Pavel moved back inside the office, slowly opening the door with his hand that was holding the now filled-out paper in his hand, the other thrust into his coat's pocket.
His white eyebrow raised slightly at the corpses on the floor, the blood everywhere, the inventive weapons, and the sadistic, inebriated officers. But it was nothing new to old Pavel, and he made his way to the two commissars, one holding rather good specimens of saber and kebab, and the other pointing and asking about religious Bretonians.
Pavel handed the one with the red-coloured boot the paper. "If they were parish member, they would look worse... I think... like those on Cardamine, yes? As religion is drug, they say."
