Post by russia on Mar 3, 2011 22:31:48 GMT -5
IVAN BRAGINSKY
[/i] 
"No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness."
-Aristotle[/center]
NAME:[/font] Ivan Braginsky
AGE:17
GRADE: Junior
NATIONALITY: Russian
POSITIVE TRAITS:
- Idealistic
- Benevolent at heart (or at least most of the time...)
- Physically Strong
- Persistent
- Loyal
NEGATIVE TRAITS:
- Sadistic
- Naive
- Manipulative
- Possessive
- Cold
LIKES:
- Vodka
- Water pipes
- Chess
- Reading
- Psychology
- Being with others
- Tetris
DISLIKES:
- When people try to prank/fool him
- Cold weather
- When others try to take his scarf
- His sisters being messed around (Yes, this includes Natalia.)
- People who judge others quickly
- High-tech gadgets
FEARS:
- Becoming alone: Ivan's alright with being alone for short periods of time, but the prospect of being abandoned frightens him.
- Natalia: Who isn't?
out of character
NAME: Aria
OTHER CHARACTERS: fem!Prussia, Male!Hungary, Fem!Norway, Fem!England, South Italy
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:
(from a sorta post-apocalyptic AU) When Ivan first looked at the mirror, he almost mistook himself for a lifeless doll. The warmth that normal humans seemed to radiate was almost gone in Ivan. He tried to smile, but it only made him look more empty and hollow, as if there was a dark veil hiding who he was.
Who is he, anyway? Ivan thinks he forgot. He had started to forget about his early days. He remembers that he had to work to survive, but at least those days were better in that he still had innocent fun with his sisters. Those were the days before he started to feel cold inside himself. Ivan sighs- what should be birds chirping outside was replaced by protests and fits of coughing and wheezing. Not another day, not another day...
He covers his eyes with his hands. What was the point now? For the first time in... in a long while, he's hopeless. His people, his comrades, were suffering and dying from this disease that he's immune to, or at least partly immune. It doesn't take him much to visualize the frozen corpses forced to stay in their positions since the weather would not allow them to rot back into the earth. The survivors have started to lay the corpses down shoulder to shoulder and pour water over them to provide ice roads. Salt water drips from the gaps in between his fingers. It's just like the damned Great Patriotic War. The war of extermination.
Except this time, the enemy isn't human and Ivan hasn't had a Stalingrad yet. He doubts there will be one. The people have gone to religion or suicide as a last resort. Better to take your own life in a pain-less way than to suffer and die slowly by a virus. He bets all the churches are stained with the blood of those desperate sick who have crawled their way into the building, crying and screaming to God for forgiveness. He had just seen a woman do that with a baby in her arms yesterday afternoon. She had been coughing out blood the whole time and pressed the baby to her chest as if it was a vaccine. By the time she had started to leave the church, the baby's skin started to cool and it's stubby limps were limp.
His people think that he's the more fortunate one, being (partially) immune to this cruel virus. Ivan would beg to differ.
When he comes out to the balcony where his suffering comrades gathered to protest, or rather, beg for a cure, he recalls Bloody Sunday. How ironic it is- today is a Sunday.
The tears which are barely on his face now, start to freeze, "My poor comrades," he starts to say. His throat feels stuck, frozen like the road of corpses which led into the crowd and ultimately to his house. His scarf flickered against the cold winter winds, "Please be aware that we're trying our best to find you all a cure."
"Lies!" One voice erupted. It was of a boy; he looked about 14 at most. Ivan felt something stab into his heart. He wanted to embrace the poor boy- it was obvious that the kid wasn't going to last another two weeks with his hollowed face, clothes stained with blood which he coughed out, and stick-like limbs with the bones portruding out in an odd fashion, "You bastards always lie, always deceive us just to watch us suffer, you sick sons-of-a-bitch!" Other shouts started to emerge from the crowd. Ivan wanted to calm them all, to tell- no, show them that he does care, that he couldn't care more for them and is doing all he can for them. His vocal chords are about as vibrant as the dead baby that mother in that church was holding and he stood still, unable to do anything.
"You're just saying this so that you can survive and just leave us to die!" The statement made Ivan's eyes widen and had his vocal chords start to move once more, first sluggishly, but soon became more alive.
"Alright then, kill me!" Ivan shouts loud enough to throw all the others into complete silence, "Kill me if you'd like, I'd love it if you did! Shoot me, poison me, tear out my heart and lungs right in front of my eyes! I'll comply with whatever end you'll decide for me. You can all torture me; impale me with a log, put me in the rack, vivisect me, drop me off the Cathedral onto a floor of iron spikes, freeze me, cut off my limbs and beat me to death with them! Do what you will of me- I'll even let you eat me if you think that it will cure you! I'm not mocking you, my comrades, I never have. I have always stood by your side from the birth of your ancestors to the Mongol invasion to the war with Napoleon and the Great Patriotic War. I have always supported what you wanted, and did my best to reach these pursuits for you, my comrades. Do not mistake me with corrupt officials- I am in essence the same as you, fated to live in this harsh world," he takes out a pistol and points it at his own head.
"It makes sense that you all want me dead," he says with a complete change of mood, "I have promised far too much than I can handle and made you all shiver in huddles, waiting for me to deliver those promises." Ivan's hands are shaking now and the fear is apparent in his eyes. In fact, it has never been this prominent since the Great Patriotic War, "I have fooled myself... I've fooled myself to believe that I'm good enough to reach the lofty goals that all men have: of life and happiness. But whenever I attempt to do something, it becomes worse and I only make you, my comrades, suffer more because of it. If I had the ability to kill myself, I would have done so long ago. I'm not... I'm not worthy to be your nation, o-or any nation..." His legs are shaking now too, his feet almost rattle inside the boots, "F-forgive me, comrades... I... I'll do what's best for you all." He feels hot water drip down his face. Oh wait, those are tears. It has been a long while since they've made a public appearance, and hopefully it'll be the last.
Ivan feels panic welling up inside of him. He tries to hum quietly to calm himself down. When he realizes that it's the national anthem that he's humming, it only makes him feel worse, "Do svidaniya," he croaks in a volume so low that only the people in the front could hear.
This won't work, he knows that. He's tried several times to get it to work. But the people need to know that he's honest in his words. He swallows some cold air, and looks up at the sky.
Lovely sunrise today. A lucky sunrise- one that doesn't have to worry about anything.
Ivan pulls the trigger.
Who is he, anyway? Ivan thinks he forgot. He had started to forget about his early days. He remembers that he had to work to survive, but at least those days were better in that he still had innocent fun with his sisters. Those were the days before he started to feel cold inside himself. Ivan sighs- what should be birds chirping outside was replaced by protests and fits of coughing and wheezing. Not another day, not another day...
He covers his eyes with his hands. What was the point now? For the first time in... in a long while, he's hopeless. His people, his comrades, were suffering and dying from this disease that he's immune to, or at least partly immune. It doesn't take him much to visualize the frozen corpses forced to stay in their positions since the weather would not allow them to rot back into the earth. The survivors have started to lay the corpses down shoulder to shoulder and pour water over them to provide ice roads. Salt water drips from the gaps in between his fingers. It's just like the damned Great Patriotic War. The war of extermination.
Except this time, the enemy isn't human and Ivan hasn't had a Stalingrad yet. He doubts there will be one. The people have gone to religion or suicide as a last resort. Better to take your own life in a pain-less way than to suffer and die slowly by a virus. He bets all the churches are stained with the blood of those desperate sick who have crawled their way into the building, crying and screaming to God for forgiveness. He had just seen a woman do that with a baby in her arms yesterday afternoon. She had been coughing out blood the whole time and pressed the baby to her chest as if it was a vaccine. By the time she had started to leave the church, the baby's skin started to cool and it's stubby limps were limp.
His people think that he's the more fortunate one, being (partially) immune to this cruel virus. Ivan would beg to differ.
When he comes out to the balcony where his suffering comrades gathered to protest, or rather, beg for a cure, he recalls Bloody Sunday. How ironic it is- today is a Sunday.
The tears which are barely on his face now, start to freeze, "My poor comrades," he starts to say. His throat feels stuck, frozen like the road of corpses which led into the crowd and ultimately to his house. His scarf flickered against the cold winter winds, "Please be aware that we're trying our best to find you all a cure."
"Lies!" One voice erupted. It was of a boy; he looked about 14 at most. Ivan felt something stab into his heart. He wanted to embrace the poor boy- it was obvious that the kid wasn't going to last another two weeks with his hollowed face, clothes stained with blood which he coughed out, and stick-like limbs with the bones portruding out in an odd fashion, "You bastards always lie, always deceive us just to watch us suffer, you sick sons-of-a-bitch!" Other shouts started to emerge from the crowd. Ivan wanted to calm them all, to tell- no, show them that he does care, that he couldn't care more for them and is doing all he can for them. His vocal chords are about as vibrant as the dead baby that mother in that church was holding and he stood still, unable to do anything.
"You're just saying this so that you can survive and just leave us to die!" The statement made Ivan's eyes widen and had his vocal chords start to move once more, first sluggishly, but soon became more alive.
"Alright then, kill me!" Ivan shouts loud enough to throw all the others into complete silence, "Kill me if you'd like, I'd love it if you did! Shoot me, poison me, tear out my heart and lungs right in front of my eyes! I'll comply with whatever end you'll decide for me. You can all torture me; impale me with a log, put me in the rack, vivisect me, drop me off the Cathedral onto a floor of iron spikes, freeze me, cut off my limbs and beat me to death with them! Do what you will of me- I'll even let you eat me if you think that it will cure you! I'm not mocking you, my comrades, I never have. I have always stood by your side from the birth of your ancestors to the Mongol invasion to the war with Napoleon and the Great Patriotic War. I have always supported what you wanted, and did my best to reach these pursuits for you, my comrades. Do not mistake me with corrupt officials- I am in essence the same as you, fated to live in this harsh world," he takes out a pistol and points it at his own head.
"It makes sense that you all want me dead," he says with a complete change of mood, "I have promised far too much than I can handle and made you all shiver in huddles, waiting for me to deliver those promises." Ivan's hands are shaking now and the fear is apparent in his eyes. In fact, it has never been this prominent since the Great Patriotic War, "I have fooled myself... I've fooled myself to believe that I'm good enough to reach the lofty goals that all men have: of life and happiness. But whenever I attempt to do something, it becomes worse and I only make you, my comrades, suffer more because of it. If I had the ability to kill myself, I would have done so long ago. I'm not... I'm not worthy to be your nation, o-or any nation..." His legs are shaking now too, his feet almost rattle inside the boots, "F-forgive me, comrades... I... I'll do what's best for you all." He feels hot water drip down his face. Oh wait, those are tears. It has been a long while since they've made a public appearance, and hopefully it'll be the last.
Ivan feels panic welling up inside of him. He tries to hum quietly to calm himself down. When he realizes that it's the national anthem that he's humming, it only makes him feel worse, "Do svidaniya," he croaks in a volume so low that only the people in the front could hear.
This won't work, he knows that. He's tried several times to get it to work. But the people need to know that he's honest in his words. He swallows some cold air, and looks up at the sky.
Lovely sunrise today. A lucky sunrise- one that doesn't have to worry about anything.
Ivan pulls the trigger.
