Post by PuNk! ™ on Jan 6, 2013 1:16:31 GMT
Character Name: Rurik Vladimir [USSR]
Rank: Sergeant
Nationality: Russian
History: (Rank request optional: Mladshii Serzhant or Serzhant)
Rurik Vladimir’s heritage spawns from Socialist Soviet Republic of Byelorussia until Belarus was taken over by the Bolsheviks in nineteen-nineteen, where his family - primarily his mother and father, with their siblings, moved to a more localised and growing industrial state of the changing motherland; Moscow. It was a frightening and life-changing move during their time, but living comfortably and having earned good profit from the fat of their land, they sought better and brighter futures of themselves in the heart of mother Russia. Devout to the changing society and communist idealism ideology evolving ever stronger, but flying to close to the sun can get you burnt.
Young Rurik Vladimir grew up in the heart of Moscow, to the eventual dismay of his parent’s realism that city life was to be much harder and gruelling than they first adhered too. Life in Moscow was soon to become a struggle for the Vladimir family as they became indebted very quickly to the growing industrial city-life; Rurik’s father worked around the clock in various warehouses in manufacturing and his mother held a constant job in the local high-street tailors, so Rurik spent a majority of his youth with seldom freedom and grew an early work ethic on the street; whether it be shovelling horse manure out of the street or climbing into places adults couldn’t reach - ratting was his favourite, given a hot poker fresh off the fireplace, he’d shuffle his way under the floorboards or behind the garden sheds, poking at the rat’s lair and nests, sending the critters running in all directions. The screams from the woman always made him laugh, espically the wives and mothers of the households he’d be tasked with ratting - hilarious moments to be had.
Time soon passed and Rurik found himself doing more tedious work as an adolescent in his teenage years, to him, the winters grew colder or perhaps he just noticed the cold more as he grew older? Either way, his duties of work were becoming seemingly more tedious and arduous, as the cold ate away at his bones from merely shining shoes outside a local railway station or the cold would somehow creep it’s way into his body when he’d be working the odd shift in the local tavern; moving barrels in the basement or serving patrons. Come to think of it, Rurik had been working ever since he could remember and that had a real impact on his educational abilities - his reading and writing abilities were shoddy at best, but through hardened work ethics, he’d learnt the trade of the street and knew he’d always be able to keep his own. His parents never had to subsidise payment to feed an extra mouth, he’d always bring enough home to help put bread on the table or cheese in the larder, in laymen’s terms, Rurik was a jack of all trades and having those skills alone, proved far more valuable than a ‘pompass’ education in his view and opinion.
Reaching his early twenties, Rurik - alike many other young men - found themselves quelling in harder times. Moscow had changed, even if only a few years had passed, the times were changing fast and the restlessness of a war approaching didn’t help tame the minds of many. Factions of men utilized the time to make their dealings with the devil and unions of the industry traded under the tables for that bit extra to see them through the hard times. Rurik understood what was coming, what could be coming and he himself got involved. Smuggling contraband around the Moscow, being the middle-man to broker deals and muscle to help change people’s views and opinions - sure, Rurik done some things that were far from angelic, but communism wasn’t paying for their health anymore, they needed to be greedy and they needed to take matters into their own hands to even just get by and survive from day to day.
War inevitable came to their doorsteps and Rurik knew conscription was inevitably coming soon enough. It was the talk of all the mothers all over, not wanting their young-one’s to be snatched from their breast. Thankfully, Rurik knew a lot of people from his dealings on the street and was able to broker one last deal for himself, to guarantee he wouldn’t just be conscripted into the red-army as just another man that would be thrown to the dogs, no… He brokered a deal that would see him living a little more comfortably within the military. Rurik never did reveal what he paid for such qualities, but there was one thing known for sure; Rurik is a jack of all trades.
Writing Sample: Wielding his Mosin Nagant with a fierce grip in both hands, Rurik Vladimir stumbled backwards onto the haunches of his booted feet and gritted his teeth in sheer resilience as he struggled to fight back against the German soldier before himself; the German soldier had his fat fingers coiled around his Mosin Nagant rifle, clasped tightly like vice-grips, pressing forward into Rurik with the wholesome might of his tensing body, attempting to force Rurik against the wall and onto the back of his heels. Shameless to admit it, but Rurik was far from a muscular young man, but rather a skinny one and struggled against the brute force of the German soldier’s body and will.
Feeling his back press against the cold concrete wall, Rurik inhaled sharply, as if he knew he best take a deep breath, as the German soldier began to force his own rifle up against his throat and neck, squeezing the cold steel barrel against his windpipe, choking him! Rurik tried not to panic, but the German soldier - needless to say - was killing him with his own rifle, much to his own embarrassment. Keeping his hands tucked up on the inside still, Rurik managed to keep his rifle a mere inch away from choking him completely or perhaps worse, breaking his neck if the German was allowed to slam the cold steel of the rifle barrel all the way, no doubt his fragile little neck wouldn’t be able to take the crushing blow against the hard concrete wall behind himself.
Then, ingeniously, Rurik stopped panicking and used his legs, being able to leverage himself against the wall behind his body now. At first, he kicked at the German’s knee, which had little effect, before pressing his back into the wall and holding tightly onto the rifle being pressed into him still, he semi-jumped and drove both his legs straight into the German’s lower-abdomen and gut, shoving the German soldier off himself with an almighty push from his sprung legs, surprisingly sending the German soldier toppling over backwards and onto the floor with a heavy thump and muffled groan.
Rurik hit his bottom on the ground in the process, but was quick to his feet and managed to retain his rifle from out of the German’s vice-like grip, which aided him in getting up quickly, as he drove the stock of the rifle into the floorboards and leapt up onto his booted feet like a spring-chicken. Quickly chasing the toppling German, he twisted his rifle between his slender hands, holding his Mosin Nagant rifle along the barrel and wooden framework, swinging the heavy weapon back of his shoulder and forcefully swinging it back over his shoulder against the resistance of his tired muscles, clubbing the German soldier across the back of his head with the heavy duty wooden stock of his rifle. The German soldier’s skull blotted a patch of red instantly, with a faint clunking noise of the man’s skull most probably fracturing amongst the heavy thump as he felt the shoulder stock impact a good blow.
Repelled by the impact, Rurik felt the rifle slip from his grasp uncontrollably, his bones chattering up his arms and the nerves numbing instantly from the impact; clattering to the ground beside the now apparently limp German soldier, his rifle landed. Standing there like a rabbit caught in the headlights, he stared at the lifeless German soldier for a few seconds, that felt more like minutes in time. Snapping back to reality, he unsheathed his spiked bayonet from a pouch on his side and thumbled momentarily to get a grip on the cold rusted spike, the feeling hadn’t quite returned to his fingers yet, but in haste he dropped onto the German with his knees deep into the ridge of the German’s back and plunged the spiked bayonet into the German’s broad back over and over again; his hands bloodied after the fifth plunge, he felt the bayonet slip from his grasp and clatter onto the floor.
Falling backwards and onto his bottom, he gasped for air, staring at the dead German on the floor in front of himself. A small grin formed on his face as he began to laugh to himself amusingly, muttering “I can’t even take a shit now…” he then burst into laughter, wiping his bloodied hands down his already torn, muddy uniform and reached for his rifle, attaching the bloodied spiked bayonet to the end with a firm click into place. Having regained his composure, he climbed to his feet and pushed the German corpse over with his foot, pointing the end of his bayonet at the German’s face, ready to shoot if he needed, but the soldier laid limp and lifeless. Still, he gave a quick stab into the chest with his rifle’s bayonet, making sure he stayed dead, before shouldering his rifle and checking the dead German’s pockets. Pulling out what seemed to be some letters and pictures from the man’s tunic pocket, he observed them for a moment, looking a little bewildered. “Shame I’m not a good reader Hun. This will make good toilet paper though” folding the pieces of paper up and putting them into his pocket, he tossed the photographs aside of what seemed to be children and patted the dead soldier down for anything valuable. Noticing the wedding ring, he slipped the ring off the man’s finger and stuffed it into his pocket, along with the German soldier’s golden crucifix necklace and leather watch; he could trade them for cigarettes later or a bottle of vodka to warm his stomach tonight.
Standing he gave the German one last stare. “I’ll go have my shit now, in peace. Don’t follow me!” and with that Rurik gave the corpse a little kick and walked away, for a peaceful session this time.
Rank: Sergeant
Nationality: Russian
History: (Rank request optional: Mladshii Serzhant or Serzhant)
Rurik Vladimir’s heritage spawns from Socialist Soviet Republic of Byelorussia until Belarus was taken over by the Bolsheviks in nineteen-nineteen, where his family - primarily his mother and father, with their siblings, moved to a more localised and growing industrial state of the changing motherland; Moscow. It was a frightening and life-changing move during their time, but living comfortably and having earned good profit from the fat of their land, they sought better and brighter futures of themselves in the heart of mother Russia. Devout to the changing society and communist idealism ideology evolving ever stronger, but flying to close to the sun can get you burnt.
Young Rurik Vladimir grew up in the heart of Moscow, to the eventual dismay of his parent’s realism that city life was to be much harder and gruelling than they first adhered too. Life in Moscow was soon to become a struggle for the Vladimir family as they became indebted very quickly to the growing industrial city-life; Rurik’s father worked around the clock in various warehouses in manufacturing and his mother held a constant job in the local high-street tailors, so Rurik spent a majority of his youth with seldom freedom and grew an early work ethic on the street; whether it be shovelling horse manure out of the street or climbing into places adults couldn’t reach - ratting was his favourite, given a hot poker fresh off the fireplace, he’d shuffle his way under the floorboards or behind the garden sheds, poking at the rat’s lair and nests, sending the critters running in all directions. The screams from the woman always made him laugh, espically the wives and mothers of the households he’d be tasked with ratting - hilarious moments to be had.
Time soon passed and Rurik found himself doing more tedious work as an adolescent in his teenage years, to him, the winters grew colder or perhaps he just noticed the cold more as he grew older? Either way, his duties of work were becoming seemingly more tedious and arduous, as the cold ate away at his bones from merely shining shoes outside a local railway station or the cold would somehow creep it’s way into his body when he’d be working the odd shift in the local tavern; moving barrels in the basement or serving patrons. Come to think of it, Rurik had been working ever since he could remember and that had a real impact on his educational abilities - his reading and writing abilities were shoddy at best, but through hardened work ethics, he’d learnt the trade of the street and knew he’d always be able to keep his own. His parents never had to subsidise payment to feed an extra mouth, he’d always bring enough home to help put bread on the table or cheese in the larder, in laymen’s terms, Rurik was a jack of all trades and having those skills alone, proved far more valuable than a ‘pompass’ education in his view and opinion.
Reaching his early twenties, Rurik - alike many other young men - found themselves quelling in harder times. Moscow had changed, even if only a few years had passed, the times were changing fast and the restlessness of a war approaching didn’t help tame the minds of many. Factions of men utilized the time to make their dealings with the devil and unions of the industry traded under the tables for that bit extra to see them through the hard times. Rurik understood what was coming, what could be coming and he himself got involved. Smuggling contraband around the Moscow, being the middle-man to broker deals and muscle to help change people’s views and opinions - sure, Rurik done some things that were far from angelic, but communism wasn’t paying for their health anymore, they needed to be greedy and they needed to take matters into their own hands to even just get by and survive from day to day.
War inevitable came to their doorsteps and Rurik knew conscription was inevitably coming soon enough. It was the talk of all the mothers all over, not wanting their young-one’s to be snatched from their breast. Thankfully, Rurik knew a lot of people from his dealings on the street and was able to broker one last deal for himself, to guarantee he wouldn’t just be conscripted into the red-army as just another man that would be thrown to the dogs, no… He brokered a deal that would see him living a little more comfortably within the military. Rurik never did reveal what he paid for such qualities, but there was one thing known for sure; Rurik is a jack of all trades.
Writing Sample: Wielding his Mosin Nagant with a fierce grip in both hands, Rurik Vladimir stumbled backwards onto the haunches of his booted feet and gritted his teeth in sheer resilience as he struggled to fight back against the German soldier before himself; the German soldier had his fat fingers coiled around his Mosin Nagant rifle, clasped tightly like vice-grips, pressing forward into Rurik with the wholesome might of his tensing body, attempting to force Rurik against the wall and onto the back of his heels. Shameless to admit it, but Rurik was far from a muscular young man, but rather a skinny one and struggled against the brute force of the German soldier’s body and will.
Feeling his back press against the cold concrete wall, Rurik inhaled sharply, as if he knew he best take a deep breath, as the German soldier began to force his own rifle up against his throat and neck, squeezing the cold steel barrel against his windpipe, choking him! Rurik tried not to panic, but the German soldier - needless to say - was killing him with his own rifle, much to his own embarrassment. Keeping his hands tucked up on the inside still, Rurik managed to keep his rifle a mere inch away from choking him completely or perhaps worse, breaking his neck if the German was allowed to slam the cold steel of the rifle barrel all the way, no doubt his fragile little neck wouldn’t be able to take the crushing blow against the hard concrete wall behind himself.
Then, ingeniously, Rurik stopped panicking and used his legs, being able to leverage himself against the wall behind his body now. At first, he kicked at the German’s knee, which had little effect, before pressing his back into the wall and holding tightly onto the rifle being pressed into him still, he semi-jumped and drove both his legs straight into the German’s lower-abdomen and gut, shoving the German soldier off himself with an almighty push from his sprung legs, surprisingly sending the German soldier toppling over backwards and onto the floor with a heavy thump and muffled groan.
Rurik hit his bottom on the ground in the process, but was quick to his feet and managed to retain his rifle from out of the German’s vice-like grip, which aided him in getting up quickly, as he drove the stock of the rifle into the floorboards and leapt up onto his booted feet like a spring-chicken. Quickly chasing the toppling German, he twisted his rifle between his slender hands, holding his Mosin Nagant rifle along the barrel and wooden framework, swinging the heavy weapon back of his shoulder and forcefully swinging it back over his shoulder against the resistance of his tired muscles, clubbing the German soldier across the back of his head with the heavy duty wooden stock of his rifle. The German soldier’s skull blotted a patch of red instantly, with a faint clunking noise of the man’s skull most probably fracturing amongst the heavy thump as he felt the shoulder stock impact a good blow.
Repelled by the impact, Rurik felt the rifle slip from his grasp uncontrollably, his bones chattering up his arms and the nerves numbing instantly from the impact; clattering to the ground beside the now apparently limp German soldier, his rifle landed. Standing there like a rabbit caught in the headlights, he stared at the lifeless German soldier for a few seconds, that felt more like minutes in time. Snapping back to reality, he unsheathed his spiked bayonet from a pouch on his side and thumbled momentarily to get a grip on the cold rusted spike, the feeling hadn’t quite returned to his fingers yet, but in haste he dropped onto the German with his knees deep into the ridge of the German’s back and plunged the spiked bayonet into the German’s broad back over and over again; his hands bloodied after the fifth plunge, he felt the bayonet slip from his grasp and clatter onto the floor.
Falling backwards and onto his bottom, he gasped for air, staring at the dead German on the floor in front of himself. A small grin formed on his face as he began to laugh to himself amusingly, muttering “I can’t even take a shit now…” he then burst into laughter, wiping his bloodied hands down his already torn, muddy uniform and reached for his rifle, attaching the bloodied spiked bayonet to the end with a firm click into place. Having regained his composure, he climbed to his feet and pushed the German corpse over with his foot, pointing the end of his bayonet at the German’s face, ready to shoot if he needed, but the soldier laid limp and lifeless. Still, he gave a quick stab into the chest with his rifle’s bayonet, making sure he stayed dead, before shouldering his rifle and checking the dead German’s pockets. Pulling out what seemed to be some letters and pictures from the man’s tunic pocket, he observed them for a moment, looking a little bewildered. “Shame I’m not a good reader Hun. This will make good toilet paper though” folding the pieces of paper up and putting them into his pocket, he tossed the photographs aside of what seemed to be children and patted the dead soldier down for anything valuable. Noticing the wedding ring, he slipped the ring off the man’s finger and stuffed it into his pocket, along with the German soldier’s golden crucifix necklace and leather watch; he could trade them for cigarettes later or a bottle of vodka to warm his stomach tonight.
Standing he gave the German one last stare. “I’ll go have my shit now, in peace. Don’t follow me!” and with that Rurik gave the corpse a little kick and walked away, for a peaceful session this time.
