Suits and Suave

As a Russian, I’m always happy to see more characters representing my own country/culture on my dash! However, I’ve noticed that Russian names can be VERY confusing to a foreign person. I believe that something like this shouldn’t discourage you guys from writing a character you want!  So I’ve decided come up with a detailed PSA on Russian names & their usage. PLEASE NOTE that this very post only covers the topic of typical names given to people of Russian ethnicity (for example, I wouldn’t recommend relying fully on this PSA when choosing a name for a Russian Jewish person, even though the structure is the same, the first names/patronyms/last names would vary! So please do perform some additional research.) As this happened to be a pretty lengthy thing, I’m putting it under cut.

A new character has arrived in the hub?

Why yes, say it so!

General

Name: Nikita Bardin

Profession: Doctor (Town, Commoners, Whoever Requests Such)

Age: Mid to late 30′s

Birthday: 7th April

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Pansexual

Height: 5′10′’ ish, he assumes.

Hair: Dark Blonde, sort of like honey, shoulder length.

Eyes: Light grey, blue flecked. 

Location: Russia, 18th century.

Personality

Quick Points: Mercurial. Determined. Clever. Soft-Spoken. Fitful. Passionate. Defensive. Impassioned. Studious. Patient. Unbending. Quick-Witted.

Interests: Helping People. Studying. Being Defiant. Collecting Things. Travelling. Investigating. Debating. Gaming. Random Fits of Indulgence.

Character: 

Of the six children his parents had, he and his sister, Avelina, (nearly 12 years younger than he) were the only two to survive to adulthood. From a family that straddled the careful line between ‘commoner’ and ‘slightly better than commoner’ Nikita worked his way into medical study, training endlessly. By the end of his studies, he established himself as a local doctor, and does not discriminate for the patients he sees. Financed as he was by varying places that would pay for his expertise, skill and quick wit.

An avid reader as well as a hands on learner, there is never a world that cannot be discovered, never a thing that cannot be further studied. At times, he would find himself supporting and caring for Avelina when she trailed behind him like a companion and a wide-eyed puppy. Sharing in his desire for knowledge and understanding. He’d often sneak her his medical books, and she often assists him where he can.

Having a love/hate for the Royals, (often tiring of their nonsense, their stuffy affairs and their hollow false promises), he is polite, and courteous where he needs to save himself, but sharp tongued and not one to hold back when push comes to shove. Especially if there is something bigger and greater on the line.

Prejudice gets one nowhere, after all. Pretending you know something when you don’t is of even further little comfort. And if his voice, usually soft and compassionate threatens to raise or break, someone is probably in trouble.

He doesn’t shy from indulgences, but he is never one to make a fool of himself either.

Tags: OC: Nikita, Verse: Historical Russia, Character: Nikita

Faceclaim: Rupert Friend

closed starter with @orlothegreat

Ugh. Court.

It wasn’t like Nikita actively avoided court, it was just that he was rarely summoned to such a place; and he had complained about it fairly bitterly that morning while getting himself dressed. Attempting to fend off his sisters attempts to make him look as though he’d ‘fit in’ more.

“You should wear a wig, you know.” Holding the powdered abomination above his head, making Nikita feel as if he’s being cornered from above. “Come on, it’s suitable, it’s what they all wear up there.”

“Because they have no choice, I am a man of the people” Dodging her again, “I’ll not suffer for such nonsense.”

“Oh, do not be so stubborn this morning.” Her tongue clicking, “You can make a perfectly adequate impression when you wish it.”

He batted the wig away, ‘My braid is more than fine, Avelina, they’re not going to keep me around long enough for it to be of any concern.”

She frowned, the wig tucking under her arm, “That’s hardly optimistic.”

“I never am with the Court, Avelina.”

So he had no wig, his hair was just fine, neat and coiled. He had his best waistcoat and trousers. Pressed and shiny and a lovely pale blue and silver. Nothing to make him seem as if he had any reason not to be here, besides the fact that maybe he doesn’t seem scandalized enough or look as if he’s suspiciously up to something.

He’s waiting now, in some grand reception hall he’s been told to wait in, as if he’s a pet waiting for it’s master to feed them. It makes him bitter, such aggressive splendor. 

Nobody else seems to be around, making the halls seem empty and echoing. It is tempting to explore, look as if he could be any less put out. He isn’t scowling-that’d not be polite, but surely he doesn’t look thrilled.

He could sit-nobody said he could not, but there’s something so uninviting about the overstuffed furnishings that standing, pretending he’s not glowering at overly generous portraits and waiting with dread.

“You’re so sour about it,” Avelina told him. “We hardly came from the stones, after all.”

Sure, they had money. Himself and his sister-but this?

Excessive!

Someone save him, entertain him, something.

Maybe there was a library he could explore, if there was nothing else, royals had books.

Orlo has already been subjected to: a relative Kama Sutra of a conversation with the Emperor’s aunt Elizabeth, in which his posterior was pinched and his will to live drained from him in horror on multiple occasions; an exhausting debate with the Archbishop over the extent to which God ordained damnation of souls who died before baptism; the navigation of delicate ties between the oyster supplier and the many nobles who have contracted food poisoning; and at last, the coup de grace, Peter himself. 

It has been a day; and a typical one, at that. 

The Count has had to excuse himself and trot, or rather gallop, down several regrettably long hallways to conclude the tumultuous meeting with the oyster merchant, and make it back to the throne room in time to inevitably rescue someone (probably General Velementov, from fat jokes, but there is always a chance the Emperor’s sadism will have some variety).  

Just as he comes to a skittering halt in the open doorway, he spots a newcomer.

Oh dear.

There are some men who are not large in stature, yet something about their presence is formidable.  That is this fellow.  Slight of build, with respectable yet modest attire; honeyed hair neither queued nor wigged, but braided; high cheekbones and slender fine features, and eyes pale as a woodland stream in spring thaw. Those eyes turn on the Count now, and heat rises from his neck to his own clean-shaven cheeks. 

Why?  Oh Lord.  He has a fever. All the running? Being out in the damp the other night, because the Emperor insisted the ladies’ ball-tossing game commence after he spent some (lengthy) quality time with Grigor’s wife?  

CHRIST, is he going to FAINT? 

    “I, I, er. Forgive my tardiness, Your Excellency.” 

Orlo tears his dark gaze from the unknown man come to petition Peter, and bows, unsurely, at the waist, and scurries to his habitual seat, with his quill, and the long itinerary of meetings.

    “Ehm, yes. Sorry. Your Majesty, first upon today’s roster: Doctor Nikita Bardin, accompanied by his younger sister, Miss Avelina Bardin.  Do step forward, kindly, and be heard.” 

Not staring, no observing, Avelina, observing! He knows he’s been spotted by this truly remarkable being, that he’s been taking in the dark hair, wide be-speckled gaze and somewhat frozen expression with great curiosity and interest. Not quite a full out stare, but definitely not polite enough to be considered a simple fleeting look.

There’s something like panic in the man’s eyes, is he ill? Will he be ill? He looks it. Nikita is instantly worried.

Alas, the possibly-ill-man has taken leave before he can think further, and the summon is to be answered.

Most of the Court is insufferable to Dr. Nikita Bardin-and that is something he makes no secret of. And yet..there’s something so strangely different to the man here, something fascinating and intriguing.

He’s also being summoned-something he’s not noticed until there’s another sharp, unforgiving jab at his side courtesy of his sister. She has two dresses she reserves for only the most high class of society; and she makes an impression. Her hair is a lighter blonde than Nikita’s, her eyes the same grey. She’s coiled her hair into locks that sit at the back, up against the top of her head, the soft pale green dress paired with white gloves.

“Ah, Your Majesty.” Bowing low at the waist, Nikita aware that, despite any misgivings, he’s no choice but to make an impression, (and not focus too hard on the far more intriguing man behind the Royal), and watches his sister doing the same, before straightening.

He has some of his hackles up, it’s natural- people seem to dislike him having Avelina as his second; as his assistant, student and fellow; and he’s aware there’s going to be questions.

He’s no choice now but to wait for further acknowledgement and instruction, again, the man behind Peter is a draw, and he forces his gaze forward, ever the mask of perfect compliance.

    “Strong entrance, as ever,” Crane professionally gauges Allard.  “Your demeanor is equal parts warm and engaged.” 

He’s only being half-facetious; he appreciates the man’s competence in their shared field. But he’s also flexing his muscles, reminding the good doctor that he, too, is a therapist. 

A tell-tale muscle works in his jaw.  He doesn’t move a single other muscle, aside his ever-too-pale blue eyes.

    “I’m curious, though.  Whatever can you mean? I’ve been a good little boy.  Out of sight of the alleged ‘psychopaths’ in this ward. Especially the cannibals. They get nibbly. It’s not my fault if one of them threatens to take a bite out of my hand and I exploit his hypochondria to tell him, in vivid detail, about what’ll happen to his digestive tract if he eats raw meat.” 

A slender leer spreads across his previously catatonic features. 

However, that client is very rarely on the same or even sometimes elevated playing field to them, so there’s quite a battle of wits being displayed, even subconsciously in the moments that prevail.

“A strong entrance gives you time to think, would you not say? If I were to sneak up on you with quiet, would you not find that infuriating? Or perhaps..insulting? You know what your mind is capable of, you know what level of intellect you wish to receive me, I won’t belittle you with anything less than that.” He is a man on the taller side of things, and while he does not force himself into a compressed position, he holds himself just tall enough to not slouch. Owning and controlling the room is not his goal, after all, the stark white ‘visitors’ badge pinned to his blue-collared lapel. 

Allard dressed himself in the most moderate of the professional sense. Not over nor under-doing the look. Navy blue suit, white shirt, navy tie. Fairly dull, one might say, but not enough to not appear put together.

A minute passes, where Jonathan’s almost sanguine reply forces a slight chill down his spine. He knows, both consciously and subconsciously that he’s on a much heavier ground here, the playing field unlike anything his previous hospitals or wards had given him, but that does not put him at ill-ease.

“And am I being made to believe that it was merely a discussion of the inner workings of a digestive track having it’s woes when faced with raw meat that has put you on a 48 hour lock-down?” He asked, no sense of jibing nor disapproval in his tone. Rather, the voice he uses could be considered flat, considering. And while he’s not so much using a ‘thin ice’ tread, he’s careful without being insulting.

So he thinks. That’d be up to Jonathan to decide.

He waits a heartbeat, allowing the other to process what he’s said, and the implications he’s made. He debates adding to his sentence, but he decides that, if he’s going to get anything useful out of this visitation, he best let Jonathan be in ‘control’.

After all,

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if you are using these burnbook blogs to say horrible shit about people, you should unfollow me now. i don’t want to be mutuals with someone who GENUINELY thinks those blogs are a good idea. if someone said the shit that i’ve seen on these pages about you, you wouldn’t like it anymore than your own targets would.

but you already know that, so that’s there for someone who’s been living under a cold, self-obsessed rock for the last billion years.

i’m going to say something that we’ve been saying for years on this site. it’s something that’s well known, but not ACTUALLY understood, if you understand? basically, this is it. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FOLLOW OR INTERACT OR DO OR SAY ANYTHING THAT YOU DON’T WANT TO.

you don’t have to explain this to anyone, nor yourself. it’s okay. this is a HOBBY, much like knitting. if my knitting circle includes karen, and i don’t like karen, i can find a new knitting circle that doesn’t have karen in it. i can chill out with my friends and have a nice time of it. we can knit scarves all day long because i don’t know how to knit jumpers or gloves, and that’s okay! likewise, if people don’t want to knit scarves, they can sit with people who knit jumpers and gloves, and we can live out our lives in peace and harmony, because outside of the knitting circle, we have jobs and families and shit that needs to be dealt with, stresses that are plentiful enough without having to deal with karen or stressful glove patterns.

we make our own circles here. and when i say i’m disgusted that people are trying to shit on other people for making their circle as comfortable and safe as they want it to be, i mean it with all the sincerity in the world. you can hang out with karen all you want, but i don’t like karen, she’s a dick, and i don’t enjoy her company. i won’t say that to her, but i won’t subject myself to her company. that’s how it is. likewise, just because you’re upset that i won’t knit with you, someone who prefers to knit gloves, because i’d rather knit a scarf, doesn’t mean that i HAVE to knit gloves with you. you can find so many people who want to knit gloves with you who will ENJOY it as opposed to me being miserable doing something that i loved to do before you made me feel like shit for not knitting gloves.

RPers’ rules pages are not optional reading

RPers’ rules pages are not optional reading

RPers’ rules pages are not optional reading