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Blood, Bullets and Politics
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The impending deification of Yoshi Asahara *Updated August 9th*

Guest Otmel Strangler

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Guest Otmel Strangler





Ahoy! As I plan on continue writing my vignettes about Yoshi - the spiritual advisor of the Imperial Dragons - I figure the time is ripe to make a single thread instead of a million separate ones from now on.

I'm not sure what the market for these are, but they usually don't portray events going down on the servers. I mostly write about the meta-game i try to play out revolving around Yoshi's struggle to gain defining power within the ranks of the Dragons. I find such stories add depth to RP, in that they generate rumours and subjects that may be elaborated upon and discussed in game. As Yoshi is a character with an ever increasing list of personal flaws (and a dodgy recurring history), these stories are both a means of development - and the "invisible hand of fate" that highligts much of the irony of his action. They might not present him in the light he wants to be seen in, but it's the cold truth.

In part, I also write to explain my periodic lack of activity, as well as to elaborate and explore the concepts and lore around the character and the Dragons that are practically impossible to do in-game. So in a sense this is part of the expanded lore of my character and the Dragons, which I often make references to in my RP.

Yoshi may be above petty criticism from the spiritually infirm, but I like to point out that I am not. Feel free to comment.

I will update this first post as I write new stories. Here are those written so far, from newest to oldest:

Stage Blood is Not Enough (Update: August 9th 2014)

The New Akaigawa Reprisal (Update: July 15th 2014)

The labyrinth (Update: July 13th 2014)

Operēshonzu: Lion's Den / Pogorevka church raid

The Kyōshi's vision

The Chariot

Forging communist atrocities

The impending death of Yoshi Asahara (Background story)

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Guest Otmel Strangler




Jiro wiped the sweat off his forehead and put his helmet back on. The «ten minutes of rest and meditation» issued by his superior was already over though it had only lasted a minute or two. Groaning as he adjusted his chin strap, he got up. The coarse textile strip gnawed into his skin. It was no longer merely an itch. He might be nothing but a simple recruit, zombie fodder as far as the Emperor was concerned, but Jiro considered himself just as worthy as any of his brethren in the Teikoku Doragonzu. But Jiro was tired, and knowing it amplified his whole sensation of bitterness and mental fatigue. He knew the sensation would be lesser in any other circumstance, but now it was yet another bulletin on an ever increasing list of humiliating annoyances they had to endure.


He was part of a selection of young warriors chosen to join Yoshi Asahara's new expedition into the Chernarussian hinterlands. For weeks they were ravaged by mosquitoes and leeches, having traversed brackish marshland and untamed primeval forests. When they had not been burned by the sun, or worn with fatigue and hunger in the hot Caucasian summer, some of them had almost been torn apart – literally, by herds of the dead. They had lost brothers in arms and suffered lesions and lacarations, which just as often had become infected and swollen with boils. Afflictions they didn't have any sort of medicine to treat, apart from the Kyōshi's charms and prayers.

Jiro was tired and doubtful: It wasn't that he lacked confidence in the ideals of the Imperial Dragons. In fact he was secure in the belief so widely held in his ranks, that the Nippon-Hokkaidan Emperor Shakyamuni was indeed a god. And that, as a member of the Imperial Dragons, Jiro was fighting to realize the doctrine of Kōtei Bijon – the Emperor's vision – and that death in during this fight guarranteed him to be deified among the millions of Kami in holy Yasukuni.


It wasn't in want of confidence in this ideal that Jiro had grown so hesitant. Nor was he doubtful that there were indeed powerful supernatural forces trying to hinder their cause with all their scornful might. He held it likely that wizards and warlocks were making attempts to undermine the Imperial right to rule in Chernarus, with their ghosts and goblins – the bakemono, primitive rituals and magical alterations. Just as the Shōgun had told them. All of these things were things the modernized man would not even acknowledge to exist. But it was all alive to them, amplified by their spite towards materialist ideals. Even when the Shōgun officially reclassified the great pandemic, from microbial contagion to spiritual weapon, they had accepted it. A descission that led to the disbandenment of the science branch of the Dragons, and the termination of it's entire staff, in accordance with Yoshi's advice.

Indeed, it was not in doubt of – but exactly because of these things that Jiro felt so uneasy. For weeks they had followed the Kyōshi Asahara in this godless expanse of terrain, spending a great deal of their funds because of claims they all knew the Shōgun would not doubt. The Shōgun, after all, believed every word uttered by his spiritual advisor. The soldiers had not been inclined to doubt them either. The venture had however left many of them maintaining nothing but a crumbling facade of faith, and Jiro was troubled with difficult questions. He wondered if not the Shōgun was relying too much on one man's pespective. Not to mention the perspective of a man whom which Jiro thought might well be insane.


At times they were marching relentlessly, punishing their feet as Yoshi looked for prodigies and signs in every nook and cranny. Sometimes left waiting, and then often for days on end while Yoshi disappeared into the wilderness. He was prone to do such things. With his high pitched, gnomy voice he would order them halt, having suddenly decided to wander off by himself. Reducing their duties to simply stand around on the trail in pouring rain. His fanaticism and inspired spirituality was well known to all, but seemed to grow ever more irrational as the deeper they went. At one point he claimed he had noticed something peculiar about the trunk of a dead old tree. Claiming he needed «spiritual isolation», he climbed it, ordered the men to entrust him their rations, and didn't come down for three whole days. Forcing them to forage for food. On one day he could proclaim the danger he was putting himself in for their sake, simply by walking twenty paces ahead of the rest. They seldomly saw any threat at all, but when they did, he was certainly never as prepaired as he claimed. He would mock the inferiority of those lagging behind, and scold those who followed him too closely. He would talk of himself in third person, praising his personal heroism and cunning. But on the next he would be stricken by overwhelming paranoia. Insisting to march behind in a recruit's attire, while having the alloted recruit (whose uniform had obviously been exchanged for his own) lead the way with explosives strapped to his waist. Equally as often, he would insist on sharing sleeping bags with a given soldier, arguing for the benefit of their mutual safety and comfort. For an officer known to take pleasure in flogging new recruits, this was a curious side to him ideed.


To add to the gloom, some were worried of what was to become of them if he were to die. They simply had no idea of their current location, and only he knew their destination. The navigator had already died a painful death, since he fell into a cavern a week before. And the supplies were dwindling...

Jiro was shaken from his daydream by Yoshi's sharp voice. «Hajime!» he cried as their sore feet began to move their undernourished bodies forward. Time seemed to have no relevance in these conditions, but it must have been scarcely an hour later when they heard the officer's voice again. This time he seemed... almost gleeful, which was always a bad sign. Yoshi stood upon a rock overlooking his troops. «We are here!» He said, «it's right on top of this hill», crossing his arms. «T-t-the wawa-wa-warlock's den?» one of the soldiers inquired, his lips were trembling. Yoshi laughed and scratched his chin. «Yes, and the Kōtei lives in a bakery» he replied. The troops looked confusedly at each other, mouths agape and muddy, insect-bitten foreheads wrinkled. He continued: «No, but quite seriously: my words would do this great place no justice. You will see for yourselves...».


They eagerly followed, hoping to find respite on the summit. But after following him up the muddy trail they found themselves standing before a simple compound. An old ruin. Seventy years old at least, as many of the original structures had long since rotted. But the focus of their gaze was far more recent, and it sent shivers down their spines. Jiro beheld with dread a pile of weathered uniforms, helmets and rotten boots. Almost hidden under a corrugated iron sheet. They were the uniforms of the defunct Teikoku Doragonzu science wing. A dark patch of coal remained of what must have once been a considerable bonfire. All around the plateau were elaborately laid out displays of human bones, and several small wooden structures without any comprehensible practical function, like shrines. Slabs of concrete served as pedestals for adorned skulls resting over trinkets and small sacrifices of coins, drink and cigarettes. This was where the scientists, and presumably other spiritual enemies, had met their fate. A plywood sheet held a painted declaration, denying the «occidentalist scientist traitors» and «spiritually void effeminates» a worthy afterlife. Cursing them to forever be tainted by shame, and to haunt the eternal labyrinthine halls of the underworld. This wasn't a ground for execution, but sacrifice, and it spooked the young recruits.


Jiro realized he had heard of this site: He had picked up bits and pieces from overhearing idle chatter among the samurai back on Kōtei Shima. Supposedly it lay merely a day's march north of Petrovka, and far less by car. «Peterovkaru...» he muttered silently. Every hair on his back rose when he recalled how they had passed that particular village over three weeks back. Jiro turned his face away with a hideous grin. For three weeks Yoshi had spun them in circles.


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Guest Otmel Strangler

Thank you! I find it easier to write stories from a different perspective than Yoshi's, since it adds a wider array of potential angles.

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  • Emerald

This looks amazing. Keep up the great work!

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  • 4 weeks later...
Guest Otmel Strangler






«...and so I cannot bear the burden of life any longer.» With the stroke of a pen, Osamu had finished his note. Looking about the candlelit shed, he reached across the table for his final flask of zucchini wine. He raised it to his lips, draining it as he burst into tears. The drops formed a stream down the peaks of his cheeks. «Banzai» he sobbed. A word he could scarcely even utter anymore. He got up from the chair and kicked it over the floor. He climbed it, and without any hesitation he lunged into the noose he had arranged. In reality a crudely improvised rope, made from Osamu's own trousers. The stool dropped as the choking recruit kicked desperately, leaving him to dangle from the ceiling's oaken beam.

It was not a minute later that Yoshi burst through the door, chirping «Osaamu, I hope you packed your- Aaah, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ASHIGARU!? You know you cannot kill yourself without permission from a superior officer!» Yoshi screamed as he swung his walking stick over his shoulder and battered the life- and trouserless recruit repeatedly.

When he had finally lost some steam, Yoshi spied the fresh note on yonder desk. He rushed over and clawed at it, squinting his eyes to read the mangled and irregular letters. In certain patches, the ink had been smudged by tears. The contents were explicit and blunt, and Yoshi played parts so central they would make the Emperor's mother blush. His sigh turned into a a gut-wrenched groan as he closed his hand into a trembling fist, crushing the letter into a small ball. None, nobody must read it, he thought as he opened his trembling jaws and swallowed the suicide note. Strugling to keep it down, he was sweating profusely, frowning hideously. But soon he realized that since now the evidence was gone, all he needed to do was to manipulate the body. «He-he», he chuckled. He pulled up the chair to untie the tightly bound noose, struggling for several minutes before Osamu finally dropped to the earthen floor. While he got down and threw his arms around the body, he was suddenly alarmed by footsteps outside. Those few seconds seemed like minutes as Yoshi rushed through all the options he could muster in his mind. What if they came in? If Masao were to enter, he thought he might be able to murder him silently if he strangled him from behind with his cane. But what if it was the Shogun? Perhaps only Yaguro would understand. He could not gamble either way: It would hardly look appropriate for Yoshi to be caught on the floor with his hands on a dead, half naked ashigaru. He leapt across the room and hid himself in the locker by the door, hoping whoever might enter would simply ignore the dead man. After all; Osamu was an infamous drunkard. The fact that he lay undressed on the floor was not peculiar in itself.

Yoshi, grinding his teeth, clutched the walking stick with his hands as the door opened. If he made a single noise now, his cover would be blown. He couldn't afford to lose the advantage. Whoever had entered closed the door behind him. He couldn't see him properly through the crack in the locker, but he was breathing heavily, alarmed by the sight he beheld. Yoshi braced himself as the other took a few steps forward. He saw now from his uniform that it was a samurai, a mere soldier. Yoshi stormed out of the locker and threw his cane over the samurai's head. «Don't resist, go to sleep!» he implored as he pulled back with all his strength to strangle him, straining the unkown soldier's throat against his chest with the hardwood stick. «Urhhrhgh», the samurai gasped desperately for air and waved his arms while guttural croaks emerged from his lips, «urhhg Yorshiii, whart argh you doing?!». He just barely managed to turn his head. His frightened eyes meet with Yoshi's, and the latter realized it was simply Sotaro Hira, his apprentice. Though he had been swollen with murderous rage, Yoshi released his deadly grip and gave a relieved sigh while Sotaro fell cringing to his knees, gasped and vomited.

Yoshi stood over him waving his stick. «Sotaro! This is not the time for idleness, we have to get rid of Osamu!» he exclamed, kicking the apprentice back to his feet. They settled that they should smuggle his body off Kotei Shima and dump it in a well while the rest of the Dragons were busy merrymaking: They hoped to make it seem as if the young recruit had run off like a coward. And they both agreed Osamu would probably have been capable of treason anyway. It was agreed by veto that Sotaro should carry the body while Yoshi took his things. They stuffed him in the boot of Yoshi's personal Gaz and took to the road with Sotaro behind the wheel. What had happened to Osamu before he entered, the driver dared not ask. He was afraid that Yoshi might assault him again if he did, though he now seemed eerily at ease.


[align=justify]They pulled over by a farm in the outskirts of Chernogorsk and got straight to business. Sotaro grabbed the ragdoll's ankles, pulled him out of the car, and would have thrown him straight in the well had Yoshi not stopped him. «Wait you fool, we need to put his trousers back on first. It must seem natural!». They unwrapped the noose/pants and started dressing him clumsily, one leg at at time. «Uh, I believe we are putting them on the wrong way master Yoshi,» Sotaro noted as diplomatically as he could, «the fly should be on the front». Yoshi agreed, but they were both alarmed by a slow, raspy groan. They looked at each other, their faces were white with fear. They looked down on him. His grimace conveyed a message of confusion and pain. Osamu was still alive! «Yo... Yoshi... Sotaro... What is.. What is going o-» «KILL HIM YOU FOOL! KILL HIM!» Yoshi screamed hysterically. Sotaro coiled the pants around Osamu's neck, but he grabbed his hands and tried to wrestle him away. «Ahh! Help me Yoshi!» they shrieked in chorus. Yoshi darted back to the car, fetching his cane and proceded beating Osamu over the head again and again. «Ow! Ack! Stop! Help me! Heeeelp!» When the walking stick eventually broke across Osamu's bleeding forehead, Yoshi continued the attack by furiously kicking him in the jaw.

Some hundred yards away, a startled survivor watched them behind the lenses of his binoculars. Shocked not only by the terrible beating to which they were treating the trouserless stranger, but upon scoping the swarm of the undead gushing forth from the barn behind them. The assault came to a halt as soon as they heard those primeval, bloodthirsty moans. Turning their heads, Yoshi and Sotaro beheld the terrible horde staggering towards them, numbering a total set of heads they could not afford to tally. Sotaro and Yoshi swung up and legged it back to the car as fast as their legs could carry them. As Sotaro turned the ignition key they could hear Osamu screaming among terrible shrieks and moans. «DON'T LEAVE ME!» he cried again and again, but the duo spun off into the distance. «I curse you...» he resigned. The lone survivor lowered his binoculars, swallowed and released the safety on his gun.

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