❤ Вот и сиди тут один ( сам с собой разговаривал Арчибальд третий, генерал Снетчинов), ну не на кого положиться. Это ж надо, кроты опять нарыли норы под  моим Бункером, по полу ходить опасно, того и глядишь- угодишь в одну из них! Нет, зря я присвоил у них знак отличия Алчное сердце. Они теперь не успокоятся, пока всё моё нажитое добро не рухнет прямо им на морды. Что же делать? Необходимо завести кота, такого огромного, чтобы рвал и метал их в разные стороны! Ну ведь его нужно кормить и содержать, а мне самому каждый кусок дорог. Ну что за жизнь. Армия разбежалась, видите ли денежного довольствия давно не получали, а овощи с соседних огородов тырить не умеют. Да ещё и мундиры устали латать. А мне каково? Я, может, ещё больше всех устал, да только совесть не позволяет бросить этот двор.

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Found Item: Terror of Hall Award (A massive, overly ornated bronze medal depicting a long corridor lined with doors, each with tiny cartoon faces frozen in exaggerated terror. Engraved on the back in tiny letters: "For instilling fear... in the wrong place.")

"For what most ridiculous act did General Snetchinov received the 'Terror of Hall' award?"

It happened during the infamous "Operation Clean Corridor" in the autumn of 20XX, when the General's unit was tasked with securing a long, echoing administrative hallway in a half-abandoned headquarters building deep behind friendly lines. General Snetchinov, ever the strategist, decided that the key to victory was “psychological dominance”. While his soldiers expected orders to fortify positions or check for enemy infiltrators, the General had a different plan. He put on his most stern face, polished his lacquered boots until they reflected the dim bulbs like mirrors, and marched down the hall like a one-man parade of doom. At exactly 14:00, he began. With each step, his boots produced a thunderous CLACK-CLACK-CLACK that reverberated through the entire corridor like artillery fire. Every few meters he would suddenly stop, spin on his heel with dramatic flair, and bellow in his deepest parade voice: "WHO GOES THERE?! THE ENEMY TREMBLES BEFORE THE MIGHT OF SNETCHINOV!” The problem was... there was no enemy.

The hallway was filled exclusively with his own rear-echelon staff: sleepy clerks, quartermasters sorting socks, a medic drinking tea, and two elderly cooks carrying a pot of borscht. The first victim was Lieutenant Popov, who was quietly carrying a stack of toilet paper. Upon hearing the General's war cry, Popov yelped, dropped everything, and dove headfirst into an open supply closet, slamming the door behind him. The General, pleased with the "effect", continued. By the third door, chaos reigned. Clerks abandoned their typewriters mid-sentence. One quartermaster hid under his desk so quickly he knocked over a tower of ration boxes, causing an avalanche of canned meat. The two cooks, in pure panic, sprinted in opposite directions while still holding the heavy pot of borscht between them — resulting in a magnificent red wave that painted the walls (and the General's previously pristine boots) in beet-colored splashes.

The pinnacle of terror came when the General reached the end of the hall, turned around, and roared one final time: "NONE SHALL PASS WITHOUT TREMBLING IN THE PRESENCE OF THE TERROR OF THE HALL!" In that exact moment, the elderly Colonel in charge of personnel (who had been napping peacefully in his office) woke up, mistook the noise for a real enemy attack, and triggered the building's ancient air-raid siren by accident. The entire hallway exploded into pandemonium: people running, papers flying, someone even saluting a coat rack in confusion. When the dust (and borscht) settled, the General stood alone in the middle of the corridor, boots dripping, chest puffed with pride... completely unaware that the "enemy" he had so heroically terrified consisted of 27 of his own terrified support staff, three overturned desks, and one very confused cat who had fled into the ventilation system.

The command, instead of court-martializing him for disrupting rear operations, decided the incident was too ridiculous to punish. They created a special one-of-a-kind medal on the spot: the Terror of Hall. It was awarded "for exceptional courage in the fight against hallway tranquility and for achieving total psychological superiority over friendly administrative personnel".

To this day, whenever General Snetchinov glances at that particular shiny piece on his chest, he feels a curious mix of pride... and the strong urge to hide it behind the bigger medals for “Actual Combat Achievements.” But deep down, in the damp bunker, when nobody is looking, he sometimes polishes it extra carefully and whispers: "They trembled... Oh, how they trembled."

And somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of clerks still nervously checking corridors can be heard.

(Personal file note: "do not give it out to the enemy."The General is in excellent mood today — the medals are humming with satisfaction.)

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Tara 🇺🇸 031cde
Guild: Double D’s

Quête Les méritations du général
Le bunker du général Snetchinov était un sanctuaire de béton suintant où l’odeur de l’humidité se mêlait à celle du tabac froid. Au milieu des cartes d’état major et des médailles de bronze trônait l’objet le plus insolite de sa collection, un petit bol avec un couvert en bronze posé sur un piédestal de chêne massif. Ce n’était pas un trophée de guerre ordinaire mais le prix du Crachat Précis une distinction qu’il chérissait plus que ses étoiles de général. L’histoire remontait à l’hiver noir de 1942, les troupes étaient terrées dans des tranchées boueuses le moral plus bas que le niveau de la mer, pour rompre la monotonie macabre un concours absurde fut organisé derrière les lignes, le championnat de tir au crachat de chique. Le but atteindre un petit bol posé sur une souche à dix pas de distance alors qu’un vent de galerne soufflait à rafales Snetchinov alors simple capitaine s’avança, il ne cherchait pas la gloire il cherchait à faire taire un sergent fanfaron qui humiliait les jeunes recrues. Le futur général prit une inspiration profonde cala sa chique contre sa joue et avec la concentration d’un tireur d’élite, ajustant un général ennemi libéra son projectile. Au moment précis où il cracha un obus de mortier tomba à quelques centaines mètres. La déflagration créa un courant d’air vertical totalement imprévisible le crachat de Snetchinov décrivit une spirale complexe passa entre les jambes d’un officier de passage, rebondit sur une pelle de tranchée et fini sa course avec un ploc sonore pile au fond du bol. L’absurdité de la trajectoire et le sérieux imperturbable de Snetchinov provoquèrent une hilarité telle que les soldats en oublièrent le temps d’une journée le froid et la peur. Le colonel de la division touché par ce moment de grâce ridicule qui avait ressuscité son régiment décréta que le bol lui appartenait de droit. Snetchinov l’avait gardé depuis comme un rappel, dans ce bunker humide ce n’est pas toujours la force qui gagne mais parfois une précision improbable née du pur hasard.
Merci 🥰

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Mamie code 667a2c

Individual Quest. The General's Merits

The HOWL OF ADEL metal.

They don't talk about the "Howl of Adel" medal during briefings. It doesn't come up when maps are unfolded or when arrows are drawn with trembling authority towards places no one quite understands. Yet it hangs there on General Snetchinov's chest, gleaming just a little too brightly, as if it remembers something that others have agreed to forget.
It was awarded on a night so quiet that felt like the war had misplaced itself. The men were restless, not from fear, but from the unbearable stillness. No shells, no orders, not even the distant grumble of engines—just a long, hollow silence pressing against the bunker walls. Somewhere beyond the ravine, a stray dog began to howl. Not angry, not even loudly—just... persistently. A lonely, cracked sound that seemed to drag itself across the earth.

Snetchinov, then not yet a general and considerably less green, listened longer than anyone else. The soldiers joked, threw crumbs, cursed the interruption. But the howling didn't stop. Finally, in a moment that would later be described in official documents as "an act of morale restoration," he stepped outside. No escort, no weapon raised—just a man following a sound. They watched from the bunker slit as he disappeared into the darkness.

He returned at dawn with the dog.

No one ever quite confirmed how he managed it. Some said he howled back. Others insisted he simply sat down beside it until it trusted him. The official version—written in careful, embarrassed ink—stated that he “successfully neutralized an unidentified nocturnal disturbance affecting troop cohesion.” The men, however, remembered something else: how the general-to-be shared his last ration with the trembling animal, how the howling stopped, and how, for the first time in days, the bunker filled with something like quiet that didn't hurt.

The medal was minted weeks later. "For exceptional handling of acoustic adversity," it reads. Snetchinov accepted it stiffly, nodded, and pinned it among the others. But sometimes, late at night, when the bunker grows too still again, his hand drifts to that particular piece of metal. Not with pride, exactly—but with a kind of careful warmth, as if he's checking whether the memory is still alive under the cold shine.

В бункере пахнет унылой тоской,
Еще гуталином и старой войной,
И генерал, зеленея слегка,
Сидит весь нарядный, но без огонька.

На стенах цветочки, как тихий протест,
Меж карт и бессмысленно выбранных мест,
Где стрелки ползут на чужой овражок,
А смысл потерян… и, в общем, далёк.

А на груди -целый ряд из побед,
Где героизма простыл уже след,
да только блеск их такой, что слепит,
Будто он мир весь спасал, паразит!

Но среди них есть один странный знак…
И не достоинство, ну и не враг,
«Алчное сердце» - как тихий укор,
будто с собой он завел разговор.

Он получил… не в бою, не в огне,
Дома, при полной и сытой луне:
Где, не делясь, он тайком утаил
Хлеба краюху, сам съел, не спросив.

Вроде бы мелочь -никто не узнал,
Но  орден на праздник  ведь кто-то прислал…
знак, что порой не в сраженьях беда,
в том, кем ты стал… когда нету врага.

И генерал, засыпая потом,
знака ладонью касался с трудом…
То ли гневится , а то ли стыдит,
А сердце под формой… всё помнит, болит.

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Даже тигры любят игры!
Ррррррр! 🐅

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