|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Tue Jun 04, 2013 7:21 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Jun 04, 2013 7:29 pm
the chosen  INFORMATION[ ? ] name - Prokhor Zaytsev
[ ? ] gender - Male
[ ? ] age - 23
[ ? ] occupation - Unemployed Self-proclaimed entertainer extraordinaire
[ ? ] location - Palisade
[ ? ] homeland - Okraina
[ ? ] appearance - Fit and quite youthful in appearance, it's difficult to tell just what Prokhor has been through at a glance, aside from the obviously crooked nose and a thinner silhouette that says he may or may not always have regular meals despite his energy. His eyes and smile are often kind and jovial, and when matched with his pale, disheveled hair, the immediate impression he exudes is one of a friendly, but unkempt child. Though he tries to make up for his age by slicking back his wavy hair, it rarely stays in place, and by the end of the day there are strands sticking up in every direction. Sometimes he chooses to tame it with a tiny ponytail at the base of his skull instead. While his usual attire is simple, fit for a manual laborer, he does possess one rather old, but flashy outfit he wears during street performances. PERSONALITYDespite the hardship that cut off the good times of his childhood, Prokhor remains naturally upbeat. Likewise, he can be a go-getter, but that side of him is incredibly relative. When it comes to a hard day's work at the docks, or one of his many previous jobs, he'd rather not. Playing the entertainer, though... sign him up. If there's one thing Prokhor loves, it's amusing the masses.
He doesn't quite get authority, and can be a bit rebellious, unless he's really at the end of his rope. It's this, coupled with his bad habit of ditching work to perform on the street, that often finds him fired and moving from place to place like a deadbeat. Still, he doesn't seem to mind. He's used to living with little and there are much more important things to do than worry about where the next meal is coming from.
In fact, it's nearly impossible to find Prokhor down in the dumps in public. His passion for happiness keeps him smiling and laughing, at least when he's not smirking and looking rather sure of himself after doing something right. Sometimes he can be a bit too easy to please.
That includes, of course, his reactions to those he attempts to entertain. Being laughed at usually doesn't bother him, and he often prefers that to blank stares and bored expressions. He'll follow people around if he thinks he can get a positive rise out of them. He values any and all who treat him kindly, and has a bad habit of growing quickly attached to all of his "friends." Especially those that are older than him, but that's just his subconscious at work.
It would be foolhardy to assume he has no insecurities, however. In fact, he has quite a few, he simply opts to ignore them a majority of the time in favor of staying optimistic. There are points when they do crop up, though. He worries that no one actually likes him, even those who he's attached himself to. Heck, especially those he's attached himself to. Worse still is the thought of never achieving his dreams of becoming a well-known and respected performer who can make the people smile. It's enough to knock the figurative wind out of him.
[ + ] likes - PERFORMING; HAPPINESS SO MUCH HAPPINESS; Rabbits; Skilled woodwork; Shopping for new clothing (like he has the money); Sleeping in
[ - ] dislikes - Bitter tea; Boring work (most work); Rats; Rain; Authority HISTORYAs the child of a strict, hardworking father, but also a kind and lenient mother, Prokhor grew up getting away with a laziness and frivolity that was unheard of for anyone of his station in life. Rather than chores and obedience, he played games, stayed up well past his bedtime, and hid behind his mother whenever his father attempted discipline. Unsurprisingly, from time to time, patience in the household wore to critical levels. It was days like these when Prokhor, from a very young age, "ran away" from home, threatening never to return. Those words were always baseless. There was never a time he stayed out longer than a day, longer than it would take for his mother to talk his father back down to a strained acceptance of his child.
One day, however, Prokhor returned home after a particularly foul argument with his father, only to find he was gone. Mother was slumped over the table; in her hand, a letter. It was written in short, choppy sentences, explaining his reasons and apologizing to his wife, who he still loved in a way, but things had gotten too far out of hand. He had grown tired of it all, living with a son who would never bring him pride or show him the most basic form of respect and a wife who enabled and continuously undermined his authority on all matters concerning said child. There were only two words addressed directly to Prokhor himself. With pen pressed heavily, years of disdain showed through plain as day. "Grow up."
And so he did, or he tried, because suddenly he had to. The years that followed were long and hard. Prokhor could scrape together only a fraction of the money his father used to bring home, which hadn't even been much in the first place. He had taken the only job he could get, a rat catcher for the local exterminators. On the streets, he learned some semblance of skill, but it took many years for one who hadn't worked an honest day before that.
And it was on those same streets he realized how dreary life really was in Okraina. His life had been so carefree, so fun and enjoyable, because it had been easy. A young fool's paradise. Still, even with eyes somewhat opened, he would remain that same fool. He wished he could make everyone happy, as he had been. Perhaps it was simply the rambling thoughts of a mental child, still in denial, but he began performing on the streets between working. He tried rather hard to make people smile, and while it usually didn't work, every once in a while someone would laugh. They were most certainly laughing at him, not with him, but he didn't seem to mind.
Not until one night, on temporary leave from the war, a few Okrainan soldiers passed by his performance. Drunk, they not only laughed, but ridiculed, and refused to let up. The full-out mocking quickly got to him. Prokhor was certainly not much of a fighter, and his best efforts at retaliation got him no where against trained and hardened soldiers. He lost. For his retaliation, he received a broken nose in return. It would never heal quite right.
A few months later, his mother, after many years, remarried. Her new husband rather disliked her gangly son, a hooligan, and far too old to be living with his mother. She had lost her will to defend him a long time ago, and so, he was kicked out into the streets. It took a lot of doing, but he was able to find passage to a new country, Sunderland, where he thought he'd have a better chance at achieving his dreams now that he had little to nothing tying him to his homeland. Yet, quite unlike the stories of brave adventurers who never look back, Prokhor did just that, multiple times, before the land of his birth was finally invisible against the vast backdrop of ocean. RELATIONS [ ♡ ] guardian - Nikulin
[ ♡ ] companion - Adair
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jun 23, 2013 8:19 am
the guardian  INFORMATION[ ? ] name - Nikulin
[ ? ] gender - Male
[ ? ] ooc stage - Buck
[ ? ] ic stage - Fawn PERSONALITYblurb
[ + ] likes -
[ - ] dislikes - RELATIONS
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 29, 2013 3:48 pm
the companion  INFORMATION[ ? ] name - Adair
[ ? ] gender - Male PERSONALITYAt first glance, this particular rabbit might seem a bit odd. He doesn't move much, despite having free range of whatever dwelling Prokhor's found himself in at the time. Rather, Adair is content sitting in the corner and observing. His golden eyes catch the light in just such a way that they often appear quite unnerving as they remain trained on the current object of his curiousity. Unsurprisingly, Prokhor finds this endearing as opposed to what most tend to think.
New faces don't miff him much, either. The skittishness of the average rabbit never found its hold on this one. Prokhor is a bit unsure whether his companion enjoys being picked up or pet, but he never reacts negatively, so it's a common occurance nowadays.
Still, peculiarities aside, Adair is fairly intelligent and trainable. He uses the litter set up for him in one corner of the room and is let out to graze, while always returning home without fail when he's done.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jun 01, 2014 9:49 am
the choosing It had been three days since he'd eaten, or was it four, and there was no denying Prokhor felt it now. This morning he'd chosen to dedicate himself quite solely to finding something to satisfy the crying in his gut. When the baker refused him extended credit, he knew better than to even test the butcher's patience. Since losing his job some time ago, he'd nearly run out of money and passed on paying back debts in favor of keeping a roof over his head a short while longer.
Now that he had not a cent to his name, nor a food store remaining, he wondered if that had been the proper choice.
With a quick shake of his head, mop-hair flying unkempt, he rid himself of those thoughts. He would simply catch something to eat. Though it had been a couple years now, he had once been a rat catcher on the streets of his hometown beyond the sea. Even without trap or slingshot, he was fast and his hands proficient enough to snag a rabbit or squirrel. Right?
Thoughts wandered back home for a moment. Maybe not a rabbit. Prokhor wasn't sure he could look Adair in the eye if he came home toting the corpse of a possible relative.
He'd traveled to the Wardwood on more than one occasion since moving to Palisade, and even once or twice during a short stint in Old Castle, but when he blinked back into awareness some time later, with the sky darkening to night, Prokhor realized he was at an edge of the wood he didn't recognize. It was as if he'd been asleep on his feet this entire time, awakening only to appreciate the darkness that seeped out between the trees. The young man's fingertips were tingling.
It was obviously late, intelligence would have had him seeking out the nearest natural shelter, a trip back home largely out of the question. Something was calling to him, however, something from deep within the wood, and its strength was undeniable. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't the urge to hunt, for at some point the pain in his stomach had subsided, replaced instead with a flutter of butterflies. Before he knew it, he was tearing through brambles and stumbling around underbrush. The further he traveled, the less the moonlight broke through the weaving of the canopy. An inky black night had truly fallen upon him and his trek, but he continued, as if knowing just where to go despite his blindness.
Morning had begun to take hold by the time he found himself released from the grasp of the Wardwood, tired and hungry all over again. This trip had, so far, been fruitless in the traditional sense; he'd caught no squirrels or anything else to eat. Yet, this detour hadn't found him empty handed. Unfurling his fingers, he re-examined the tiny carving he'd found, pale, but with darkened points and banded antlers. It was a deer of all things, a totem of solid craftsmanship that certainly looked out of place laid out in a wood.
Something had compelled him to take it. Prokhor had listened.
The sights he'd seen among the trees were ones still quite unusual to him. They whispered of things he hardly understood, words that before now he'd only heard in passing on the street. An event of significance would soon grip his life, though he knew little of it now as he carefully slipped the totem into his pocket to at least make an attempt at avoiding the return trip without a meal. It would be a long day.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jun 09, 2014 7:56 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
