Post by Yuri Vanavitch Karloff on Jul 29, 2011 23:50:53 GMT -5
Name:
Yuri Vanavich Karloff.
Age:
Thirty nine years old.
Date of Birth:
October 14th.
Team Favorite Color:
Red. Defiantly red.
Gender:
Male
Class:
Heavy
Languages:
Russian
English
Fractured understanding of Italian, French, German, and Spanish.
Personality:
Yuri is a strong man, both in form and in thought. He appreciates the small things in life, taking care to at least step over the flowers if he doesn't have time to stop and smell them. He regards himself as a gentle giant, and sometimes feels bad about how easily he can harm those around him. Sometimes even the most well meaning pat on the back can knock the wind out of someone. He has problems with intimacy, and tends to lead the conversation away from sexual subjects should they arise. He seems to always have a smile on his face when talking to people, but when caught alone, tends to be lost in thought. Some people regard the his pensive look as some sort of brooding internal anger, but simply put, his relaxed face looks angry. Sexuality Primarily heterosexual. Is willing to admit to some drunken mistakes though.
History:
Born in the small village of Klushino, in the Oblast of Smolensk, in the western U.S.S.R., Yuri was named for local hero and cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin. His last name was handed down from his father's(Vana Vanavich) father (Vana Ivanavich), who was born Vana Ivanavich Verbukh, but changed his name to Karloff when attempting to move to america and become part of the budding film industry. It seemed that Hollywood was only big enough for one Russian giant, and quickly Vana Ivanavich moved back to the family home in Klushino with his tail between his legs.
Bored, and with nothing much else to to, the family Karloff became well known for their inexplicable ability to acquire the most exotic and specialized weaponry. In fact, no one ever knew where Vana Ivanavich got his weapons from, and the old giant took his secret to his grave. Raised in a quagmire of untrust, violence, and explosions, Yuri never really liked weapons. He never liked hurting people. But he didn't like to be hurt either. The youngest son of Vana Ivanavich's oldest son, Yuri was never really interested in the family business. Arms were left to his older brothers. Instead, Yuri looked to his namesake for inspiration. All throughout his teenage years, he trained himself to become the perfect candidate to become a cosmonaut. He knew more in seventeen years than what most learned in a lifetime, in subjects scientific, philosophic, and tactic, and was at the peak of physical ability when something fell. A wall. In Berlin. For two years after graduating from higher education three years early, Yuri worked with the crumbling U.S.S.R. to get into space, to prove that though injured, the soviet states were still a world power. Yuri was two months from getting into space, at 19, he would have been the youngest man to ever touch so high of heights, when the last leg beneath the U.S.S.R. fell. And the post soviet government wanted all new cosmonauts.
His life dream shot out the window, Yuri fell into drunken anonymity, stumbling from bar to bar, letting his body and mind atrophy a little more with each blazingly bright morning. Somehow, in some sort of drunken dare to himself, he decided that if he couldn't see the world from space, he would see it on foot. And so, for ten years, Yuri traveled around the world, learning to appreciate all of the worlds sights and peoples, but always missing dear sweet Klushino. On his long trip around the world, he never once set foot on a plane, feeling that to do so would betray all of the little places underneath of a visit. And so, after he was satisfied with what he had seen of the world, he headed back home.
Upon arriving home Yuri found that after the death of his grandfather, the munitions sales business had died with him. His family, the once proud Karloff arms dealers, were now simply another set of glowering pig farmers along the road. And without the money to travel to nearby Gagarin and see a doctor, Vana Vanachich Karloff, Yuri's father, was dyeing of pneumonia. One by one, Vana called in each of his seven sons, and told them what he last wished of them. To the oldest six, Vana gave a task, meaningless, that would help them to grow as men. And to his youngest son, Yuri, the one who was now more a man than himself, he gave the last grain of his own father's legacy, a heavily modified thompson submachine gun, a last clinging of Yuri's grandfather's love of Hollywood. The thing was a work of beauty, and Vana could hardly lift it to hand it to Yuri. But to Yuri, it was as light as a feather, and his hands took to the handles like the hips of a young woman. This gun was made for him, and him for it. Yuri did not fire the gun a single time until his father's passing, and after he only used a single drum to train himself.
He is a man, who had seen to much of the worlds wonders to ever want to kill, and now held that which would have killed far to many in the hands of a weaker willed man. And his father's last wish was that this gun, this work of beauty, be used wisely.
Yuri now works as a mercenary, private tactician, and writer to make money to send to his family so that they can life the life they had long ago once again. So far, his writing hasn't had much luck, his tactics seem to always fall on deaf ears, and he hasn't found a mercantile contract that appealed to him. Until now.
Appearance:
There are some people who are big, and there are some people who are REALLY BIG. But there are few people who can truly be defined as walls of flesh. Standing at 2.337 meters(92 inches), Yuri's height makes him rather imposing, but what's more terrifing about him is that without anything to reference him, he looks almost stout, chubby. His shoulders are four times as wide as his head, and is barrel chested because of his asthma during his youth and obsession with physical perfection during his teens. His arms are massive tendrils of muscle, softened by years of drinking, partying, and helping, but still bigger around than most people's heads. Not necks. But heads. His belly sticks out a little from years of drinking, but it could hardly be called a beet gut. His hands are so large that they could encompass basketballs with ease, the span from the tips of his pinkey and thumb when fully extended reaching almost 30 cm, each finger the width of a Gatorade bottle cap. He wears simple clothes, cloth ankled combat boots, black denim pants, a white shirt, and a tattered red vest. Sometimes when he's feeling cold, he will wear his old dress uniform jacket, a long black wool overcoat that could easily act as a blanket for a smaller person. On top of his head, he wears a tattered pilot's hat of the U.S.S.R., a dark grey felt number with trim and stock that was once vibrant blue, but now is somewhere between brown and black. The golden embroydery and trim have long since faded, and the only thing left perfectly intact is the red star right above the black plastic brim. His face and head are shaven close, but if one were to inspect his stubble, they would see that he is almost bald, his hair only growing right above his ears, barely meeting in the back. He keeps a combat knife strapped to his right thigh, but only ever uses it as a tool. He much rather likes to use his fists. He wears two belts of ammo like a sash, and has trained himself to reload his weapon in under a minute (which is rather fast)
Image:
To come later.
Breathe in. Breathe out. It was strange for me to be traveling so fast. If I had ever traveled on a train, it was across deserts. But now, I was traversing across so much of the american south with so much speed. The train's engineer had been paid to stop only when he had to, I could tell. Never would a train skip through so many towns. The train would slow down, but never stop. Some of the cities, I recognized, others were new. I wanted to ask someone to slow the train a little more, maybe let me off. But I knew it would be impossible. The contract had been very specific as to my orders. If I set one foot out of my room, I would find myself ejected onto the quickly passing road before I could blink. I simply sighed and went back to my book, reading the thoughts of long dead Hemingway, almost doubled over to sit in the small car. I let out yet another sigh, and wondered wether there would be some meal to be served later. It seemed not so. And so I flipped the page, content, waiting, antsy.
Yuri slid from craig to craig, his rough boots barely gripping the rock before he managed to leap to the other rock. The crazy demolition man he'd been working with was a paranoid, and had made every inch of land around their foxhole into a veritable mine field, including the trail to latrine. His heavy tomislav slapped against his thigh, holding his gun at the ready even though it was only him and his partner. The mines exploded behind him as he ran, his voice bellowing with rage as he ran back to the trench. Finally he slid into the hole, his finger already getting the barrel spinning, silent as a whisper. The black scottish cyclops smiled, and managed “Heh, that was a gud one, ay?” Before Yuri's hand fell heavy on the trigger, the bits of lead tearing through his partner's body with ease. Once the explosions stopped a minute or two later, Yuri climbed out of the foxhole, his bag on his back, headed out for another assignment.
Yuri Vanavich Karloff.
Age:
Thirty nine years old.
Date of Birth:
October 14th.
Red. Defiantly red.
Gender:
Male
Class:
Heavy
Languages:
Russian
English
Fractured understanding of Italian, French, German, and Spanish.
Personality:
Yuri is a strong man, both in form and in thought. He appreciates the small things in life, taking care to at least step over the flowers if he doesn't have time to stop and smell them. He regards himself as a gentle giant, and sometimes feels bad about how easily he can harm those around him. Sometimes even the most well meaning pat on the back can knock the wind out of someone. He has problems with intimacy, and tends to lead the conversation away from sexual subjects should they arise. He seems to always have a smile on his face when talking to people, but when caught alone, tends to be lost in thought. Some people regard the his pensive look as some sort of brooding internal anger, but simply put, his relaxed face looks angry. Sexuality Primarily heterosexual. Is willing to admit to some drunken mistakes though.
History:
Born in the small village of Klushino, in the Oblast of Smolensk, in the western U.S.S.R., Yuri was named for local hero and cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin. His last name was handed down from his father's(Vana Vanavich) father (Vana Ivanavich), who was born Vana Ivanavich Verbukh, but changed his name to Karloff when attempting to move to america and become part of the budding film industry. It seemed that Hollywood was only big enough for one Russian giant, and quickly Vana Ivanavich moved back to the family home in Klushino with his tail between his legs.
Bored, and with nothing much else to to, the family Karloff became well known for their inexplicable ability to acquire the most exotic and specialized weaponry. In fact, no one ever knew where Vana Ivanavich got his weapons from, and the old giant took his secret to his grave. Raised in a quagmire of untrust, violence, and explosions, Yuri never really liked weapons. He never liked hurting people. But he didn't like to be hurt either. The youngest son of Vana Ivanavich's oldest son, Yuri was never really interested in the family business. Arms were left to his older brothers. Instead, Yuri looked to his namesake for inspiration. All throughout his teenage years, he trained himself to become the perfect candidate to become a cosmonaut. He knew more in seventeen years than what most learned in a lifetime, in subjects scientific, philosophic, and tactic, and was at the peak of physical ability when something fell. A wall. In Berlin. For two years after graduating from higher education three years early, Yuri worked with the crumbling U.S.S.R. to get into space, to prove that though injured, the soviet states were still a world power. Yuri was two months from getting into space, at 19, he would have been the youngest man to ever touch so high of heights, when the last leg beneath the U.S.S.R. fell. And the post soviet government wanted all new cosmonauts.
His life dream shot out the window, Yuri fell into drunken anonymity, stumbling from bar to bar, letting his body and mind atrophy a little more with each blazingly bright morning. Somehow, in some sort of drunken dare to himself, he decided that if he couldn't see the world from space, he would see it on foot. And so, for ten years, Yuri traveled around the world, learning to appreciate all of the worlds sights and peoples, but always missing dear sweet Klushino. On his long trip around the world, he never once set foot on a plane, feeling that to do so would betray all of the little places underneath of a visit. And so, after he was satisfied with what he had seen of the world, he headed back home.
Upon arriving home Yuri found that after the death of his grandfather, the munitions sales business had died with him. His family, the once proud Karloff arms dealers, were now simply another set of glowering pig farmers along the road. And without the money to travel to nearby Gagarin and see a doctor, Vana Vanachich Karloff, Yuri's father, was dyeing of pneumonia. One by one, Vana called in each of his seven sons, and told them what he last wished of them. To the oldest six, Vana gave a task, meaningless, that would help them to grow as men. And to his youngest son, Yuri, the one who was now more a man than himself, he gave the last grain of his own father's legacy, a heavily modified thompson submachine gun, a last clinging of Yuri's grandfather's love of Hollywood. The thing was a work of beauty, and Vana could hardly lift it to hand it to Yuri. But to Yuri, it was as light as a feather, and his hands took to the handles like the hips of a young woman. This gun was made for him, and him for it. Yuri did not fire the gun a single time until his father's passing, and after he only used a single drum to train himself.
He is a man, who had seen to much of the worlds wonders to ever want to kill, and now held that which would have killed far to many in the hands of a weaker willed man. And his father's last wish was that this gun, this work of beauty, be used wisely.
Yuri now works as a mercenary, private tactician, and writer to make money to send to his family so that they can life the life they had long ago once again. So far, his writing hasn't had much luck, his tactics seem to always fall on deaf ears, and he hasn't found a mercantile contract that appealed to him. Until now.
Appearance:
There are some people who are big, and there are some people who are REALLY BIG. But there are few people who can truly be defined as walls of flesh. Standing at 2.337 meters(92 inches), Yuri's height makes him rather imposing, but what's more terrifing about him is that without anything to reference him, he looks almost stout, chubby. His shoulders are four times as wide as his head, and is barrel chested because of his asthma during his youth and obsession with physical perfection during his teens. His arms are massive tendrils of muscle, softened by years of drinking, partying, and helping, but still bigger around than most people's heads. Not necks. But heads. His belly sticks out a little from years of drinking, but it could hardly be called a beet gut. His hands are so large that they could encompass basketballs with ease, the span from the tips of his pinkey and thumb when fully extended reaching almost 30 cm, each finger the width of a Gatorade bottle cap. He wears simple clothes, cloth ankled combat boots, black denim pants, a white shirt, and a tattered red vest. Sometimes when he's feeling cold, he will wear his old dress uniform jacket, a long black wool overcoat that could easily act as a blanket for a smaller person. On top of his head, he wears a tattered pilot's hat of the U.S.S.R., a dark grey felt number with trim and stock that was once vibrant blue, but now is somewhere between brown and black. The golden embroydery and trim have long since faded, and the only thing left perfectly intact is the red star right above the black plastic brim. His face and head are shaven close, but if one were to inspect his stubble, they would see that he is almost bald, his hair only growing right above his ears, barely meeting in the back. He keeps a combat knife strapped to his right thigh, but only ever uses it as a tool. He much rather likes to use his fists. He wears two belts of ammo like a sash, and has trained himself to reload his weapon in under a minute (which is rather fast)
Image:
To come later.
Breathe in. Breathe out. It was strange for me to be traveling so fast. If I had ever traveled on a train, it was across deserts. But now, I was traversing across so much of the american south with so much speed. The train's engineer had been paid to stop only when he had to, I could tell. Never would a train skip through so many towns. The train would slow down, but never stop. Some of the cities, I recognized, others were new. I wanted to ask someone to slow the train a little more, maybe let me off. But I knew it would be impossible. The contract had been very specific as to my orders. If I set one foot out of my room, I would find myself ejected onto the quickly passing road before I could blink. I simply sighed and went back to my book, reading the thoughts of long dead Hemingway, almost doubled over to sit in the small car. I let out yet another sigh, and wondered wether there would be some meal to be served later. It seemed not so. And so I flipped the page, content, waiting, antsy.
Yuri slid from craig to craig, his rough boots barely gripping the rock before he managed to leap to the other rock. The crazy demolition man he'd been working with was a paranoid, and had made every inch of land around their foxhole into a veritable mine field, including the trail to latrine. His heavy tomislav slapped against his thigh, holding his gun at the ready even though it was only him and his partner. The mines exploded behind him as he ran, his voice bellowing with rage as he ran back to the trench. Finally he slid into the hole, his finger already getting the barrel spinning, silent as a whisper. The black scottish cyclops smiled, and managed “Heh, that was a gud one, ay?” Before Yuri's hand fell heavy on the trigger, the bits of lead tearing through his partner's body with ease. Once the explosions stopped a minute or two later, Yuri climbed out of the foxhole, his bag on his back, headed out for another assignment.
