Post by dietrich on Dec 27, 2010 0:45:05 GMT
LUKA DMITRY NABOKOV !?
'and i realize you’re mine, indeed a fool of mine.'
'and i realize you’re mine, indeed a fool of mine.'
FULL NAME
NICKNAMES
AGE
GENDER
BIRTHDAY
SPECIES
ALLIANCE
SEXUALITY
PLAY-BY
EYES
HAIR
BODY TYPE
HEIGHT
WEIGHT
DISTINGUISHING FEATURES
STYLE
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LIKES At least 10.
- Cooking for others and eating tons of food.
- Elaborate fashions and ornate decorating.
- Stalking people to see what their lives are like.
- Classic literature, art, and music.
- Anything involving painting, drawing, etc.
- Kitty-cats, horses, dogs, or any animal with fur.
- Entertaining babies and small children.
- Vigorous exercising, running, and hiking.
- Doing spontaneous and somewhat illegal things.
- Reading, writing, and academia.
DISLIKES At least 10.
- Nightmares that plague his dreams.
- Being by himself for long periods of time.
- Boredom, wasted time, and uselessness.
- Swimming, fish, boats, or anything to do with water.
- A messy house or hungry bellies.
- Any discussions involving politics or religion.
- Large groups of people or social gatherings.
- Saintly, celebrity, or "perfect" people.
- Focusing on the past or the future.
- Being around a lot of death, like hospitals or cemeteries.
STRENGTHS At least 4.
- Physical ability and agility.
- His loyalty to friends.
- Painting and drawing.
- Remaining calm in trying situations.
WEAKNESSES At least 4.
- Cannot make his own decisions without guidance.
- Has sinful urges and an affinity for masochism.
- Get easily attached to everyone, good or bad.
- Tends to be a bit naive and constantly curious.
HABITS At least 3.
- Often stares at people, or follows them around.
- Constantly licking, biting, or pursing his lips.
- Forgets to wear an expression; tends to look a bit void.
FEARS At least 3.
- Being alone and having no purpose.
- What people might think of him.
- Water and the sensation of drowning.
DESIRES At least 1.
- To find where he belongs in life.
SECRETS At least 1.
- Has had a generally very brutal family life which he's making the best of now. Although, if anyone asks he'll talk about it. His own main secret would be his own desire to do silly and spontaneous things again.
OVERALL
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MOTHER Anne Diviny, deceased.
FATHER --- Diviny, deceased.
Vladimir Nabokov (biological), 57.
SIBLINGS None.
OTHER PERSONS OF IMPORTANCE None.
ETHNICITY Caucasian.
WEALTH STATUS Starving artist.
OVERALL
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NAME/ALIAS SASCHA.
AGE 20.
TIME ZONE Central.
HOW YOU FOUND US Ad-hopping.
OTHER CHARACTERS None.
RP SAMPLESolomon was originally having a very, very good night, which probably should've tipped him off. Things never go well without a catch. But in the heat of the moment, Solomon wasn't thinking about the fleeting nature of mortality. In fact, he was thinking about quite the opposite - how invincible he felt. After downing a surplus of alcohol, he made several new friends at the local dive bar and was now standing up in the bed of their pick-up truck, spreading his arms Titanic-style as they sped down the center of New York. Thankfully about four or so very concerned, very drunk, fellows were holding onto his legs, laughing hysterically as Solomon transcended into the night sky.
"My comrades, I give to you the most glorious city in all of America!" Solomon gestured grandly to the sky scrapers around them, his deep voice easily carrying over the volume of the music within the truck and the traffic around them. "May there always be rich crim'nals where there be rich men. Indeed, if they are not already the same people!" A chorus of hearty laughter rose up as Solomon carefully lowered himself back down into a safe seated position in the cramped truck bed. "Aye, where are we goin' anyway?" Solomon ventured at length to ask with a quirky smile, his English accent always showing particularly when he was drunk. The men around him looked at each other and shrugged until someone suggested that they might be going to so-and-so's house in order to do such-and-such - somewhere between crack cocaine and hookers, or some combination of the two. The whole conversation was muddled, but Solomon didn't seem to care. He nodded along in agreement, excessively drunk and amicable.
The night carried on in much the same manner. It wasn't until morning that Solomon was limping home with a dull hangover, blessed with several new memories that he would never use. Every so often he would inexplicably laugh, thinking of something outrageous that occurred. Although everything seemed outrageous in the glaring, sensible light of day. With fussed hair and clothes, people on the street gave him odd looks, but such a person was not unusual in the great city of New York. Soon it would be noon and the hungry workmen would fill the streets, washing Solomon away into a sea of anonymity.
Solo was looking forward to a simple day off, filled with tea, sleep, and cello practice. Checking the time on his cell-phone, he noticed that several messages had been left that he had missed. All from the Malone's. Grand. Solo sighed and forced himself to listen to what all the racket was about, with the sinking feeling that something went awry. And indeed, it had. Apparently the young master had been found that morning shot in the ribs and been transported to the local hospital for treatment and recovery. Solo was adamantly requested to aide the young master in the hospital for the next several days; providing overtime compensation, of course.
With a strong sense of duty, and moderate concern, Solomon hailed a taxi to take him promptly back to his little apartment. All with remarkable speed did Solomon shower, coif, and dress neatly into his blackest suit. Downing a strong herbal hangover remedy that he learned about after a bender in Zimbabwe along with a glass of scotch, Solomon grabbed his cello and took his car directly to the Malone residence in order to retrieve a few useful items to make the young master's stay more comfortable. After picking up a useful variety of clothes, some soaps and toiletries, a nice blanket, and various other essential technologies or items that the young master was fond of, Solomon took his bounty and rode out to central hospital.
Solomon didn't mind hospitals, to be honest. He liked the clean, sanitized smell and the understated rush of the doctors and nurses. Everybody was so punctual and busy, Solomon could easily keep pace here. Not to say that he enjoyed the thought of the young master being somewhere up in those rooms with a hole in his side. Solomon had seen people get shot before and it wasn't pretty. Well, the color of blood was pretty. But the intention and the noise and all that wasn't. With his characteristic posture and expressionless stare, Solomon made his way through the hospital without getting stopped, even carrying a large satchel and his own enormous cello. He had a habit of looking like he was entitled to gaining access, which made the subtly of his art that much easier. And by the look of the number of journalists congregating angrily in the lobby, it was better just to not say anything.
Solomon rode the elevator up several floors to the private rooms and only had to look for Samuel, the house guard, to know he had found the correct room. Nodding in recognition, Sam opened the door and allowed Solomon in. Visiting hours did not apply to faithful butlers. Solomon moved with the quiet grace of a ghost. Upon entering, Solomon took a moment to soak in the strange scene. The young master was lying in the bed, still asleep, and attached to a number of beeping, humming machines. He looked so helpless and defenseless, a strange change for a person who always seemed to be in control. Solomon made every effort to not disturb that nobly sleeping face.
Solomon organized the room neatly, arranging a few choice bouquets and throwing out a great deal of ugly ones. He carefully placed a warm blanket over Ozzie's feet and then put away his clothes in the small drawer set. Judging by the look of things, the young master would probably be in his dressing gown for a while. In any event, Solomon hung up his plush robe against the door of the adjoining bathroom while arranging the toiletries. Some nurses came in and Solomon informed them that he would be taking on the duties of changing the young master's IV. The process of changing the bag wasn't difficult, and Solomon had done it a number of times for his friends' drunken indiscretions.
Once everything had been said and done, Solomon sat down in a chair in the corner and opened his cello case. Pulling up the large instrument, Solomon's delicate fingers wrapped around the bow and finger board as he began to play a very slow and melancholy song. Solomon did not enjoy this feeling of helplessness. He could fix his master's bedsheets, torn jackets, and tea, but he could not fix his master's injured body. To console himself, and to perhaps encourage the young master to wake up, Solomon practiced at length in his expert way, filling up the awful silence with an ease of melody. Wrapping himself around his instrument, Solomon expressed his own condolences for Ozzie - suddenly very aware of the fragility of life in a cold, unhappy way.
