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Old Feb 10th, 2012, 08:44 AM
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HuaiXin HuaiXin is offline
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Roll Call

Place your character sheets here, either as a link or as a picture.
Some characters are born posthumously.
See my campaigns Blod Stormur: Flying Ships, Mithril Men, Bl Stormur: Mysteries of the Lucitean Gulf and Bl Stormur: Blood and Snow in Arkadia
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Old Feb 10th, 2012, 02:12 PM
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Commissar DolokhovName: Makar Alexeevich Dolokhov
Place of Birth: St. Petersburg
Class: Dedicated
Age: 31
Description: There is something unsettling in Dolokhov. Perhaps it is his sharp, almost predatory facial features - the arched, clear-cut eyebrows, hooked nose, mouth locked in a perpetual scowl, and the often half-shut, piercing eyes that seem to continuously judge other men. Maybe it is his stride, confident and uncaring for anyone in the way. Possibly it is because of his voice, not exceptional in timbre, but in the tone - used to yelling, scolding, mocking, insulting, and coarse, spiteful laughter. A voice full of anger upon the fellow man.

The man is certainly not towering or incredibly strong, but yet he behaves himself as if he was the absolute master and commander. Order is the standard mode of his speech.

Dolokhov smokes a lot. He always takes utmost care to finish the cigarette, especially if there are other smokers in his vicinity.

Personality(RP Sample): Creaks and snaps of cut wood filled the air. Prisoners toiled away in the tundra, cutting, hacking, chopping. They did a remarkable job at pretending to work hard, and the foreman, also a prisoner, excelled at pretending not to see. The guards couldn't care less. Not in the temperatures of Kolyma. Rather than that, they smoked and pleasured themselves with sitting next to the fire. Waiting for the return to camp seemed the only reasonable thing to do.

Dolokhov walked around with a rifle on his arm; it was his turn to watch for the "zeks". They irritated him. Not due to their sluggishness. Not because they were political prisoners and living proof of everything wrong about the "Glorious Motherland". Not because they were stinky. Their begging for cigarette stubs also wasn't the reason. Neither was the commotion when one dropped from exhaustion and others rushed to retrieve his shoes, scarf or bushlat while said clothing was still warm. No, the prisoners angered Makar simply because they were there. Because he had to watch them in the goddamn cold. There was nothing deep to it. Just frustration. Realising that the prisoners probably thought this way of each other as well did not really help.

So, Dolokhov decided he would at least have some fun. He sidetracked away from the perimeter and approached the nearest zek. The slouching, emaciated man barely managed to look in Makar's direction before getting a boot in the stomach. He fell to the ground and covered his head in resignation. Makar gave him another kick before walking away. He strode between the trees, brandishing his huge gloves.

Dolokhov's gloves were a minor legend in the camp. Makar had the peculiar habit of hitting prisoners in the face with these. And in winter, the climate of the Far North gave them the rigidity of cement. Many a time they were in action, and the broken noses of zeks could tell that.

Joined by another bored guard, Makar approached a different convict, and prepared for issuing another beating. But something was different. This time, Dolokhov's sharp, unforgiving eye met a gaze of defiance. This man was young, and not yet brutalised by Kolyma. This man's gaze said Hit me, bastard, and I'll die here for assaulting a guard. This man's fist firmly gripping his axe gave a similar message. For a second, the master and slave stared at each other. The slave prepared for a short and brutal future. The master remembered his past, when he too wished only to die standing for the cause and found living on one's knees unthinkable. When he thought all men brothers and sisters, and unequal distribution of wealth the only oppressor. When he pitied the proletariat of the West. He thought of all his love for the fellow man, and the anger and spite that took its place. He tried to continue looking at the prisoner with life expectancy of some three months and understood the superiority of this man. But he could not withstand the sight of a testament to his downfall.

Dolokhov turned to the other guard. "Let's go", he said in a sad voice. "No joy from this one."

Background: Makar's parents were dedicated supporters of Communism and raised their child in utter devotion to the system. As a teenager he joined the Komsomol and wasn't really remarkable - the usual youthful drive to adventure and idealism, in this case profound patriotism. The only sign of rebellion was defying his parents' will to pursue a bureaucratic career after joining the Party - apart from blind devotion to Communist ideals he exhibited no extraordinary political skill, and seemed aware of that. He was drawn to serving the greater good through more basic means.

It was 1932 when Makar managed to combine this still strong youthful drive with a thirst for seeing faraway lands. He found himself on the payroll of the then young Dalstroy, as a guard in the Far North.

The Kolyma region has a corruptive influence, not only on the prisoners, but also on the camp staff. The nearly ten years snuffed out any idealism Makar could have had, exposing him to the underbelly of the Soviet state and putting him in the role of an oppressor. He was there in the dreaded 1938 and witnessed the fate of victims of the purges firsthand. He saw and did things no one should know about. And when everything he believed in turned out to be a lie, he embraced the moral decay of the camp - clinging to old beliefs would make him too much like the prisoners he hated.

But still, the better part of Dolokhov did not wither completely - there remained a desire to do something good and meaningful in his life. And the opportunity came with the war. Due to his exemplary performance in the Gulag, he was offered a position in the NKVD and a frontline occupation of a political officer. Being aware that any additional time spent in Kolyma would only further his corruption, he agreed without any second thoughts. Soon he found himself on his way to Stalingrad.

Last edited by Wolesz; Feb 10th, 2012 at 02:13 PM.
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Old Feb 11th, 2012, 10:02 AM
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Kittenmancer Kittenmancer is offline
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Name: Ekaterina Kolyevna
Place of Birth: Saratov
Class: Fast Hero (sniper)
Age: 18

Roleplay sample/background/description/personality:

The soldier next to her is now asleep, his head occasionally lolling on her shoulder and then away again as the rattle of the train shakes them all like beans in a tin can. Earlier he tried to hit on her, as had many others in the compartment; not because she's any great beauty, but it's what you do as a soldier when there's a woman around. Only she is a soldier as well and a few sharp words had served them as a reminder of that. She pauses her reading for a moment, closing the book over her index finger that serves as bookmark. Anyone who cares to look at the cover (and who can read, of course) can decipher the title: "Pуководство по прохождении pек", Manual on River Crossing Operations, by the Narkomat of Defense. It's a new book that she bought as soon as she received her new posting, knowing as she did that Stalingrad is on the west bank of the great Volga river. She has other books in her knapsack, all of them about military maneuvers, Soviet Army combat techniques, operating and maintenance manuals for various weapons. She likes being well-prepared.

Snowflakes blow into the compartment through the slit to her left, settling on her dark hair. She pays them no mind, a soldier should be used to hardship and she's no stranger to snow and cold; during winters in her native Saratov, temperatures can dip as low as -30 degrees Celsius. For a few moments she spares a thought to family and friends, now many kilometers behind her. In her class at the Conservatory, she was one of the few to volunteer when the call of the Motherland came. The others... cowards, all of them. Pampered sons and daughters of bourgeois families and intellectuals, who were afraid to fight and die for their country. She remembered her roots though, and those roots were soaked with blood. Her peasant grandparents had fought in the Great Revolution, helping to overthrow the blood-sucking parasites and install the glorious soviet rule. She thought of their small village of Krasny Kut and how they had hunted water fowl there when food was scarce. Her grandfather had taught her how to shoot a rifle and how to hit a moving target. She felt a swell of pride as she remembered how well this had served her in basic training after volunteering; she had been the only one in her group to always hit the practice targets, moving or not.

A soldier across from Ekaterina stirs awake, blinking sleepily at her. She knows what he sees: a serious-looking girl, her Tatar heritage plain in the darker shade of her skin, black eyes, straight nose and prominent cheekbones. Her hands are now clasped in her lap over the book, her thin, long fingers belying the tremendous strength developed by years of playing the cello. Her hands are one of her greatest asset and she takes great care of them. Her fingernails are always trimmed and clean and she keeps a small jar of tallow-based hand cream from her grandmother to prevent her skin from getting dry and cracked. Fierce woman, her grandmother. Ekaterina has some of her fire, but it's tempered by her father's calculating nature and thus it flares up only occasionally. Her family was so proud of her when she volunteered. Her older brothers had been fighting on the Crimean front at first, and after the German offensive on the Kerch peninsula had been redeployed to the North Caucasus front. It's been a while since they had received any news from them. Ekaterina hopes they're still alive, but if they aren't at least she knows they gave their life to defend their country, and there's no greater honour than that.
Playing Torra Voliokerdam, dwarf kineticist,
and Sette Tawhoq, ratfolk investigator.

Last edited by Kittenmancer; Feb 11th, 2012 at 10:15 AM.
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Old Feb 11th, 2012, 11:53 AM
Cheaplaffs Cheaplaffs is offline
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Name: Viktor Ovitchken
Place of Birth: Moscow
Class: Smart 2
Age: 30
Description: A commanding figure on the battlefield despite his relative short height somewhere around 5'9, Junior Commissar Ovitchken has strong features that ease him into a command position. Well-built but green around the ears, Ovitchken keeps his hair so short it is almost non-existant. A scar runs across his right cheek from a wound recieved as a child. This has earned him the nick-name among officers "Young Commissar Scar." Not particular to his special uniform, Ovitchken can be seen often shedding the heavy red coat and hat when not in the presense of other officers, and finds it too flashy. That, and the young man is accutely aware of news from the Front - especially the knowledge that German snipers target officers in uniform. Still, he is an officer of the books and pays close attention to how his men present themselves and act.

Personality: Young Commissar Scar as he is called among his men and fellow officers is a man of dual identities. In stature and rank he is a stellar officer, expecting perfection and strict discipline among his men. Not because he cares about regimentation and tradition of stark obediance like his comrade commissars, but because he knows that men who fall behind get killed. Secretly petrified of losing anyone under his command, he expects too much of his men, coming across as a hard-nose. But in reality Viktor loves to shed his uniform and mingle with the men, often drinking and socializing them whenever he can. He likes to get to know them, and like a father, a brother, work his leadership around their particular needs as both a unit and an individual. Cohesion, not adhesion to rules is the secret to victory, he has learned. Unlike many of his colleagues and comrades in Command, Viktor values the lives of every single man, and sees the Red Army as a sea of faces, not a sea of numbers, which many of them are made out to be.

Knowing they will face a hardened German enemy that is well-fortified and eager to kill Russians with little ammunition and supplies, Ovitchken does his best to prepare his men, to give them the best possible chance of survival. But deep down, he knows the greatest challenge will be to give them orders he know will get them killed. All in the name of a greater Russian victory, somewhere over the horizon. He is sympathetic, but practical. He tells no one. No one that does not already know. His men will find out eventually, and with luck, be prepared enough to look the German in the face from across his fascist machine guns and tanks and aircraft and say, proudly, 'Not one step further into my Motherland.'

Background: Born the son of a Great War veteran and Russian General, Viktor's father was influential in the October revolution in 1916, and retired one of Stalin's highest ranking officers. When it came time for his son to follow in his footsteps, war was already brewing in Europe for a second time. But back then, it was the Polish they were preparing to fight. By the time Viktor had made it to the front, however, the Motherland had already been invaded by the Fascists, and a tenth of the Soviet Union was already gone. Hearing about the atrocities committed by the invading German army - about the entire villages slaughtered down to the last child, many things became suddenly confusing. Was Germany not their ally, preparing weeks earlier to split the spanse of Poland between them? If the Germans were capable of such atrocities against Slavs... what had his own people done to the Poles? What black secrets had been buried in that forest years earlier... what had his Comrades kept from his knowledge?

By the time he had time to process any of these new developments, it was too late. Thrust into a command position, Ovitchken struggles to keep his mouth closed and follow orders he know do not invest anything into his or his men's survival. Despite his desire to keep his men alive, he knows his wife and young daughter are back in Moscow, awaiting word from Stalingrad. If the Red Army is defeated here, the Germans will be able to move on and occupy the vital oil fields in the mountains, and then, there will be nothing stopping a German blitzkrieg the following spring. He knows he has to survive, not only to see them again, but to keep the Germans from reaching his family first.

Last edited by Cheaplaffs; Feb 11th, 2012 at 03:29 PM.
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Old Feb 11th, 2012, 12:32 PM
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Name: Alexi Cherenkov
Birthplace: Bila Tserkva, Ukraine
Age: 27
Class: Fast Hero (Recon and automatic weapons)

RP Sample:
A particularly harsh jolt from a poorly worked stretch of track was enough to wake one of the soldiers within the tightly packed train car. Rubbing his head where it had smashed against the window frame, the tall but gaunt looking man yawned behind his roughly trimmed brown mustache. He finished his examination of his head wound and, satisfied it was nothing worse than a small bump, reached into his greatcoat pocket for his lighter and the cigarettes he'd spent the last of his rubles on at the train station where they'd all been crammed on board like canned sausages. He sucked gratefully at the cigarette, coughing as the harsh smoke irritated his lungs. Damn, didn't think the tobacco could get any worse. Bet it's nothing but hay and horse droppings by the war's end. The Fascists, God damn every last one of their Nazi hearts, still get half-decent smokes. Almost makes a man want to start chanting "Down with Stalin, Long live Hitler!" Heh, almost.

Alexi fought a smile from coming to his lips, as though it would have somehow betrayed his unpatriotic thought to the whole compartment, joke though it may have been. Granted, even when he'd been a policeman in Kiev, he'd never cared much for politics. Oh sure, he went to all the political meetings, mouthed the catchy phrases spouted forth by the party secretary, and so forth, he was no fool. But that had been survival, plain and simple. Better to be bored for a few hours a week than end up in the gulag like that idiot cousin of his. Still, there'd been plenty of good times, good nights... before the damned Fascists came.

His good mood was gone now as he began to remember again what the nights spent drinking vodka since then had failed to help him forget. The flight from the city with his partner and friend Pyotr, just before the Fascist's army completed the great encirclement that swallowed up 600,000 of the Motherland's defenders. They'd both seen the writing on the wall, knew full well that the trap was slamming shut and that the first thing the Germans would do after marching into Kiev would be to line up and shoot every policeman and Party member in the city. So they'd fled, ashamed but alive, ditching their car when it out of gasoline and fleeing into the farmlands.

They joined the partisans, of course. It was a lively bunch, but comradely. Alexi and Pyotr, the Kirpov twins built like bulls, the young widowed sniper Marta, wily old Oleg who'd fought them in the last war, and others he could no longer remember. For a while, they seemed as if invincible. They were fast, the Germans were slow. The Fascists were so busy driving the Red Army into the mud they seemed to forget about guarding their supply lines.

Until they figured it out in that damned field anyway. Alexi's eyes closed as if in pain, as the memory that refused to die came to him once again. Late October, the early morning frost, the field's wheat lying in dead ruin after it had failed to be harvested when the farmers had fled east. The Fascist shouts as their machineguns erupted, sweeping through the partisans like a scythe through the very wheat field they now lay bleeding and dying in. Alexi had been to the far left, had been spared the horrifying executioner's axe of the MG34s. There was nothing he could do for any of them, for his friend Pyotr, nothing he could do but run, and run...

The forgotten cigarette singed his fingers, and with a muttered curse, he tossed it out the window to the frozen fields beyond it. No worries, comrades. I shall see you soon I think... but not before I get myself a proper Fascist honor guard to accompany me to Hell.
"Alright, this next test may involve trace amounts of time travel. So, word of advice: If you meet yourself on the testing track, don't make eye contact. Lab boys tell me that'll wipe out time. Entirely. Forward and backward."
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Old Feb 11th, 2012, 03:21 PM
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Dance is what Dance does
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Name: Dupree "Snap" Banks
Place of Birth:Volgograd
Class: Fast/Sniper
Age: 26
Description: Skin bald Snap has the developed physique of a soldier without any of the stereotypical facial features. At 5' 10" and 187lbs., he has long thick forearms and exceptionally slender fingers. His eyebrows are small and hairy, like two tiny caterpillars, and are hunched tight over his mellow green eyes. The color is unusual for his deep brown skin. His nose is not thin, and hooks forward harshly much in the manner of a steel hook. His full lips are wide and stand out against high cheekbones and a sharp jaw line. His ears are oddly squared off at their tip, and his chin has a defiant cleft carved straight down the middle.

Personality: "Snap" has always been a man of direct focus. Being quite a unique individual in terms of appearance, he was never prone to extroverted socialization. He is one of the few black men to ever have fought for Russia, yet obviously has not found much attention for such a feat. As such, he has developed a grand resiliency to harsh words and even harsher treatment. His mettle has turned his words to icy spikes of realism while maintaining a noble composure. In his area of duty, he has found friends in the most uncommon of places and enemies in the worst of them. He is strongly guarded against all but a friendly face, and seems to constantly be self-aware of his skin tone. While he serves his country with fervor, he certainly doesn't trust all the citizens that are held behind its borders.

Despite his resiliency toward retroactive racism, Snap has a fond love of Russia. For quite some time, he's found a unity in the country that is incomparable from the land of America his parents spoke to him about. His feeling of individuality can hardly be diminished in the cold, harsh fields of the motherland.


Dupree Banks' family had moved to Russia while he was still quite young. Banks' father Gerard was both a musician and factory worker who moved his family out of America, fed up with the fear of the mass lynchings that were taking place over the last 12 years. A quite wealthy friend of his sponsored his trip, and put him in connection with an orchestra. With his son taken care of by his wife Esther, Gerard was doing quite well for himself.

While he was young, Dupree was raised both on American and Russian literary classics. He was both an active and educated boy. His mother was fond of the country in spite of the few that still leaned in disfavor of their being there. In school, Dupree was unaware of the idea of racism until he reached the 6th grade. His parents were quick to reiterate how much worse it was in America. The were eager to tell Dupree of his forefather's struggle and the opportunity he was given in not having to worry about his life every day. Reinforced by both his parents and the school system, Dupree's commitment to Russia was steeply engrained in his heart.

During the 1932 famine, and long after their old friend passed away, the Banks' family had to resort to hunting in order to adjust to the inflated price of food. Dupree dropped out of school so he could hunt himself while his father continued his work. Selling his trumpet in place of a hunting rifle, Dupree quickly found a knack with shooting. He spent his time helping people in the countryside collect food, endearing him to many distant neighbors. Eventually his good work and good fortune ran out as he was caught killing animals on unauthorized property when he was 25 years old. He was arrested and fined heavily. In place of having to pay the fines, he gladly enlisted with the military. He has since boarded a train heading to his next posting with the Rifle Division...
Air Force

Computers were on lock down here for a security violation thanks to some morons. Back in full effect!
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Old Feb 14th, 2012, 02:59 PM
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Allu Allu is offline
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Name: Mikhail Seminov

Place of Birth: Krasnoyarsk

Class: Tough Hero to Soldier

Age: 18

Description: The first word that comes to mind when one sees Mikhail is big, he's a big lad with muscles that bulge under his grey people's army trench coat as he hugs himself to keep warm in the cold train compartment. His full, black beard covers most of his face and seems to merge with the army issued ushanka ear flaps he has near permanently tied down (partly to protect his ears from the noise of heavy arms fire). He has piercing green eyes and when told a joke or he hears a song he has an honest smile that seems to light up his whole face. His dark skin colour and slightly sloped eyes show that his white family has been intermixing with the local Tatars for generations.

Personality: Mikhail is what you would call a gentle giant, his sheer size meant that he rarely had to scrap with the other boys whilst growing up and he doesn't have to prove how strong he is so until the call for volunteers went out across the motherland he never saw the point of violence. He has a deep sense of honour and even though he has heard the gripe of many a gulag banishee he holds a huge love for the socialist republic, because of this he is a happy volunteer to the 39th Guard, a prestigious unit to be sure. Besides all this Mikhail loves cheap liquor and hard women (as opposed to vice versa) as well as dirty jokes, music (all kinds from ballroom waltzes to cossack jigs) and a job well done.

Background: Apparently the Seminovs first arrived in Krasnoyarsk back in the 1820s because his grandfather's grandfather was a young soldier in the Decembrist revolution, one of the few to escape both death in the affray and execution. Since then the Seminov boys were taught of the illegitimacy of the current royal line and it wasn't much of a step for them to buy into the emerging popular socialist movement. Mikhail's father took a minor part in the war due to his dedication to doing his job regardless but he was as red as a white man's face during Siberian summer.

Mikhail's father worked at the river dock yards in Krasnoyarsk but unlike most of the other workers there he had been born in that city and was a free and upstanding citizen. He had worked hard and had backed neither the reds nor the whites during the civil war, preferring to keep his head down and his nose clean ; leaving war and politics to those better suited to it. He has seen the docks change completely from when he was a boy ; now all steel and machines but that hasn't changed his work ethic.

Mikhail was brought up to respect hard work like his father and had been given the task of maintaining the house as soon as he was big enough to heft an axe ; freeing up the old man to spend more time at his work and with his coworkers. Considering that he was well fed (the local party member had taken a shine to his father as a hard working member of the proletariat) and put to work as much as possible his body developed quickly and impressively...

When the first news of the great patriotic war reached the sleepy Siberian settlement Mikhail went straight from his work chopping lumber to sign up to fight for the motherland. Seeing as he was still a few weeks shy of his seventeenth birthday and the newly assigned lieutenant was a friend of his mothers he was turned back in favour of a fresh crop of men eager to escape the gulag regardless of the cost. He spent the next year training with his father's old hunting rifle in the woods outside of town and applying again at the office every week.

When the need was finally great enough for the friendly giant to be recruited they shipped him off to basic training with the rifle unit (being a free and respected member of society instead of a gulagee they thought he might be of more use than just massed infantry). On the first day of training the sergeant took one look at his heavy frame and decided he was the one to lug around (and therefore fire) the heavy equipment such as the PTRD and the DPMG.

No one would care so he has neglected to tell anyone that his eighteenth birthday is actually today and he is busy sitting around freezing his hoie off and wondering if he will have to kill or die to help save the people's republic from the invading fascists.
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