Prince Nikolas III of Ostrodivka sits up in his bed. The morning sun's light flowing into his bed chamber, giving every surface a golden glow. Nikolas stretches as he gets up, staring out the window onto the grounds below. The servants have already begun re-paving the gravel road it would seem. "Good morning, your grace." The prince freezes. The voice is unfamiliar. It must be a Bolshevik assasin, he thinks, as he slowly gets up and turns around. The Bolsheviks must've seen through the Sterylin disguise. The figure's eyes are covered by black glasses, and the suit underneath, though immaculate, hosts a number of badges and medals of foreign origin. Nikolas begins to slowly shuffle towards his night stand, where he knows he hid a pistol without his father's consent. "I have taken the makarov, your grace. Please, do not be afraid." "Who are you?" "I am no one important. Sit, there is much to discuss, your grace, Felinov family matters."
