█ █ B A S I C S█ NAME ▬ Mikhail Nicolaev
█ AGE ▬ 42
█ NICKNAME ▬ "Mishka."
█ GENDER ▬ Male.
█ RACE ▬ Metamorphose : Ursus Arctos
█ ORIENTATION ▬ Demiromantic Pansexual
█ OCCUPATION ▬ Slave.
█ PARTNER ▬
█ MASTER ▬
█ █ A P P E A R A N C E
█ HAIR ▬ Black. Greying a bit at the temples.
█ EYES ▬ Red-brown.
█ BUILD ▬ Formidable. 6'5" and broad with muscle.
█ TATTOOS ▬ A curling wave on the back of his neck.
█ SCARS ▬ Lash marks down his spine, shoulders, and the
█backs of his legs. A horizontal slash over the bridge of his
█nose. Various others all over his body, typically bite/claw marks.
█ BIRTHMARKS ▬ None.
█ █ P E R S O N A L I T Y
█ THEME SONGS
█ ▬ Voice of Reason
█ ▬ Ohne Dich
█ ▬ The Past Is Just A Story
█ ▬ The Boxer
█ ▬ Stone
█ LIKES
█ ▬ Sweet foods. To an embarrassing degree.
█ ▬ Folding laundry. It leaves him very zen.
█ ▬ Dogs. The most loyal of all God's creatures.
█ DISLIKES
█ ▬ Being woken early. Or at all.
█ ▬ Formal wear. He feels ridiculous.
█ ▬ Children. They make him uneasy.
█ ▬ Dancing. See above: formal wear.
█ PERSONALITY TRAITS
█ ▬ Slow to anger, yet terrible when roused.
█ ▬ Far brighter than his appearance suggests.
█ ▬ Candid. Sometimes to the point of being blunt.
█ ▬ Substitutes silence when he can't manage tact.
█ ▬ A solid, even stolid worker.
█ ▬ Bred and born to slavery. Almost unquestioning.
█ ▬ Bear with the protective instinct of a doberman.
█ █ H I S T O R Y
█ BACKGROUND
Yes, he'd been born to it: Slavery. Reared and trained on the grounds of the Fontaine estate when it was still in its glory. Mikhail wasn't a pet, the way slaves had become in the modern era. He was a servant. Proud to be a servant. It was in his blood as far back as there were any Nicolaevs.
Situated on the very outer edge of Saxon City, the house and grounds had been one of the last maintained historical manses dating back to the colonial era-- a huge, sprawling spread of meticulously kept lawns and gardens and parkland only rivaled by the Fenwick property. The Fontaine family commissioned the initial structure in the early 1700s, and there were already Nicolaevs on the ledgers, bred in France using stock from the original line by way of Russia. Broad-backed bears and oxen, slow but steady, ideal for manual labor. The clearing of forests, the hauling of stones, the digging of irrigation ditches, the laying of bricks and mortar. Many such little brothers and sisters made the crossing to the New World and served their masters and mistresses faithfully, stolidly, until death. This, in the days before the Division furthered regulations and slave rights groups firmly defined what constituted abuse or neglect. Some, of course, died on the ships. Some died in the laying of the foundations. But there were reasons the Fontaines relied so heavily on their own kennel. Reasons that they took such pride in their own bred slaves. Those first members of the family who set foot on a new shore would part with anything-- silks and satins, jewels and precious texts-- but they kept always with them the things that truly mattered. What they called sang doré-- the golden bloodline. The ones who will not tarnish. The one who do not tire. The one who would lay down their lives in labor or danger. That was what it meant, once.
That was what Mikhail grew up hearing.
That he came from a long line of those privileged to serve. It was their calling, their nature, their nurture, their everything. Even if, after the Industrial Revolution, the Nicolaev line no longer held as great a merit as it once did. Even if, at the start of the 1900s, the Fontaines were no longer so picky about selling their bred slaves to other houses for tidy sums of money. That, too, was a service in its own way. To be skilled was to be worth more, and to be worth more meant additional resources for those first masters who had been instrumental in the making of his wide and sprawling family.
By the time Mikhail was born, the huge acreage of Fontaine lands had been reduced to a smattering, making way for New Money to take up space and build small villas and country homes outside the city's rat race. It was a time of great frustration, a blow to the monumental pride of such a historical family. He heard it often, during his time in the main house when he was a boy. What else can we stand to lose? I can't believe we have to put up with this.. Further tightening and refining of slave laws were beginning to strangle the one area of trade the Fontaines had left. Suddenly, paperwork was required to show that slaves consented to be bred. Consented to duties and punishments. Records were needed to show that every slave was provided adequate room and board, adequate medical care. Their "pedigrees" were no longer sufficient identification. It was no longer legal to brand or tattoo their property unless the slave allowed it. Instead, they would have Division chips implanted. All of these things came with a cost, and what had once been a resource was suddenly a massive drain on the family's already strained coffers.
One by one, the familiar faces that had always tended to the duties of the estate started to disappear. Sold, all of them, sold. His childhood friend, Martin, a lynx who'd been born unexpectedly and caused an uproar. Gone. The little lap-lion Miss Elouise had prized so highly, the crowning gem of the kennel. Gone. Even Hathor, the pretty ox Mikhail coupled with when he came of age. Gone.
And as they were sold away, Mikhail learned to fill the gaps left behind. He was a young man, then. Raised alongside the Fontaine children for them to grow fond of. Miss Elouise. Miss Leigha. Master Fredrick. It was a tradition of the old country, and the bear had been carrying out his duties for years before there was ever any paperwork to sign. Even then, where Master Albert pointed to the dotted line and held his untrained hand to help him make his letters, Mikhail hadn't been able to read what he was consenting to. The stripes on his back were a fact of life, a fact of his service. Even at fifteen, he was big and broad and muscled in a way that young Master Fred wasn't, and it only made sense that Mikhail was needed to shield the mage when the other boy had stepped out of line. All of it had been explained to the bear when he was very young. How important it was for him to stay with the children. To take care of them, and see to their needs, and know their wants and dislikes and ailments. For them to trust him, and even love him a little, so that they would behave better. So that they wouldn't want to see him striped for their misdeeds.
It didn't quite work out that way, but Mikhail couldn't fault them for it. It wasn't his place to judge or question. Only to do his duty. There was no resentment in him. Just a slow, bewildering unease that grew as he labored his way into adulthood. Like an elephant terrified of mice, the huge teddybear was uncomfortable around children. Tense. Some corner of his deeply docile mind always expecting to hear the simple command: Kneel, and bow.
Fortunately, he spent less and less time around them as the years wore on. Mikhail took on other duties, seeing to the maintenance of the grounds, cleaning the broad halls of the house, laying place settings, shadowing Miss Leigha when she went to the social gatherings that seemed to please her less and less. At night, the bear practiced sums and letters, quietly checking his work against the old homework folders of his charges. He was past the prime age for learning such basics, but he brought to the tedium the same stolid work ethic that served him everywhere else. His masters needed him to be skilled. They needed him to be all-purpose. There were so few hands left, there was no more light work. But Mikhail could do it. Mikhail would do it. Mikhail did do it.
And they had to sell him anyway.
His new master had no use for sums and letters. His new master never asked him to sign on a dotted line, or laid out a list of his duties. The first order Mikhail received when he descended the stairs into the wide basement level where he was meant to live was simple. Shift. And as with every order he'd ever been given in his life, he did what any Nicolaev would do: He obeyed.
In the half-decade that he was owned by Ernest Plourde, Mikhail resumed his humanoid shape only three times, and each one was furtive, a secret he kept with himself, to prove that he had once been a man. For his owner, the advesper, he must always be the bear. Driven along, at first, by the enchanted tip of an extendable baton, the touch of it causing pain without adding damage. As though Mikhail wouldn't have descended to the pit floor simply on the man's word. As though he had no training, no breeding, and did not understand how to behave. And then, the dogs. His nose knew the difference, could mark that they weren't lycans-- most of the time. Above the pit, the glare of hanging lights, the backlit shapes of dozens of milling citizens, watching and chattering, betting. How long he would last before he wore down. How many of the hounds he'd crush or rend to defend himself. But they dogs weren't like the children of his youth. They didn't attack him vindictively, or out of malice. They were in no better a position than Mikhail himself. Acting on the word of masters who beat them, and taught them to be vicious, and fed them poorly to make them desperate. He didn't want to kill them. Tried to only leave them injured or terrified.
But Plourde tired of the dogs eventually. In the passing years, a veritable menagerie passed through the pit, brought by his master's gambling friends and clients. Boars, and wolves. Lions trafficked in. Other bears. Some were metamorphoses like himself, and some weren't. It started to be harder to tell. Started to be difficult to think of himself as the man who'd raked the long gravel drive and cleaned the front steps of the Fontaine home. Started to be difficult not to use his full weight, the full strength of his massive, clawed arms. The lights would flick on, and Mikhail would raise his head to stare at the silhouetted audience. All he'd feel was rage. It took five years for Ernest to win. For the bear to finally cave and do what he was expected to do. Not simply defend himself, not only avoid dying by whatever margin he could manage. In that red rage, Mikhail destroyed everything he could reach. Everything between his powerful jaws. Everything under the weight of his monstrous, scarred body. Everything touched by the sickle curves of his long claws.
He didn't know he was being watched.
It was specialized surveillance, and the main office wanted to turn the case file over to the regular authorities. There was no proof that there were any slaves involved. It was an open and shut case of trafficking, cruelty, and neglect-- of animals, and illegal gambling. But the fairy that whispered to him from the sill of the blacked-out basement window had been working too hard, for too long, trying to prove that Ernest Plourde needed to be barred for life from ever owning anyone again. With the standing charges, the advesper would serve time in prison-- sure-- but feasibly he could get out, get his hands on some money, and buy whoever he saw fit.
And River wasn't going to let that stand. She knew she was right. She was willing to stake her life on it.
I can help you, but I need you to prove you're a person.
That was how a candy-pink dust mote saved him. There had been tiny feet on his scarred muzzle, and then on his nose when he shifted back-- slowly, painstakingly, almost forgetting how with all the years of being only an animal. Mikhail hadn't even been able to speak to her. That was something he had to re-learn. Something that had to be retrained into him after his master was arrested, and the Division claimed him.
Everything took time.
Years to get him accustomed again to the simple act of walking on two feet. Strengthening the instinct with psychic restructuring. Therapy sessions and courses to rebuild the skills he'd been forced to let rust. In time, he was allowed to interact with the other slaves that were undergoing the same processes. People who'd been returned, or been rescued from homes where their masters had been unfit. It was the first time Mikhail ever really thought about such a thing. That a master's order could-- or even should, in some cases-- be disregarded.. That was a completely foreign concept. But with the same leash protocols that he repeated daily-- Protect. Serve. Obey.-- came the understanding that even these things had nuance.
"Obey" comes last because the other two are more important. If everything we do is for the good of our master, then it's our job to know when what they want conflicts with what they need.
And that was River, too, leading the group session under the watchful eye of the Division supervisors. Year after year, she talked the new slaves-- just trained, just beginning to approach the stages where they would be offered to masters who came looking to purchase-- through their transitory period. She was good with the reformed ones, too. Those who'd been citizens before and didn't have the benefit of being raised by a slave family. They seemed to trust her, comforted by the fact that the fairy was the same caste they were taking on, and yet moved around the Division offices with relative freedom. She wasn't a drone, as some of them thought slaves would be. She was an invaluable part of the process. But, like Mikhail, she was masterless. The entire organization appeared to know her. There were times when she even worked cooperatively with Saxon's police department. But she was stuck in the same odd, in-between place as the bear. Unowned, but not free.
It's hard to find a home, after this. She told him once, gesturing around the complex. You still show up in the catalogs and on the database, but a lot of people see the reclamation mark, and that's as far as they go. It's important to make your peace with it, Mikkie. There won't be many interviews in the future for either of us. But there's always work here, helping with the others. You set a good example, and maybe one day you can do rescues with me.
He wanted to think she was wrong, but she wasn't. Inquiries about him were rare. Interviews were much rarer still. The last had been over a year ago, and had ended almost before it began. Even with all of his information in front of her, presumably read beforehand, the little caim had abruptly climbed out of her chair and made for the door as soon as he entered. Later, when he'd asked Louise what it was that he'd done wrong, the woman had shaken her head and assured him that nonono, it wasn't him, he didn't do anything, there was just a prior engagement, a mismanagement of the schedule, a misunderstanding, a little switcheroo, and his appointment probably would just be set for a different day. But, of course, it never was. He was too old. Too scarred up, both on his body and on his record sheet. All the things he knew how to do were an enticement, but not when balanced against what he might be capable of.
All he wanted was a chance. To explain. To prove that he could serve. That he could earn his place. That he was more than just the bear.
But he didn't get one. Not until he'd been with the Division for just over five years.
It was Louise who told him about the appointment. Fairly bobbing on the balls of her feet, she'd obviously been overjoyed to give him the news, even though she wasn't strictly supposed to. The reasons why were, of course, numerous. He needed to be candid in his interview, and couldn't do that if he prepared beforehand. The meeting could very well be cancelled before it ever even took place. There was an entire litany. But Mikhail didn't feel any apprehension about it. Only a vague, listless kind of hope. The beaten down kind that won't quite die despite disappointment after disappointment. Each day, he dressed and exercised and practiced his reading, his writing. Each day, he waited for Louise to let him down easy. Tell him that whoever it was had decided to interview with someone else, or not at all. Each day, he say in the group session and he said the same words with everyone else: Protect. Serve. Obey. And wondered if he'd ever really have that again.
█ ABILITIES
▬ SCOWL AND BEAR IT
Mikhail is fairly intimidating. Even in human form, he is exceedingly large and muscular, and it doesn't do much good that his default expression is dangerously close to a scowl. This can cause misunderstandings at times, but when it comes to ending situations without violence it comes in really handy. Few people want to tangle with a guy almost twice their size.
▬ THE RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS
Exactly what it sounds like. Mikhail has enough control over his shifting by now that he can alter his arms if he absolutely feels the need to use his claws on something.
▬ BEAR WITH ME
Mikhail takes on all of the size, strength, and fury of a brown bear-- specifically a grizzly. We're talking about roughly nine feet of height and seven hundred pounds of weight. Eight inch long claws on each foot. Enhanced auditory and olfactory response. Exceeds 20mph if he chooses to rush an opponent in this form-- which is ******** terrifying, because he's huge. Did I mention the giant jaw full of teeth? The drawbacks of this form are almost identical to the benefits, however. Because he becomes so large, Mikhail can easily be left behind by people who can slip through small spaces. In addition, as a brown bear he is an excellent swimmer.. but a shitty climber, simply given the slip but others who might shinny up a tree or drain pipe. And when charging, his momentum might carry him right through his quarry.. into whatever was behind them.
It should be noted that Mikhail's hearing and sense of smell are acute in humanoid form as well, but nowhere near as fine tuned as in his bear shape. This means that, as a man, he may be able to smell certain things when he's right next to someone, but he certainly won't be able to track anybody.
▬ I WILL BEAR YOUR BURDENS
Mikhail was born and bred a slave. In addition to this, he has-- in the last five years-- undergone behavioral rehabilitation in the Slaver Division to mitigate his aggression issues. He takes pride in service, and in seeing to the needs of his owner, even if those needs are overwhelming or irritating. This also means that he points all of his formidable strength and stamina at any hardship his master may be facing.
▬ PAPA BEAR
Mikhail has had many sexual encounters during his life-- most of them in the Fontaine breeding program, from the time he was sixteen onward. As a result, his name can be found on the pedigrees of quite a few bred slaves, listed as FATHER. However, Mikhail has never attempted to form any kind of relationship with any of his children.
█ EXTRA
Despite his name, Mikhail has never been to Russia and speaks zero Russian, since he was bred and born in a slave kennel in the country outside Saxon City.
Mikhail's face claim is Hawke from Dragon Age.
His voice claim is Timothy Dalton as Sir Malcolm Murray in Penny Dreadful.
Mikhail refers to other slaves as "little brother" and "little sister", despite not being related to them.
If irritated by how people are treating him, Mikhail resorts to Amelia Bedelia levels of taking orders literally. Never treat him badly and then tell him to "dust the furniture" or "dress a turkey" for dinner.
Left to his own devices, Mikhail would probably dress like a lumberjack or some kind of ancient NEET, which is to say that he much prefers comfortable, slouchy clothing.
Mikhail is a fairly gifted baker, and has made it most of the way through Mary Berry's Baking Bible.
