In the woods (Countryhuman)

13

Where are we going?

Away from here. Be ready to pack your things.

"Urgg." Russia groaned, a headache starting. Gingerly, he raised his hand up to try and massage it out. Coming up from a laying position, he swung his legs off to the side of whatever soft surface he was on.

Taking careful glimpses, he got his eyes adjusted to the light of the room. The first thing he took notice of was the imprints on his forearms. One looked like rough rope, and the other two connecting by being some sort of band. One side of his face felt stiff. Whatever he could clearly recall came rushing back.

He finally took a good look around the room.

A very very familiar living room.

From behind the couch he heard shuffling, turning around to find an exhausted New Zealand. He looked to have not taken notice of Russia. The country wandered towards one end of the house, disappearing out of sight.

With a small jump up, Russia looked around the house. From what he could read of the grandfather clock, it was late morning. And where were the other brothers?

But first, see how large that hardened scab on his face actually was. It was starting to become slightly painful, and one wrong move could break it. Making his way to the mirror in the lower floor restroom. Locked.

Well, it was a two story house, surely there was another upstairs. Taking slow steps, he climbed the steps.

The first door he saw was open, and looking like a bedroom. America's flag was hanging up on the wall, fifty smaller ones he didn't recognize pinned up underneath it. There were a few shelves up on the walls holding all sorts of knicknacks, like a little statue of a green lady, a white pillar, a cowboy hat, a potato, a flower lie, along with at least 45 other things. A new-looking dog bed rested at the foot of the bed.

Before Russia moved on, he heard a muffled thump come from inside the room.

A further look inside revealed a window, a sniper riffle poking out of it, and a passed out American. And unsurprisingly half a wall taken up by mostly full gun-racks. What was slightly surprising to find was an easel with a half-painted canvas on it, along with a desk with a typewriter. There looked to be some literature written on it, bringing up a sort of interest.

A shift of the American redirected Russia's attention. A hand was snagged under the trigger of the rifle, the other being a pillow for Stripes. His sunglasses had been set carefully off to the side, a water bottle having long been knocked over if evidence from the stain in the wood. The hunched over position would lead to discomfort for the rest of the day. Along with that the window was still open, and the area was soaked slightly from the rainy weather.

Letting out a sigh, Russia essentially and carefully carried Ame out of his seat and hauling the smaller and appallingly light country onto the bed. Without a second thought, Russia left the room.

Heading down the hallway, the next room was a bit more clean and organized. Russia heard that Canada had an axe, but he was thinking more like a hatchet. Not a freaking war axe made to chop through bodies and shields just as well as logs. The blade looked freshly cleaned, the wet shine still visible. A red-stained towel laid on the floor. The owner himself was actually awake. A bonus was that Canada looked focused on something on his hand, a scowl of sorts on his face. A small paint pallet of only red and white sat nearby.

"21 more." He peeled something off his hand, chucking the orange into a pot elsewhere in the room. More splotches of not only orange but yellow, red, brown, and green were visible on the back of the hand. Canada grabbed the paintbrush, dabbing it in the red. From there he hid the many colors under it.