing out pens and paper to the prisoners assembled on the platform. What the would write on was their own problem. "HURRY UP! The train is here." the guard shouted once more as the train came around the bend, into sight. It came to a screeching halt, signaling for the prisoners to hurry and write their letters. Not that many of them would really reach their families, anyway.
So everyone, some will be familiar with this RP. If you are not, it is a reboot of an old RP that I made a while back based around the daily toil and hopeful escape of prisoners who are sent to a Soviet labor camp, all for various reasons and from all walks of life. It was something I enjoyed writing, and interest in bringing it back pushed me to do so.
