Lev Sorokin must have been captured, for rather than awaking amongst the rubble and debris of Kiev, he had instead regained consciousness seated within a dark, solitary cell. Both concussed and hindered by a lack of lighting, surmising the size of his confined environment was rather impossible. Yet, from the dripping of water from the ceiling, along with the resultant echoing of water pooling on the ground, one could infer that the room must have been decently sized and was as such designed to hold multiple prisoners. Indeed, there had certainly been numerous prisoners held in this room prior, for the stench of their sweat and excretion lingered profoundly in the still air, leaving a bitter and stale taste on the tongue.
[Ah, my head…]
More sinisterly, it was also immediately noticed by Lev that he had been shackled overhead by the wrists. With his reach not extending beyond twelve inches, it was clear that whoever had applied the chains did so in fear that their captive provided a reasonable threat. This was most perplexing for Lev, as he could not envision the Germans bothering to imprison a Company level political commissar; let alone chain them to a wall. Conversely, it was common knowledge amongst the political officers that capture by German forces would result in their immediate identification and execution. As such, the Germans must have had a reason for not summarily executing their prisoner. Yet, in trying to rationalise this hypothesis, Lev could not remember nor conceive any possible piece of information that would warrant such differential treatment.
Regardless, with the concussed haziness still lingering, it was decided that standing was necessary to get a better assessment of his surroundings. However, due to both his dazed fatigue and the mossy flooring, standing upright proved to be a rather feeble and futile endeavour. Moreover, the attempt at standing and the resultant clinging of chains only added more unwanted attention.
[Shit…]
"He's awake!" boomed a voice from the other side of the wall, followed by the pitter-patter of feet shuffling towards the cell. Then, with the click of a key entering the lock, the large, heavy oak door began to slowly creek open.
Using the sudden entrance of light, Lev began to dart his eyes around the cell; trying to take in as much information as possible. His assumption had been correct. The room was indeed rather large, with chains and shackles lining the uneven, mossy walls. Glancing down at himself, he sighed in relief when noticing that his body seemed to be intact and absent of any noticeable wounds. Additionally, he also noted that his captors had left him adorned in full uniform and regalia; that is, a basic khaki coloured tunic and pants, a darker coloured wool greatcoat draping down to the knees, a brown leather officers belt wrapped around the waist, a synthetic ushanka rested upon his head, and a pair of black infantry boots protecting his feet. They had even left on his rank tabs, insignia, and badges. Before being provided the opportunity to rationalise why his captor had not removed, ransacked, or displaced his possessions, Lev's attention was displaced to the figures now entering the room.
"I will not give you a-"
It was amid his expression of verbal resistance that Lev paused and fully took in the appearance of his captors. And, to his utter shock they were not German, nor were they apparently soldiers of the contemporaneous era; for they wore thick padded blue tunics, with metal gauntlets and metal kettle hats. Numbering five in personnel, they entered the room with caution, holding their wooden spears in a defensive manner, all seemingly being too afraid to approach the captive.
[If I weren't so weak right now…]
Then, from behind the assembly of younger shivering soldiers approached an older and more rugged man dressed similarly yet distinct to the others. Specifically, on top of his padded blue tunic he wore a cuirass/ breastplate marked with the insignia of a two-headed imperial eagle, and on his hip rested a steel sword. In age, he looked like Lev, with both men appearing physically to be in their late twenties; aged by war with wrinkles and unkept stubble littered across their lower face. Commanding the others to stand relaxed, he turned his attention to the shackled prisoner.
"Interesting, he speaks our language" the man muttered under his breath, staring inquisitively at the captive. Stroking the stubble on his chin, the man continued to take in the view before snapping out of his gaze.
"Apologies… Sergeant Kostya Vorobev, at your service" he followed up.
"Ruskiy?" Lev replied, still trying to make sense of his otherwise inexplainable circumstances.
The Sergeant paused, as if calculating how to respond. Then, after a moment of silence he turned to his men, whispered amongst them, and turned back.
"What is this Ruskiy you speak of? Is that your land?"
[How hard did they hit me?]
There was no rational reasoning that could be ascribed to this situation. Instead of answering, Lev paused and looked at the ground as his mind raced back and forth, trying to recollect how he had been captured. Given the context, he should be dead. That is, his memory was limited to the fighting in Kiev, with nothing thereafter being recallable. Most peculiarly, although the broader memories were rather vague, he could recall specifically his resolve to fall in battle; as the city had been encircled, and his fate was either a dishonourable death as a captive, or an honourable death as a soldier. Out of a patriotic and ideological zeal, Lev had chosen the latter.
"Lets perhaps start with your name" Kostya interrupted, attempting to break the awkward silence.
"Senior Lieutenant Lev Sorokin… Deputy for Political Matters, subordinated to Company Headquarters" responded the imprisoned officer, speaking formally as to scavenge and maintain his dignity. Additionally, he had also hoped that the Sergeant would recognise and respect his authority; with the captive outranking the captor in rank.
Indeed, the plan had worked as after initially hesitating, Kostya habitually straightened his posture and snapped his heels together. Though, it was clear that that he hadn't fully understood the title; rather, the articulation of Lev's titles made him appear more important comparative to his actual positioning within the Red Army's commissioned officer corp. Regardless, using his hand to signal forward two of his soldiers, Kostya ordered that the prisoner be unchained.
"Well, uhhh… Lieutenant… deputy… with the introductions out of the way, we are under orders to escort you under custody to meet with His Majesty, the Grand Duke"
[Grand Duke?]
With his wrists unshackled, Lev slumped into the ground. Then, before being given any opportunity to contemplate, the two soldiers helped him up by the arms, manually stood him in place, briefly dusted off his coat, and then prodded him gently with their spears as to direct their captive towards the door. Still dazed, Lev walked with a subtle limp. As such, Kostya signalled the two soldiers over to help the concussed and fatigued man walk. With one soldier on either side aiding in his walking, Lev and the accompanying entourage exited from the bleak, damp dungeon cell and walked down a long, cobbled hallway. Taking in the surroundings, it was observed that there existed a series of similar dungeon cells situated along the hall. At the end was a small set of crooked stairs leading towards another heavy oak door, the gateway from the dreary prison into the outside world.