REVOLUTIONIST, gavriil pirozhkov
posted Jan 20, 2019 20:34:14 GMT -6
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[attr="class","omapponetop2"]revolution calling
[attr="class","omapponetop1"]FILES LOCATED UNDER
GAVRIIL PIROZHKOV
GAVRIIL PIROZHKOV
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GAVRIIL PIROZHKOV
LOOKS LIKE MANANAN FROM HEAVEN & HELL ROMAN COMPANY
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FILE NAVIGATION
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ABOUT GAVRIIL
ABOUT GAVRIIL
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GAV / GAVRIK / GAVRYUSHA
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GAV / GAVRIK / GAVRYUSHA
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25 YEARS OLD
[attr="class","lnr lnr-gift"]
25 YEARS OLD
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CIS MALE
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CIS MALE
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HE / HIM
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HE / HIM
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DEMISEXUAL
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DEMISEXUAL
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HETEROROMANTIC
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HETEROROMANTIC
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SINGLE
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SINGLE
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APRIL 04
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APRIL 04
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ARIES
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ARIES
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DEMOLITION CONTRACTOR
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DEMOLITION CONTRACTOR
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[attr="class","omapponetabs1"]SUBJECT TEMPERAMENT
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RECENT STATUS
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so he replies, 'and how do you manage?' i dodge the blast and apologize for collateral damage
so he replies, 'and how do you manage?' i dodge the blast and apologize for collateral damage
[attr="class","omapponepersonality1"]SUBJECT TEMPERAMENT
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[attr="class","omapponelikes2"]POSITIVES
loyal
candid
undeviating
tenacious
dauntless
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[attr="class","omapponelikes2"]NEGATIVES
crafty
recalcitrant
unrestrained
strident
capricious
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[attr="class","omapponetabs2"]MISCELLANEOUS
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MISCELLANEOUS INFO
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half-baked alaskan. Gavriil, while born and raised in Alaska, lived in a prominently Russian community, growing up and speaking the language fluently. English itself remains a whole different story. While he's capable of understanding it, his way of speaking often seems broken and falls heavily laced with a Russian accent. The accent lessens when he ennunciates, fortunately.
[break][break]
picky, picky. He carries a lock pick set held in a small rectangular case on his person at all times. He can never guarantee when he may or may not need it, so best to keep it on hand, or rather in his breastpocket.
[break][break]
untapped potential. Despite the way he presents himself, Gavriil is a rather intelligent man. He can figure out mathematical solutions in his head, and can think on his feet with ease. Despite this, he doesn't often allow people to underestimate him if it equates to him betraying them; betrayal isn't his cup of tea if it can be avoided.
[break][break]
capable pugilist. Years of construction work have left him with impressive all around body strength. Gavriil's matched his physical strength with practicing various fighting styles. His most comfortable styles are a mix of krav maga and grappling. If and when need be, he's not afraid to get his hands dirty.
[break][break]
how do you sleep at night? Quite honestly, Gavriil is capable of sleeping anywhere, in any position, at any time. There's times he'll sleep with his upper body on the ground while the lower half is still in his bed. Other times, he'll sleep curled up in a contortionist-level ball. As long as he's comfortable though, right?
half-baked alaskan. Gavriil, while born and raised in Alaska, lived in a prominently Russian community, growing up and speaking the language fluently. English itself remains a whole different story. While he's capable of understanding it, his way of speaking often seems broken and falls heavily laced with a Russian accent. The accent lessens when he ennunciates, fortunately.
[break][break]
picky, picky. He carries a lock pick set held in a small rectangular case on his person at all times. He can never guarantee when he may or may not need it, so best to keep it on hand, or rather in his breastpocket.
[break][break]
untapped potential. Despite the way he presents himself, Gavriil is a rather intelligent man. He can figure out mathematical solutions in his head, and can think on his feet with ease. Despite this, he doesn't often allow people to underestimate him if it equates to him betraying them; betrayal isn't his cup of tea if it can be avoided.
[break][break]
capable pugilist. Years of construction work have left him with impressive all around body strength. Gavriil's matched his physical strength with practicing various fighting styles. His most comfortable styles are a mix of krav maga and grappling. If and when need be, he's not afraid to get his hands dirty.
[break][break]
how do you sleep at night? Quite honestly, Gavriil is capable of sleeping anywhere, in any position, at any time. There's times he'll sleep with his upper body on the ground while the lower half is still in his bed. Other times, he'll sleep curled up in a contortionist-level ball. As long as he's comfortable though, right?
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[attr="class","omapponemisc11"]
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[attr="class","omapponemisc12"]
[attr="class","omapponemisc11"]
[attr="class","omapponemisc13"]
[attr="class","omapponemisc2"]
[attr="class","omapponemisc21"]
+explosives
+candles
+bubble baths
+drinking
+homecooking
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[attr="class","omapponemisc21"]
-rainy weather
-smoke
-swimming
-being sweaty
+greasy foods
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Gavriil sits across the table as instructed and eyes the shiny revolver with intrigue. There sit six bullets - one for each chamber - but he gives a frown of disappointment. Ironic that the Russian doesn't know how Russian roulette goes. He picks the gun up with slight intrigue and tilts it all about before he unclasps the cylinder to load not one, but five bullets, and clenches the hand shut that loaded the bullets. Before someone can speak and correct him, he raises a hand and cuts them off.
[break][break]
"I know how to play. Five bullets, da? I get not-bullet, I win?"
[break][break]
Without fear, he tilts his head up and places the barrel just below his chin, aimed upward to take the shot. Gavriil hands the gun back to the initiation proctor and smiles fondly, "I lived good life."
[break][break]
He breathes in and closes his eyes. They say that when faced with death, one's life flashes before their eyes. Gavriil allows his life up to now to flash through his mind, some memories fonder than others:
[break][break]
Alaska was surprisingly warmer than people gave it credit for. Humidity was a nasty thing. Sure, he grew up in a loving home with about five younger siblings, but it kept him on his toes and fostered a caring side for him. At first, he seemed like a child with below average intelligence, but he allowed people to underestimate him so he could gain a wide advantage. Physically though, he kept himself in shape and always came as a highly requested sports partner. Socially, he blended well with his peers in Alaska.
[break][break]
Washington was another story. He'd moved with his family about ten years ago, but due to a heavy language barrier, many casted him aside as a plain weirdo who babbled in broken English. (Admittedly he knew English fluently, as demonstrated by his writing and understanding of his school work, but spoken words were ones that just fell short at times. All the more to make him out for an idiot, he supposed.) At the age of 17, however, he dropped out and worked with construction with his father, all merely on a whim. Sure, he earned his GED, but it wasn't as renowned as a diploma.
[break][break]
Construction was something he shined through though. At first, building was fun, but after his first dealing with demolition, he found a love for that particular field. There was something utterly fascinating about destruction and explosions. With the proper training and sorting, Gavriil took to that field and used it to learn all he could about explosives: assembling, disassembling, and giving them more of a kick. More recently, he's become more obsessed with 'making things go boom,' as he puts it. And what better excitement than to gamble into the criminal underworld? They could work symbiotically - himself offering the explosives and them offering him new toys to play with in return, perhaps? He'd get his answers. Though he never realized they'd be at the mercy of a possibly loaded gun.
[break][break]
POP!
[break][break]
The gun itself fires, but the demolition contractor sits well alive, albeit burnt just below the chin - an injury that would heal soon enough. The room washes over with confusion before Gavriil finally opens the palm he had closed so tightly to reveal gun powder and the bullet tips he had pried from the shell casing. A sleight of hand as he disassembled four of the five bullets. The five of six placed in the gun simply made for theatrics. He places what he held in his palm on the table and gives a smug laugh as something mischievous reflects in his eyes.
[break][break]
"I told you I know how to play."
borderline, dead inside, i don't mind
Gavriil sits across the table as instructed and eyes the shiny revolver with intrigue. There sit six bullets - one for each chamber - but he gives a frown of disappointment. Ironic that the Russian doesn't know how Russian roulette goes. He picks the gun up with slight intrigue and tilts it all about before he unclasps the cylinder to load not one, but five bullets, and clenches the hand shut that loaded the bullets. Before someone can speak and correct him, he raises a hand and cuts them off.
[break][break]
"I know how to play. Five bullets, da? I get not-bullet, I win?"
[break][break]
Without fear, he tilts his head up and places the barrel just below his chin, aimed upward to take the shot. Gavriil hands the gun back to the initiation proctor and smiles fondly, "I lived good life."
[break][break]
He breathes in and closes his eyes. They say that when faced with death, one's life flashes before their eyes. Gavriil allows his life up to now to flash through his mind, some memories fonder than others:
[break][break]
Alaska was surprisingly warmer than people gave it credit for. Humidity was a nasty thing. Sure, he grew up in a loving home with about five younger siblings, but it kept him on his toes and fostered a caring side for him. At first, he seemed like a child with below average intelligence, but he allowed people to underestimate him so he could gain a wide advantage. Physically though, he kept himself in shape and always came as a highly requested sports partner. Socially, he blended well with his peers in Alaska.
[break][break]
Washington was another story. He'd moved with his family about ten years ago, but due to a heavy language barrier, many casted him aside as a plain weirdo who babbled in broken English. (Admittedly he knew English fluently, as demonstrated by his writing and understanding of his school work, but spoken words were ones that just fell short at times. All the more to make him out for an idiot, he supposed.) At the age of 17, however, he dropped out and worked with construction with his father, all merely on a whim. Sure, he earned his GED, but it wasn't as renowned as a diploma.
[break][break]
Construction was something he shined through though. At first, building was fun, but after his first dealing with demolition, he found a love for that particular field. There was something utterly fascinating about destruction and explosions. With the proper training and sorting, Gavriil took to that field and used it to learn all he could about explosives: assembling, disassembling, and giving them more of a kick. More recently, he's become more obsessed with 'making things go boom,' as he puts it. And what better excitement than to gamble into the criminal underworld? They could work symbiotically - himself offering the explosives and them offering him new toys to play with in return, perhaps? He'd get his answers. Though he never realized they'd be at the mercy of a possibly loaded gun.
[break][break]
POP!
[break][break]
The gun itself fires, but the demolition contractor sits well alive, albeit burnt just below the chin - an injury that would heal soon enough. The room washes over with confusion before Gavriil finally opens the palm he had closed so tightly to reveal gun powder and the bullet tips he had pried from the shell casing. A sleight of hand as he disassembled four of the five bullets. The five of six placed in the gun simply made for theatrics. He places what he held in his palm on the table and gives a smug laugh as something mischievous reflects in his eyes.
[break][break]
"I told you I know how to play."
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call me
FALLARBOR
call me
FALLARBOR
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PM OR DISCORD
22 YEARS OLD | THEY / THEM | GMT - 5 |
PM OR DISCORD
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5%
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