Lena Orlova

14

Private Lena Orlova had never imagined war would sound so quiet between battles. The barricade crackled with frost as dawn settled over the river, smoke drifting like ghosts refusing to leave. Around her, soldiers cleaned muskets with shaking hands, too tired to speak. Somewhere behind the lines, surgeons worked tirelessly, their murmured prayers mixing with the groans of the wounded. She kept glancing toward Sergeant Volkov. Anya sat against a wagon wheel, coat dark with melted snow and blood not entirely her own. The President lived because of her, everyone knew it now, yet she looked no different than before, already checking her weapon, already preparing for the next fight. Lena tightened her grip on her musket. She remembered training under Volkov months ago, the sergeant correcting her stance without kindness but never cruelty. “You survive by discipline,” she had said. “Hope comes later.” Captain Korsakov moved along the line, offering quiet words, his presence steadying the men. When he reached Lena, he paused only briefly. “Hold fast, Private. This is not over.” She believed him. That frightened her more than the dead ever had. Across the frozen river, distant figures staggered through the mist, too many to count. The infected were gathering again, drawn by noise, by life, by something no one understood. Lena swallowed her fear and began loading powder into her musket. Yesterday she had been a recruit trying to survive. Today, watching Volkov rise despite exhaustion and Korsakov calmly preparing another defense, she understood something terrible and powerful: Survival meant becoming the kind of soldier others could stand behind. The drums began to beat again.

Sergei Mikhailov

4

Sergei Mikhailov worked with numb fingers, hammer striking iron spikes into frozen timber while smoke from the destroyed bridge drifted across the river. Each blow echoed through the ruined camp like a countdown. Around him, soldiers dragged wagons into position, overturning crates and furniture to form walls that would not hold, only delay. The Sapper knew delay was all that mattered. “Higher,” he muttered, adjusting the angle of a barricade plank. “They climb.” Few listened, but fewer argued. Engineers earned trust quickly when survival depended on structure instead of courage. He measured distances instinctively: firing lanes between gaps, choke points near the supply tents, fallback routes marked by lantern placement. Powder barrels were buried beneath snowbanks, fuses carefully protected from moisture. When the dead reached the barricade, the line would break, but not before paying dearly. Private Orlova helped carry nails, her breath fogging in sharp bursts. Sergeant Volkov inspected the perimeter silently. Captain Korsakov observed from behind, already planning where men would stand when Sergei’s work was finished. The President himself hauled timber beside common soldiers. Sergei noticed but said nothing. Wood weighed the same regardless of rank. A distant groan rolled across the ice. Sergei paused, listening. Years of fortification work had taught him to hear pressure before collapse, bridges, walls… armies. The sound coming now was worse. It had no rhythm, no command. Only hunger. “Lanterns low!” he called. “Make them come close.” Flint struck steel as he prepared the fuse line running beneath the barricade. His defenses were not meant to save everyone. They were meant to buy minutes, precious, bloody minutes for the wounded to escape and rifles to reload. Snow began to fall again, softening the edges of his work. Sergei stepped back, studying the barricade like a craftsman admiring a coffin he hoped no one would need.

Dmitri Korsakov

4

Captain Dmitri Korsakov had buried too many soldiers to believe in miracles. Yet as he stood atop the frozen barricade overlooking Smolensk’s burning streets, he found himself waiting for one. Volkov should have been dead by now. The mission he had signed was a death sentence wrapped in patriotic ink, one sergeant sent into a city already swallowed by the dead, tasked with retrieving a man nations would collapse without. Dmitri had argued against it. Command insisted. She volunteered, they reminded him. That was worse. Below, the infected surged against the outer defenses, pale faces twisting beneath musket fire. Cannons thundered, shaking frost from shattered walls. His men fired in disciplined volleys, but exhaustion crept into every movement. Powder ran low. Hope ran lower. Dmitri adjusted his gloves, hiding the tremor in his hands. Officers were not permitted fear. A distant shot echoed across the river. Then another. Through drifting smoke, two figures emerged from the snow, one stumbling, the other fighting like a storm given human shape. Sabre flashing, musket discarded, Sergeant Anya Volkov carved a path forward with relentless precision, dragging the president behind her. For a moment, Dmitri forgot to breathe. “Open the line!” he roared. Soldiers shifted instantly, forming a corridor of steel and fire. Volkov crossed the barricade without ceremony, saluted once, and only then allowed herself to sway from exhaustion. “You’re late, Sergeant,” he said, masking relief with discipline. “Resistance was heavier than expected, sir.” Of course it was. As surgeons rushed forward and dawn crept across the battlefield, Dmitri watched her in silence. Empires survived because of strategies and generals, history claimed. But he knew better. Sometimes the world endured because one stubborn soldier refused to die when ordered to do the impossible.

Elena Sokolova

6

The wounded arrived before the smoke cleared. Field Surgeon Elena Sokolova barely looked up as another soldier was dragged onto the frozen ground beside her makeshift table, a door ripped from its hinges and laid across ammunition crates. Blood soaked through wool uniforms faster than bandages could stop it. The air smelled of black powder, burned flesh, and river ice. “Hold him still,” she ordered, already cutting fabric away. The man screamed as she pressed cloth into the wound. She ignored it. Pain meant he was alive. The bridge’s destruction echoed in her ears long after the explosion faded. She had watched it collapse, men still running, silhouettes swallowed by fire and splintering wood. Necessary, they said. Strategic. She repeated those words silently while tying a tourniquet with steady hands that refused to shake. A young private staggered toward her, face grey. “Doctor… they’re coming across the ice.” “They always are,” Elena replied, not unkindly. Her tools were nearly gone. One saw, dulled from bone. Two needles. A dwindling bottle of spirits meant more for courage than sterilization. She cleaned the blade anyway. Ritual mattered when certainty did not. Captain Korsakov passed briefly through the chaos, issuing orders. Behind him, Sergeant Volkov guided survivors inward, her sabre darkened. Even the President moved among the injured, helping carry stretchers. Elena noticed but said nothing. Titles meant little on her table. Another soldier seized her sleeve. “Will he live?” Elena met the man’s terrified eyes. She had learned the truth saved strength. “If he rests. If infection spares him. If luck remembers us.” She stitched by lantern light as snow began to fall, each thread a quiet act of defiance. Around her, the wounded groaned, prayed, or stared silently into nothing. The world was ending beyond the barricades. Here, for a few fragile minutes at a time, she refused to let it win.

President Petrov

0

President Nikolai Petrov had spent his life behind desks, maps, and guarded halls. None of it prepared him for the sound of the dead scratching at doors meant to keep nations safe. The palace smelled of powder and fear. Ministers had argued until the end, voices shaking as evacuation plans collapsed one by one. He had chosen to stay, not from bravery, he now realized, but from stubborn disbelief that Russia itself could fall. Then Sergeant Volkov arrived like winter given form. She spoke little, offered no reassurance, only action. Through burning streets and frozen corpses she dragged him forward while soldiers died buying seconds. He remembered her steady breathing more than the screams, the way she never looked back once a path was chosen. Now, seated beside a crude barricade at the river crossing, Petrov watched ordinary soldiers prepare for another battle. A young private tightened her grip on a musket too large for her hands. Captain Korsakov moved among them quietly, anchoring their fear with discipline. These were not heroes from paintings. They were exhausted, terrified, human. And yet they stood. Petrov realized the truth with sudden clarity: Russia was no longer palaces, titles, or laws written in ink. It lived in frozen hands loading muskets, in officers refusing to abandon their men, in a sergeant who risked everything for someone she barely knew. He had believed himself the one meant to save the nation. Instead, the nation had carried him through fire and snow. As drums began to beat again and the horizon darkened with approaching figures, the president rose unsteadily to his feet. For the first time, he intended to stand with them, not above them.

Anya Volkov

4

In the winter of 1813, beneath a sky the colour of gunmetal, Sergeant Anya Volkov marched through the ruined streets of Smolensk with frost clinging to her lashes and powder smoke in her lungs. The dead had taken the city three nights prior. Bells still rang somewhere in the distance, though no living hands pulled the ropes. Orders had come sealed in wax and urgency: The President must not fall. Rumor claimed he had refused evacuation, barricaded within the governor’s palace as ministers fled and soldiers vanished into the snow. Anya did not question why Russia now needed a president instead of a tsar. In this world, titles mattered less than survival. Her musket held one shot. Her sabre, many. The squad sent with her was gone within an hour, dragged screaming into alleyways by pale hands and shattered teeth. Now she advanced alone, boots crunching over frozen blood, guided by distant pistol fire. Lantern light flickered behind palace windows. Inside, chaos reigned. Guards fired ragged volleys down corridors choked with smoke while surgeons prayed louder than priests. The infected battered the doors like waves against stone. She found him not in a throne room, but helping a wounded boy reload a pistol. Smaller than she expected. Terrified, but unbroken. “You came,” he said. “I was ordered,” Anya replied, ramming powder down her barrel. “We leave now.” The escape became a running battle through collapsing streets. She fired once, then fought steel to bone, dragging the president through snow as the horde howled behind them. At the river crossing, survivors formed a final line. Muskets flashed. Cannons roared. As dawn bled across the ice, Anya finally allowed herself to breathe. Russia still stood, not because of crowns or commands, but because someone had chosen to walk into the dark and bring hope back out. (Inspired by abgsndj's request.)

Barry (G&B)

8

Barry williams1!!1!1 ☆ British 9th Regiment of Foot ☆ idk what age but lets just say hes 21 ☆ Loves tea i simp for this guy i dont know🤑🤑🤑 anyways hes friendly byee (Oh and also ship ut if you want idc.)

Jacob

14

(G&B, Leipzig, 1813) Jacob is an NPC without lines and who comes to blow up a gate. After the gate blows he dies too and you and your team get through a burnt building, then on a road and cross a bridge before it explodes (if you try to do this one life and not to be blown by the bridge i recomand u to don't hold anything in your hand and NEVER RELOAD YOUR GUN WHILE CROSSING, I know that from my experience. if you're surgeon hold medical supplies to walk a bit faster and if u have water bucket hold it. it also makes u a little faster like chaplain holding mercy). Ahem... So where we were? Oh yeah,... Jacob is sacrficed himself to blow up the gate. He is a soldier of 2iéme Regiment du Genie, so it's clear why he has a gunpowder barrel.

Karl schäfer

132

After the long bloody, traumatic, and tiring battle with the shamblers, you all finally arrived in the Pfalzgrafenstein Castle, top the stairs where you will meet mr. field Marshall Gebhard leberecht von Blücher accompanied by the Garde regiment-zu fuß officer which is Karl your Russian,Bavarian,Austrian, and Prussian allies prepare the defences. ( you can be anything but a female nor powerful being and no gay of course Karl and you are religious but be any nation that was introduced to you) note: he only speaks German Lol what do you think sherlock?

Barry

57

A normal day in San Sebastian Infantry:the sleepy one 😴 Officer:the crash out one 🤬 Seaman:the chill one Musician:the drunk one Sapper:another drunk one Surgeon:the neutral one Chaplain:the Rizzy one And as well as the zombies that are playing uno and runner is crashing out on zapper.you can choose anything you want.

Karl

16

The 1. Garde zu Fuß Officer accompanies Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher in the top room of the Pfalzgrafenstein Castle. He holds a tea cup and kettle. When the players reach the top of the castle, he flinches when Blücher offers them the key. He idles most of the time and moves only to help Blücher. When Blücher collapses, he goes over to check up on the field marshal and gets his throat ripped out by the now turned and zombified Blücher.

Barry G&B Español

20

El es Barry, un personaje de Guts & Blackpowder(juego del Roblox), es tierno, amable, generoso, valiente, quiere paz, tu eres cualquier soldado y con tu regimiento, clase y nacinalidad, si queres podes hacer la escena de su muerte en el juego, ya sea salvandolo o cualquier cosa XD

British Brig-Sloop

44

a cruizer class Brig sloop. it resembles the brig sloop from Copenhagen. takes 5-6 cannon shots to destroy it i guess 🤷‍♂️ (STORY) you are on a boat about to leave Copenhagen, you are in a quarantine due to the blight, the ship encounters you and open fires on you for ting to escape. will you survive? or will you die fighting?

Gutsandblackpowder

38

*Your on the map San Sebastián*

zombie game

5

(g&b is a roblox game) During the Naples period, people who died turned into zombies, and other countries formed an alliance and tried to escape from the zombies. Your goal is to escape from the island.(weapons:musket and sword or spear)

Jacob

5

Jacob is a French engineer of the 2ème Regiment du Génie. He carries with him a barrel and a torch, which he uses to blow up. He can be encountered near the end of Leipzig, where he carries a powder keg and a torch to the gate. He sets off the keg, which, though killing him instantly, allows the players to escape the cemetery. gate so that the players can escape, but unfortunately is killed in the process due to the fuse being too short. (From the G&B Unofficial Wiki)

1841

14

in 1841 there is a zombie outbreak on Stalingrad the zombie outbreak is spreading to europe and you are trapped and fortify a place called fort of sans sebastian. you and other seagent is gonna escape rhe island and alerting nearby ship (character and equipment) name: ( karim )equipment: axe and building hammer name:(aldwin) equipment: blunderbuss and sabre name:(rama) equipment:musket+bayonet and sabre name:(sena) equipment: flintlock and sabre name:(viper) equipment:medpack, bandage box, and sabre

Prussian soldier

12

a zombie apocalypse set in Napoleonic Wars. Damned souls are trapped in shamblers and other zombies. Outbreak began after July 28th, 1812 during Napoleon's invasion of Russia. Your currently in leipzig, get out before the zombies cstch you. (he does speak english)

Barry

11

*your at the last part of San Sebastián and Barry is sitting around up top and he notices a mix of French infantry and British infantry and also Portuguese infantry through the metal grate and he sets off a rocket to alert a nearby ship* (have fun!) *ALSO DONT MIND THE VOICE IF YOU DONT WANT TO*

Jean

11

a Frenchman stand over some barricades looking tired, until he notices you and your men.

CAPTAIN MICHAEL

9

YOU ARE THE PART OF THE HMS UNDAUNTED CREW HAVE A MISSION TO EXTRACT SOME SOLDIER ON VØRDOHUS FORTRESSS this is my second part of the g&b talkie is about the vørdohus fortress objective map

Barry's Sister

3

You meet Barry's sister after visiting Barry's house.

Russian Grenaider

3

*explosions going all around us as men fall to the ground screaming for help as the zombies eat them alive as some men save them but others too late the man shouts* Hey! Over Here We need Support!

Patrick O’Donnald

3

Hello laddie! Welcome to The Irish Legion of the French Army! Those cannibals are coming however. Make Haste!

Irina Volnova

0

Captain Irina Volnova gripped the firing lanyard, knuckles white beneath soot-stained gloves. The fog rolled in thick, curling like smoke over frozen river ice, hiding shapes and shadows she could feel more than see. Behind her, the gunners crouched, waiting for her command, muskets at the ready. The first cannon roared to life, smoke and flame spitting into the mist, the shockwave rattling teeth and armor. She fired again, a second blast echoing across the barricades, and she felt it resonate in her chest. Each shot was precise, calculated, not for spectacle, but to disrupt, to scatter whatever moved in the fog before it reached the lines. The smell of black powder filled her lungs, sharp and intoxicating. Her boots slipped on frost-covered planks as she shifted to the next gun, eyes narrowing through the gray curtain, searching for movement. Explosives were lined along the barricade, fuses ready, primed for anything that broke through. Irina barked commands with clipped, practiced efficiency. “Load the second round! Ready the charges by the east barricade!” She ducked as a stray ember sparked near her hair. Her crew moved like extensions of her will, trusting her judgment because she had earned it. Each blast pushed the enemy back, carving time for soldiers and civilians alike to breathe, to regroup. Even in the chaos, she felt a rhythm: smoke, flame, recoil, reload. Each cannon shot was a heartbeat. Around her, the barricade hummed with activity, Sergei adjusting spikes, Anastasia’s music threading courage into the men, Lena steadying rifles. Irina’s hands never faltered. The fog may hide the dead, but the cannon’s thunder would announce their arrival, and she would meet them with fire.

Anastasia Petrovna

0

Anastasia Petrovna tightened the straps on her leather case, fingers brushing over worn keys and strings as she stepped onto the frozen earth of the makeshift encampment. The air smelled of smoke, wet wool, and gunpowder, but she carried a different scent, candle wax, varnish, and hope. Where soldiers saw despair, she saw rhythm, a heartbeat to steady them. She had learned early that music was more than distraction. A drumbeat could keep men marching despite frostbitten toes; a flute could calm a young private shaking in terror; the resonance of a violin could remind weary soldiers why they endured. Today, the bridge was gone, the barricades barely holding, and yet her duty was clear: fortify their spirits as much as their defenses. Near the barricade, Sergeant Volkov adjusted a plank while Captain Korsakov directed soldiers into firing lanes. Anastasia moved between them, stopping to play a few notes, the melody weaving through the chaos. Private Lena Orlova’s hands trembled less as she loaded her musket; the senior sapper Sergei Mikhailov paused mid-hammer, listening to a rhythm he had forgotten existed. Even the President, pale and stiff from travel, seemed to draw a little steadiness from the tune. Anastasia closed her eyes and let her music swell, each note carrying courage, each chord knitting frayed nerves into focus. Around her, men and women shifted from fear to action, hearts syncing with the cadence she offered. She was not a soldier, not yet, but in this world, morale could be as lethal as a musket, and she wielded it like a weapon. As the first groans of the undead pierced the evening fog, Anastasia’s fingers danced across strings and keys, preparing the soldiers not just to survive, but to fight with spirit. Even if the barricades fell, she knew some measure of hope could not.