RedPine Chernarus
By The HeatPackBandits
“If you find me in the frozen pines, leave me to the wind.”
I don’t remember when I first came to RedPine. Only that the snow was falling sideways and the trees were whispering like they’d been here long before people ever were.
The world doesn’t end here — it just slows down until you can hear it breathing. You can still find the shape of what it used to be: a campfire left to die in the rain, a door swinging open to no one, a dogtag gleaming faintly beneath the frost. Each one a story, each one a warning.
I used to talk to people on the coast. We’d wave from the shallows, trade a can of beans for a story, maybe walk a while together. That’s how it starts — softly. Out here, the best kind of fight is the one you never have. Words keep you warmer than bullets.
But the woods have a way of thinning the line between man and echo. You’ll start hearing patrols before you see them — boots in the mud, quiet commands carried through the fog. Sometimes it’s soldiers. Sometimes it’s something that learned to sound like them. They pass through the gas zones, around the crash sites that burn like fallen stars. I followed one once, just to see. Never again.
Somewhere deep in the forests, the bandits keep their fires low. You can smell their camps before you see them — smoke, sweat, and metal. Their lights flicker like ghosts trying to remember how to be human. By morning, they are gone. Every trail goes cold. They’re as much a part of this place as the frost itself.
And if you’re brave, you’ll go looking for the containers. Four colors of keys — red, orange, yellow, blue — a puzzle the dead left behind. I’ve seen the gas roll in thick as water, swallowing whole squads that thought they could outrun it. The lucky ones never knew it hit them.
There’s rhythm here; The sun rises, falls, and starts again like it’s testing your resolve. Nights are short, but they linger — soft, silver, and cruel. The sound of the fire dying out is the loneliest thing you’ll ever hear.
I once found a base still standing. Someone’s breath still warm on the glass. I didn’t stay. Some places hum with old lives — they don’t want new ones.
If you ever find a Well-Worn Map, keep it close. The marks are faint, almost shy, but they lead to things you've not experienced before. I followed one to a ridge overlooking a valley of fog. I sat there till dawn, trying to remember why I came here. Couldn’t. Still can’t.
RedPine isn’t for the loud or the cruel. It’s for the ones who still listen. The ones who talk before they pull the trigger. The ones who leave a note behind, just in case.
If you hear singing in the wind, that’s just the land remembering.
If you see a figure in the pines, don’t be afraid.
I’ve just been here a long time.
And I’ll walk with you a while,
until the cold takes us both.
