Karelinkski
05-04-11, 01:09 AM
Name: Sergei Vladimirov Karelinkski
Age: 29
Race: Human
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Grey
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 200
Occupation: Comrade Sergeant in the Soviet Army
Personality: Sergei is an intellectual, though most wouldn't know it. He isn't given to rambling, or correcting others. He reads often, or did before the war. A calm man, given to seriousness, he enjoys the company of his friends, but is usually the one who keeps them out of trouble late into a drunken evening. A man with a solid backbone, he understands fear, and also understands that true courage is being afraid and acting anyhow.
Appearance: A tall man, he cuts a fine picture of Russia's fallen aristocracy. His sharp features, and strong face betray his origins, he has none of the muddled features common to the peasantry. He wears what most soldiers in 1941 are wearing, whatever they can take from dead enemies and comrades. A decent pair of leather boots, faded drag green uniform pants, a new linen shirt (a recent acquisition), and a faded green Russian greatcoat.
Skills: Sergei was raised as an aristocrat, even if it was secretly he was still trained well as a lad. he can read write and speak several languages, and consequently is able to learn new languages faster than the average person. He understands when to be diplomatic, and how to interact with the upper-class.
Leadership: Sergei has always been able to inspire those around him. His training, his bearing, his experience, and his fearlessness seem to inspire those around him.
Experienced soldier: Sergei is comfortable with most weapons he's handled, if it will shoot stab or blow up the enemy, he can use it with competency. He's also experienced quite a bit of hand to hand combat, fists, knives, knuckle-dusters, large pieces of wood or metal, anything at hand. He'll kill with it if it means living another day.
Abilities:
Calm under fire: There are only so many times you can be blown up, before it loses its spectacular quality. Simply put, its happened before, being afraid won't keep you alive, but keeping your head on your shoulders will. The fear of death has slowly ebbed away, until he's simply accepted that he's more than likely already dead. Explosions, gunfire, stabbings, snipers, and the sort of general destruction he's seen on the Western front, no longer scare him.
I get knocked down, but I get up again: Getting shot is a shocking experience, the first half dozen times or so. Sergei can take a shot from low to moderate power weapons and ignore the pain. Its not that he isn't hurt, its simply that stopping to cry about it is a good way to die. That being said, Sergei cannot shrug off multiple attacks. Assuming nothing vital is struck, he can ignore the effects of the first hit he takes in combat, ( ie. an round that passes clean through his leg or shoulder, missing vital organs an larger bones). Adrenaline is a wonderful thing.
Equipment:
1936 Tokarev pistol - Old, worn, but well taken care of. 7.62x25mm, 8 rnd capacity, 2 magazines (8 rnds, 5 rnds)
Currently broken, several of the more delicate springs within the assembly are broken. These are the sort of springs that must be exact, and are quite difficult to replicate without exact measurements.
German Trench-Knife/Bayonet -7 1/2" Trench-Knife, a nasty single edged, steel bayonet stolen from a dead German. Great for many things, namely: Stabbing through heavy greatcoats and uniforms.
Cleaning implements for a pistol
Silver lighter - Engraved with a 'K' on one side
History:
"Move you peasant dog!" A boot accompanied the insult, following the spittle of the enraged Commisar.
"Aye, comrade commissar Brovita, we're moving." With a last grimace and a curse at the fates, Sergei nodded to his soldiers and forced a smile. If he were going to lead them to their death, he should at least look confident, if any of them lived, timidity wouldn't be the reason.
The large Omsk born man, rose swiftly to his feet, pivoting and lunging as he rose. He bounded over a rough barricade of building material and detritus building remains, and charged headlong across the courtyard in front of him. His mind cleared, now was the time for action, one two three steps, change direction. He sprinted to the right the bullets meant for him narrowly missing, one so close it sounded as a bee in his ear. Behind him a series of dull thuds and a gasp told him his rifle section was now only a two man section. He processed this, but didn't react, now wasn't the time. His feet moved, instinct carrying him over one, two barriers. He cleared the third barrier and there was a man before him, shallow cheeks from hunger, eyes filled with hatred, then surprise as he slumped under fire. "Back to hell with you demons!" The battlerage was in him, the adrenaline fueled blood-thirst. His powerful frame knocked another man down with the butt of his rifle, once, twice, he didn't struggled as the bayonet plunged in a third time. Sergei crouched, worked the bolt on his rifle and brought it up, the tunnel vision of battle subsiding as he took in the area around him. Two men at his feet, Nikolai beside him, a third man down below him. His breathing slowed, the adrenaline slowly ebbed from his system.
"Siminov is dead Sergei, but so is the Commisar." Nikolai, his last remaining soldier nodded back across the courtyard to their previous position. It was smoking, a grenade had taken part of the barricade down. Sergei shook his head in shock, he'd never even heard the blast, but it must have been a mere second after they'd charged.
"That pig-fucker saved our lives? Hmph, one accidental good deed won't save him from hell." Sergei spit to add emphasis to his hatred of the commissar. He stood, and stretched his legs, bounding over the barricade and walking back to search for the Commisar's body. "Maybe his cigarette's survived?"
There wasn't much left, the upper portion of the commissar was mostly missing, Sergei guessed it was somewhere in the building behind. But he immediately noticed a fine looking leather holster, and a familiar square bulge in the pocket of the man's pocket. He unslung his rifle and went to work. Those boots were his size, so he swapped with the dead man. He checked the pistol as he donned the belt, it was a tokarev, even had two magazines. Finally, he took took a half empty pack of smokes from a hip pocket, and a small silver lighter. He smiled as he gazed at the lighter, then he slipped it in his pocket.
Sergei picked up his rifle, the Mosin-Nagant, he'd dropped his old rifle for one with a scope he'd found in the rubble of an old bakery he'd raided for bread last week. It was a nice find, and it had given him an excuse to pull his shrunken rifle section out of the line company he'd be assigned to. "Alright, well let's find a place to hunker down for the night, this time no...." He froze, "Oh shit get down." A whistling sound punctuated the grey evening, and the men dropped behind the relative cover of the barricade.
Time seemed to elongate, the sound grew louder, there was an impact, Sergei's mind didn't register any sound, just a wall of force. Everything went white, then everything was black.
---------------------
YOUR TIME HAS NOT PASSED, I HAVE WORK FOR YOU, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED ENDLESS REST YET. WAKE CHILD, WAKE.
Somewhere, time was passing, the sensation of movement, equilibrium off, then it returned. Sergei tried to open his eyes, something was wrong, the smell, the sound, wasn't right. Had someone been talking to him? He groaned, and passed back out.
----------------------
"The sleeper rises?"
He shot bolt up, "Nikolai!" His vision was blurred, his eyes were taking too long to adjust.
"Calm, don't move too rapidly, your body is still adjusting." Sergei's eyes focused in on a man, an old man to be exact, balding, he had a hairstyle, what was it called? A tonsur? His age showed in his stance, and his legs as he walked.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
"Questions, yes questions are to be expected I suppose. You are in the citadel, and I am Brother Cardin. I should ask you the same, you're not from this place I assume from your dress, the language your mutter in your sleep is not one I know either."
"Language I mutter..... wait, how can I speak," Sergei paused, "Vy gavarit'e pa-russki?"
The man gave no indication of understanding.
"Poshol ti nahoo." Still no reaction, if he didn't react to that, he definately wasn't faking, either that or his poker face was amazing. "Chto za huy. How is it I can speak your language? I don't even know what land I'm in."
"Well perhaps we should start with what you do know? Tell me, whats your name, who are you lad?"
Sergei didn't feel much like a 'lad' right now, he felt old and tired, worn down by years of war, famine, oppression even if it was his choice to put himself in the situation he'd been in. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, "My name is Sergei Vladimirov Karelinski, son of Caminov Karelinski, of the Omsk Karelinski's my father used to be a moderately powerful man in that region." Normally Sergei left out the part about who his father was, it wasn't popular in these days, but years ago his father had been a powerful man, before the white and red war, before the second great war. He didn't think any of that was going to matter anymore though, his family was long dead, and he doubted this place had Commisars. "I am nine and twenty years old, and I am a Sergeant in the Soviet Army. I lead," He sighed as memories flooded back, "I led, a rifle section, they're dead now... I should be dead too, this must be a dream, or heaven." He looked around, it didn't look like heaven. "Artillary, hit my position, I remember the light fading, I remember dying!"
"While I don't understand it all, I can assure you you're not dead, and this most definitely isn't heaven. And you don't seem to be dreaming either."
"I..," He shook his head, it was too much to think about. He pulled the blanket back from the bed where he had been lying, he was in his underthings, fresh bandages ringed his legs in several places. His right arm matched it, and most of his chest was wrapped as well. "Well, that part was real enough," it hurt to move, but he turned none-the-less and stood from the low wooden bed. "Thank you for tending to me, I suppose I owe you something for your services?
"Your wounds were odd, not untreatable mind you, but the patterns and the pieces we pulled out of you. Never have I seen anything like it." The brother motioned to a table, the only other thing that adorned the small stone chamber, on it was a lamp, and his clothing. "Your things are there, I took the costs from the money you had on you already. It was adequate, not all was needed. I'll leave you to dress, if you need anything further, I'll be down the hall."
Money? Sergei hadn't had any money for months, what was the old man talking about? He picked up his pants off the table, and slipped them on, they were clean. This alone shocked Sergei, he'd never seen the pants clean before, they were a drab green color, he'd always thought them grey, that was the color they'd been when he took them from their last owner. The pack of cigarettes were still there in his pocket, he took one and lit it. He inspected the lighter again, it was silver with a K stamped on one side, he'd been pleased to retreive itfrom that thieving Commisar. Sergei donned an off-white linen shirt he didn't recognize, his shirt had been brown, worn out, and full of holes. His long winter coat was cleaner than it had ever been before, and surprisingly free of lice. It felt heavier as he put it on, there was a heavy lump in one pocket, closer inspection revealed a leather pouch with a neat little pile of coins, they looked suspiciously like gold. Sergei gasp, gold, that much gold would have been a fortune to anyone he knew, how had he come by that? He picked up the leather belt and holster he'd heisted, he checked the pistol, it wasn't in brilliant condition, but the commissar had been anal, and so it was at least clean and oiled. One magazine was loaded, full, the other had five rounds, inside a small pouch that hung on the belt behind the holster was a rag, a copper brush, and a small metal tube of gun oil, heaven knows where the commissar had gotten that. Lastly Sergei looped the sheathe for a fine German trench-knife bayonet onto the leather belt. "Chyort voz'mi! Where the hell is my rifle?" The memory of the blast replayed in his mind, he hadn't slung the rifle, he'd been holding it when he dropped, it must have been blown free when the blast picked him up. The rest of the memory stopped him before he entered a cursing fit, the voice, a man's voice? What had it said, Sergei felt like it was important somehow, but, but what was it, it was almost there.. but he couldn't remember.
At least he still had the pistol, that was something. Sergei drew the weapon and checked the action, but the bolt failed to lock into place, and the slide drew to easily to the rear. He let go of the slide, expecting it to slam forward and lock into place... it meekly slid forward an inch. Sergei shook the useless thing, and could hear the sound of something small and loose rattling around inside the slide, and the grip. "Well thats wonderful, wonder how long that fool was carrying around a broken pistol, threatening us with a useless toy." That was simply wonderful, no rifle, a pistol he'd be better off throwing as a large rock. All he had was the bayonet. "This is not good."
He thumbed the gold in his pocket, first things first, he needed a warm meal, it'd been ages. Then he'd get to work on finding out where he was. The door shot behind him, closed on an old life, closed on a war he'd thought he'd never live through, and opened onto a new future, full of hope and possibilities and maybe more danger than he'd ever been in before.
Age: 29
Race: Human
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Grey
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 200
Occupation: Comrade Sergeant in the Soviet Army
Personality: Sergei is an intellectual, though most wouldn't know it. He isn't given to rambling, or correcting others. He reads often, or did before the war. A calm man, given to seriousness, he enjoys the company of his friends, but is usually the one who keeps them out of trouble late into a drunken evening. A man with a solid backbone, he understands fear, and also understands that true courage is being afraid and acting anyhow.
Appearance: A tall man, he cuts a fine picture of Russia's fallen aristocracy. His sharp features, and strong face betray his origins, he has none of the muddled features common to the peasantry. He wears what most soldiers in 1941 are wearing, whatever they can take from dead enemies and comrades. A decent pair of leather boots, faded drag green uniform pants, a new linen shirt (a recent acquisition), and a faded green Russian greatcoat.
Skills: Sergei was raised as an aristocrat, even if it was secretly he was still trained well as a lad. he can read write and speak several languages, and consequently is able to learn new languages faster than the average person. He understands when to be diplomatic, and how to interact with the upper-class.
Leadership: Sergei has always been able to inspire those around him. His training, his bearing, his experience, and his fearlessness seem to inspire those around him.
Experienced soldier: Sergei is comfortable with most weapons he's handled, if it will shoot stab or blow up the enemy, he can use it with competency. He's also experienced quite a bit of hand to hand combat, fists, knives, knuckle-dusters, large pieces of wood or metal, anything at hand. He'll kill with it if it means living another day.
Abilities:
Calm under fire: There are only so many times you can be blown up, before it loses its spectacular quality. Simply put, its happened before, being afraid won't keep you alive, but keeping your head on your shoulders will. The fear of death has slowly ebbed away, until he's simply accepted that he's more than likely already dead. Explosions, gunfire, stabbings, snipers, and the sort of general destruction he's seen on the Western front, no longer scare him.
I get knocked down, but I get up again: Getting shot is a shocking experience, the first half dozen times or so. Sergei can take a shot from low to moderate power weapons and ignore the pain. Its not that he isn't hurt, its simply that stopping to cry about it is a good way to die. That being said, Sergei cannot shrug off multiple attacks. Assuming nothing vital is struck, he can ignore the effects of the first hit he takes in combat, ( ie. an round that passes clean through his leg or shoulder, missing vital organs an larger bones). Adrenaline is a wonderful thing.
Equipment:
1936 Tokarev pistol - Old, worn, but well taken care of. 7.62x25mm, 8 rnd capacity, 2 magazines (8 rnds, 5 rnds)
Currently broken, several of the more delicate springs within the assembly are broken. These are the sort of springs that must be exact, and are quite difficult to replicate without exact measurements.
German Trench-Knife/Bayonet -7 1/2" Trench-Knife, a nasty single edged, steel bayonet stolen from a dead German. Great for many things, namely: Stabbing through heavy greatcoats and uniforms.
Cleaning implements for a pistol
Silver lighter - Engraved with a 'K' on one side
History:
"Move you peasant dog!" A boot accompanied the insult, following the spittle of the enraged Commisar.
"Aye, comrade commissar Brovita, we're moving." With a last grimace and a curse at the fates, Sergei nodded to his soldiers and forced a smile. If he were going to lead them to their death, he should at least look confident, if any of them lived, timidity wouldn't be the reason.
The large Omsk born man, rose swiftly to his feet, pivoting and lunging as he rose. He bounded over a rough barricade of building material and detritus building remains, and charged headlong across the courtyard in front of him. His mind cleared, now was the time for action, one two three steps, change direction. He sprinted to the right the bullets meant for him narrowly missing, one so close it sounded as a bee in his ear. Behind him a series of dull thuds and a gasp told him his rifle section was now only a two man section. He processed this, but didn't react, now wasn't the time. His feet moved, instinct carrying him over one, two barriers. He cleared the third barrier and there was a man before him, shallow cheeks from hunger, eyes filled with hatred, then surprise as he slumped under fire. "Back to hell with you demons!" The battlerage was in him, the adrenaline fueled blood-thirst. His powerful frame knocked another man down with the butt of his rifle, once, twice, he didn't struggled as the bayonet plunged in a third time. Sergei crouched, worked the bolt on his rifle and brought it up, the tunnel vision of battle subsiding as he took in the area around him. Two men at his feet, Nikolai beside him, a third man down below him. His breathing slowed, the adrenaline slowly ebbed from his system.
"Siminov is dead Sergei, but so is the Commisar." Nikolai, his last remaining soldier nodded back across the courtyard to their previous position. It was smoking, a grenade had taken part of the barricade down. Sergei shook his head in shock, he'd never even heard the blast, but it must have been a mere second after they'd charged.
"That pig-fucker saved our lives? Hmph, one accidental good deed won't save him from hell." Sergei spit to add emphasis to his hatred of the commissar. He stood, and stretched his legs, bounding over the barricade and walking back to search for the Commisar's body. "Maybe his cigarette's survived?"
There wasn't much left, the upper portion of the commissar was mostly missing, Sergei guessed it was somewhere in the building behind. But he immediately noticed a fine looking leather holster, and a familiar square bulge in the pocket of the man's pocket. He unslung his rifle and went to work. Those boots were his size, so he swapped with the dead man. He checked the pistol as he donned the belt, it was a tokarev, even had two magazines. Finally, he took took a half empty pack of smokes from a hip pocket, and a small silver lighter. He smiled as he gazed at the lighter, then he slipped it in his pocket.
Sergei picked up his rifle, the Mosin-Nagant, he'd dropped his old rifle for one with a scope he'd found in the rubble of an old bakery he'd raided for bread last week. It was a nice find, and it had given him an excuse to pull his shrunken rifle section out of the line company he'd be assigned to. "Alright, well let's find a place to hunker down for the night, this time no...." He froze, "Oh shit get down." A whistling sound punctuated the grey evening, and the men dropped behind the relative cover of the barricade.
Time seemed to elongate, the sound grew louder, there was an impact, Sergei's mind didn't register any sound, just a wall of force. Everything went white, then everything was black.
---------------------
YOUR TIME HAS NOT PASSED, I HAVE WORK FOR YOU, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED ENDLESS REST YET. WAKE CHILD, WAKE.
Somewhere, time was passing, the sensation of movement, equilibrium off, then it returned. Sergei tried to open his eyes, something was wrong, the smell, the sound, wasn't right. Had someone been talking to him? He groaned, and passed back out.
----------------------
"The sleeper rises?"
He shot bolt up, "Nikolai!" His vision was blurred, his eyes were taking too long to adjust.
"Calm, don't move too rapidly, your body is still adjusting." Sergei's eyes focused in on a man, an old man to be exact, balding, he had a hairstyle, what was it called? A tonsur? His age showed in his stance, and his legs as he walked.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
"Questions, yes questions are to be expected I suppose. You are in the citadel, and I am Brother Cardin. I should ask you the same, you're not from this place I assume from your dress, the language your mutter in your sleep is not one I know either."
"Language I mutter..... wait, how can I speak," Sergei paused, "Vy gavarit'e pa-russki?"
The man gave no indication of understanding.
"Poshol ti nahoo." Still no reaction, if he didn't react to that, he definately wasn't faking, either that or his poker face was amazing. "Chto za huy. How is it I can speak your language? I don't even know what land I'm in."
"Well perhaps we should start with what you do know? Tell me, whats your name, who are you lad?"
Sergei didn't feel much like a 'lad' right now, he felt old and tired, worn down by years of war, famine, oppression even if it was his choice to put himself in the situation he'd been in. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, "My name is Sergei Vladimirov Karelinski, son of Caminov Karelinski, of the Omsk Karelinski's my father used to be a moderately powerful man in that region." Normally Sergei left out the part about who his father was, it wasn't popular in these days, but years ago his father had been a powerful man, before the white and red war, before the second great war. He didn't think any of that was going to matter anymore though, his family was long dead, and he doubted this place had Commisars. "I am nine and twenty years old, and I am a Sergeant in the Soviet Army. I lead," He sighed as memories flooded back, "I led, a rifle section, they're dead now... I should be dead too, this must be a dream, or heaven." He looked around, it didn't look like heaven. "Artillary, hit my position, I remember the light fading, I remember dying!"
"While I don't understand it all, I can assure you you're not dead, and this most definitely isn't heaven. And you don't seem to be dreaming either."
"I..," He shook his head, it was too much to think about. He pulled the blanket back from the bed where he had been lying, he was in his underthings, fresh bandages ringed his legs in several places. His right arm matched it, and most of his chest was wrapped as well. "Well, that part was real enough," it hurt to move, but he turned none-the-less and stood from the low wooden bed. "Thank you for tending to me, I suppose I owe you something for your services?
"Your wounds were odd, not untreatable mind you, but the patterns and the pieces we pulled out of you. Never have I seen anything like it." The brother motioned to a table, the only other thing that adorned the small stone chamber, on it was a lamp, and his clothing. "Your things are there, I took the costs from the money you had on you already. It was adequate, not all was needed. I'll leave you to dress, if you need anything further, I'll be down the hall."
Money? Sergei hadn't had any money for months, what was the old man talking about? He picked up his pants off the table, and slipped them on, they were clean. This alone shocked Sergei, he'd never seen the pants clean before, they were a drab green color, he'd always thought them grey, that was the color they'd been when he took them from their last owner. The pack of cigarettes were still there in his pocket, he took one and lit it. He inspected the lighter again, it was silver with a K stamped on one side, he'd been pleased to retreive itfrom that thieving Commisar. Sergei donned an off-white linen shirt he didn't recognize, his shirt had been brown, worn out, and full of holes. His long winter coat was cleaner than it had ever been before, and surprisingly free of lice. It felt heavier as he put it on, there was a heavy lump in one pocket, closer inspection revealed a leather pouch with a neat little pile of coins, they looked suspiciously like gold. Sergei gasp, gold, that much gold would have been a fortune to anyone he knew, how had he come by that? He picked up the leather belt and holster he'd heisted, he checked the pistol, it wasn't in brilliant condition, but the commissar had been anal, and so it was at least clean and oiled. One magazine was loaded, full, the other had five rounds, inside a small pouch that hung on the belt behind the holster was a rag, a copper brush, and a small metal tube of gun oil, heaven knows where the commissar had gotten that. Lastly Sergei looped the sheathe for a fine German trench-knife bayonet onto the leather belt. "Chyort voz'mi! Where the hell is my rifle?" The memory of the blast replayed in his mind, he hadn't slung the rifle, he'd been holding it when he dropped, it must have been blown free when the blast picked him up. The rest of the memory stopped him before he entered a cursing fit, the voice, a man's voice? What had it said, Sergei felt like it was important somehow, but, but what was it, it was almost there.. but he couldn't remember.
At least he still had the pistol, that was something. Sergei drew the weapon and checked the action, but the bolt failed to lock into place, and the slide drew to easily to the rear. He let go of the slide, expecting it to slam forward and lock into place... it meekly slid forward an inch. Sergei shook the useless thing, and could hear the sound of something small and loose rattling around inside the slide, and the grip. "Well thats wonderful, wonder how long that fool was carrying around a broken pistol, threatening us with a useless toy." That was simply wonderful, no rifle, a pistol he'd be better off throwing as a large rock. All he had was the bayonet. "This is not good."
He thumbed the gold in his pocket, first things first, he needed a warm meal, it'd been ages. Then he'd get to work on finding out where he was. The door shot behind him, closed on an old life, closed on a war he'd thought he'd never live through, and opened onto a new future, full of hope and possibilities and maybe more danger than he'd ever been in before.