Post by Viktor Romanov on Dec 22, 2009 23:45:33 GMT -7
† Viktor - Ivan - Romanov †
†veek-tor ivan roma-nov†
[/center]† General Information †
Full Name: Romanov, Viktor Ivan
Nicknames: Smokey, Tic-Tac
Gender: Male
Race: Vampire
Age: 41
Age they appear: Mid thirties
Orientation: Heterosexual
Health Problems: Smoking
† Personality †
Basic Personality: Viktor is an easily irritated person. He tends not to form close relationships due to trust issues. He has a sharp tone of voice, not softened any by his thick Russian accent, and sometimes comes off sounding angry when he isn't. Because of this he generally makes terribly sour first impressions. However, he can get along well with the right crowd. Perhaps a group of porcupines, seeing as they'd have something in common. Sarcastic remarks slip off his tongue quite often. Oddly enough, he has a way with children. Blah blah. Blah. When around said children, he tries to be a good role model. Blah. He also likes to drink. Actually, he never drinks too much, because a lot of alcohol can make him do very stupid things. On one such occasion, he ended up shaving off the soul-patch he had been trying to grow. Oopsie. He will lie if it will make things better, and he will pick you apart if you really piss him off. He is almost addicted to his old job as a spy, which is why he became the Head of the Izan's Intel.
Likes:
† Tic-tacs
† Cigarettes
† Boots
† People who speak their mind
† I dunno, man
Hates:
† Sunlight
† Secrets
† Religion
† His nose
† Nosy people
† Werewolves
† Being ignorant
Talents:
† Can do some mad push-ups
† Running away from his problems
† Reading a 400 page book in one sitting
† Can stay cool in shitty situations
† Can make one word mean several different things depending on how it's said
† Manipulative
† Good detective
† Disguising self
† Lying
Habits:
† Smoking
† Adjusting his glasses repeatedly
† Giving one-word answers
† Stroking his nose
† Saying something he doesn't mean [or does]
† Over-analyzing
† Counting his steps
† Misdirecting anger
† Appearance †
Skin Color: Has a soft tan to it
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Caramel
Build: He is a rather tall individual. He has a large nose. Has some muscle, 'cause what else should he do with his time?
Piercings/Scars/Tattoos: No. Once someone teasingly told him to get a bull-ring in his nose. They couldn't walk straight the next day. Or sit down. Or do anything comfortably.
Choice of Clothing: Viktor is not very picky when it comes to clothing, and he doesn't keep with him a very wide selection of clothes. Most of his wardrobe consists of collared shirts, jeans, overcoats, and the occasional suit. His choice of footwear is a pair of Doc Martens. On days when he simply does not give a shit he will walk out with just a t-shirt and jeans on.
Other: Wears glasses to read close up
† History †
History: Viktor used to be a spy. But before that, he used to be a child. He lived in a big manor full of big serious Russians and had all his hopes and dreams crushed down by the iron of Big Bad World. He was sent off to do military stuff instead of becoming a professor like he wanted and so then he became a spy. He didn’t like being a spy. He saw a lot of bad things that made all his child-like innocence flutter away, and he no longer looked at things the same. In those days the old Viktor who looked upon the world with happy eyes died, and a new harsh Viktor was born who liked to take the weight off of things by making sarcastic remarks and drinking his sorrows away during the wee hours of the morning. Also, he didn't look at the world with happy eyes anymore. Viktor might have gone on being a spy, except he was bitten by a vampire and couldn’t continue his work. He couldn’t become a professor either, which was greatly disappointing. For a while he wouldn’t even let himself believe in such silly things as vampires, but reality sank in after months of feeding off of people's blood and shying from the sun.
At one point in Viktor's life, he came upon an orphaned child. For reasons unknown, he took in said child and gave her a home. In doing this he was in some way regaining the humanity that he had nearly lost as a spy. They shared a very close bond, and during that time the girl was the only person he would interact with. She knew of his vampirism but that didn't bother her, she simply grew used to it. He never infected her with the virus.
Unfortunately, one night as they were walking home, they were confronted by a werewolf. Viktor hadn't even known of the existence of them at that point. The confrontation escalated until it was a full-out fight, and in the midst of it, his adopted child was slaughtered. After this, Viktor became obsessed with finding out information on the werewolves in order to destroy them, and at some point came across the Izan and was accepted as Head of Intel. Even though he was previously haunted by his time as being a spy, he is now 'addicted' to the job, because it is all he feels he has left.
Mother/Father: Dead
Siblings: Nope
Offspring: Nope
Other: Adopted child, now dead
† RP example †
One moment, life was just a topsy-turvy nightmarish world that Ismirshalen had somehow come across, perhaps while in reality he was actually just sleeping on the plane to England. Sleeping because he had finally had a coffee crash, and he would wake up an hour later and would be so thankful it was all a dream. Thankful and thoroughly pissed at himself for letting himself be subjected to the annals of his mind.
The next moment, the only human being in his life right now that cared about him even just a little bit had jumped in front of him and had been blown to bits.
After a piercing scream, his body landed at Ismirshalen's feet.
The man didn’t move after that.
For a few moments, all the guard could do was stare with one wide eye at the body before him. What had just happened did not all at once click inside his skull. He could not bring himself to comprehend what had just occurred. All the color rushed out of his face, along with his breath. He started to tremble. Things started to sink in. The process was painful, like a poison.
All at once, it finally came to the man. A whimper escaped him, and he jerked forward to examine the therapist. Already thick red liquid was pooling on the ground before him, feeding the greedy dirt that thirsted to start the process of decomposition. Although the doctor's suit was black, he could see areas that were significantly darker-- and damper. Among those was the upper area of his right leg, his chest, and… his… head.
A sob escaped the British man's throat. "No," he whispered, putting his finger to the man's neck to check for a pulse. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t tell whether the Frenchman was breathing or not. "You can't be bloody dead, damn it!" His voice rose to more of a yell. As if he could shout life back into the guy. His burning blue eyes whipped up to look for the redhead that had caused him so much pain, but the guy wasn’t there. Dimly he remembered hearing a shout around the same time Dr. DeVrais had screamed. Whatever that had been about, he was gone now. Ismirshalen wished he wasn’t. He wanted to kill that bastard with his bare hands.
His attention snapped back to the-- not dead, he CAN'T BE DEAD-- unconscious therapist. Feverishly, he tore off the dark jacket of his suit and wrapped it around the man's body. With the aid of a sudden rush of adrenaline he ripped off the arm of the thing and wrapped it around his bleeding head. "Not dead," he mumbled as he worked, the words rushing out and not making much sense. "You're not dead. You can't be dead." He picked up the limp form, wasn’t much surprised that the guy was very light, and ran to the car. After fumbling with the passenger door for a few wasteful seconds he put the therapist in the seat, buckled him in, and raced around to the driver's seat. Started the engine. Tires squealed as they peeled off the driveway at a breakneck speed.
Tears poured out of his eyes as he drove, sometimes blurring his vision to a point where he had to take a hand from the wheel to wipe them off . He had never felt this way about anything before. At least not since he had lost his wife. Obviously he didn’t have any feelings for the therapist that were in any way similar to those. But he still felt something. He cared. He was terrified at the idea of losing this man. And the fact that he felt that way was also terrifying. He felt like his heart would literally split in half. He kept glancing over at the bleeding man next to him. He kept muttering things to him, random trivial things, even though somewhere inside he knew the guy couldn’t hear him.
This was all too much. His house was gone. His money was gone. He was penniless. His therapist had… sacrificed himself for him. It was the word he had been avoiding all this time. The man had jumped in front of him so that instead of Ismirshalen Linnaeus being brutally slaughtered by those bullets, Vincent DeVrais had.
"W'hy did you do it, you toad?" he asked the therapist. Who obviously was not listening. "You know me. I'm a bastard. Everyone says I'm a bastard. Even I know I'm a bastard! Why did you do it?!"
No answer.
The sign for the hospital appeared in front of Ismirshalen's headlights. He drove into the facility like a madman. He parked like a madman. He carried the doctor's limp bleeding body to the emergency room like a madman. He babbled to the people at the desk like a madman. Seeing the state of the mad British man, they didn’t even bother asking him for an explanation just then, because it was obvious that the Frenchman was in critical condition. They took him on a stretcher.
"So… W'hy did he get shot in the head?" Ismirshalen was asked ten minutes later as he stood pacing in the hallway and muttering incoherently to himself. It took him a full minute to realize that he'd been spoken to.
"T-this guy.. sh.. shot him…" he replied, teeth chattering.
"Uh huh…" The doctor looked skeptical. "This man who shot him.. Was he you?"
The response he earned from Ismirshalen was a blank-eyed stare.
"You uh… Just seemed sort of like.. an angry couple, you know?"
"No."
After that he was left alone.
***
Four hours had passed since the bullet-riddled therapist had been admitted to the hospital. During this time all the Englishman had managed to do was walk around the entire building and drink ten mugs of coffee at a breakneck, feverish pace. Fifteen minutes ago he had gotten back to the emergency room to find out that Dr. DeVrais was out of surgery and that he had his own room. Before he could be told anything else, he'd turned and left for the room without a word.
Now he was at the door. Room 213 on the second floor. He'd passed it earlier. For a few minutes he just stood there, staring at the number and only partly aware of what was in front of him. His face was a puffy red, and not just from being beaten up by the redhead's brass knuckles [before he had made an attempt to get it checked out, but they had only laughed and given him a band-aid, which he'd stuck over his right eye]. He felt like he had been torn apart by a paper shredder and then glued back together by a blind monkey. He was still just as shaky as he'd been when he entered the hospital. He felt like a cut thread. He was afraid of what awaited him beyond the door.
He entered the room. Walked the chair next to the bed without looking at the bed and sat down.
He stared at the floor with eyes blurred by salty liquid.
† Let's talk about you †
Name: Henri
Other Characters: No
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