#dmitribio

DMITRI ALEKSEEV

TWENTY-SEVEN ❈ HEARTRENDER THE ORDER OF THE LIVING & THE DEAD (CORPORALKI)

Fate has never looked upon a child as kindly as it has upon Dmitri Alekseev. Then again, there was none quite like him – none so blessed, so beautiful. His parents showered blessings upon him like a spring rain, only sweets and the finest toys for the most precious boy in all of Ketterdam. They told him to want not, for he could have the world at his feet, should only he ask. Should he want the stars, all he had to do was call to them and they would undoubtedly fly into his hands like a hummingbird to a bright, pretty flower. But why should he want the stars when he had lowly, spineless humans doing just that? They were nothing more than a field of flowers waiting for him, the brightest sun, to rise just so they might bloom. He had his own parents awaiting his every beck and call, servants ready to lay their lives at his feet as if they were worth no more than the rugs that he stepped upon. But, alas, even the rugs that adorned their mansion in Ketterdam were worth more than they could ever be. For his father, the great ambassador from Ravka to the Kerch kingdom, made sure to lavish his only son and beloved wife with the most luxurious riches that he could afford. It was in these spoils that this debonair demon, with his cruel-edged smile and luscious language, learned how to make himself a heartbreaker as well as a heartrender. The heartbreak could be found between the batting of his lashes, the soft, lopsided curl of his smile. Between the soft pants and the quiet sighs of his victim’s breath, the rise and fall of their beating hearts, was where he did his work.

He had the capacity for such intimate work from quite the young age, a natural understanding that the world was meant for him to do with it what he wished. Every person he encountered, that fate threw his way, was nothing but a book full of empty pages – he was meant to fill it with the cacophony of words he whispered, capturing them with his red ink. It was not long before he had hearts racing the moment he entered the room, men and women alike obliging themselves to his every whim and want. In the middle of a bite of their favorite treat, they would feel their hearts stutter just a bit – until young, handsome Dmitri plucked the sweet from their trembling fingers and indulged in it himself. When they would pay him no attention, they would risk their limbs trembling and aching, their heads raging, until the smallest glance at his fair features brought them the sweetest relief. There were none who were immune to the cold beauty that seeped from him like perfume from a rose. Maybe there were none who wished to be. For, to be looked upon by Dmitri, was to have salvation itself look upon them. Who knew that salvation could be so cruel? But even then, to have a whole household waiting upon him, to have a room full of puppets to practice on, was not enough for the beautiful boy. What he wanted was to become the most revered heartrender in Ravka, a Sankt in the making. So, he demanded that his parents break their own hearts and send him to the only place he had ever wished to call home – a kingdom, a palace. A place fit for those who were born to be deified, were born to be written in store and remembered amongst the stars.  

His cruelty, thus far, had been exercised in the smaller intricacies – little sufferings that culminated into a greater longing that caused an everlasting ache for him and him alone. But never before had he witnessed the scarlet beauty in drawing blood, in having whole bodies stilled merely because he wished it. The opportunities on his way to Ravka came with ample opportunities for him to become the greatest at his craft. There was no ship that dared engage his vessel, marked by the seal of the Ravkan ambassador, as it passed through the waters of the True Sea. In a short amount of time, word spread of a cruel captain – one who made marionettes out of those who served him and carrion of those who dared raise their sword against him. Despite his short time at sea, traveling in reckless boredom before he would allow himself to be withheld in the walls that he so idealized, he made himself into an entity. A deity. A name. There was not a person who knew not the king of cruelty’s name. But still, to have such a reputation still left him wanting. It was not until he was standing in the lush darkness of the Unsea, drinking in the cries of terror as it coddled him -- as if he were part of it, birthed to it, and singularly made for it alone. The chaos was a welcome symphony to his ears, the cries and moans a the most beautiful cacophony of despair. When he stepped out of the Unsea on the skiff, untouched and smiling still, not one person wondered who the favored of the Darkling would be. Just as he was favored by fate, he was favored by the maker of fate himself. And since then, he has been a steadfast pupil of the prince of darkness and his wanton ways.

It was under the Darkling’s tutelage that he sought to make the high heavens his throne and the earth below his footstool. Whole kingdoms would be the jewels that adorned his throne. Even without his birthright, he could have brought empires to their knees with one cruel-edged smile, one clench of a brass-knuckled fist. Heartrender; the women hissed in the streets when he was young. Heartbreaker; they sigh, now that he is full of power and calamity, arrogance and seduction. But above all, this. Heartless. Beauty is terror, and terror tastes like blood on a midsummer night, all drawn out cries and bulging chests, collapsing lungs and crumpling legs, gruesome marionettes dancing at his whim like carnal fancies of a puppeteer’s idle hand. And carnal he was, with his white billowing shirts and dark keftas blowing like flags of war against a black horizon – carnal he was, with his deep purrs and rotten mouth. He was painted in shades of gold against the obsidian floors, he was wearing his danger like a pin of pride upon his cloaks, he was full of an ancient, swelling chaos. Could you see it in the turmoil of his gaze, the way it languidly razed cities, the way it casually broke bone and kissed death? Could you see it? He would never be a king, nor a saint, nor a martyr strung up to dry. He would never sit upon the throne – but he would stand behind it, with his conquest and ruination, with his glorious lust for blood and flesh alike. Elite soldier, son of darkness, destroyer of worlds.

CONNECTIONS

VIKTOR LANTSOV: No one was safe from the physical manifestation of their most carnal desires -- and for Viktor Lantsov, Dmitri happened to be it. If one were looking for the holy sanctity, the tender intimacy that often transpired behind closed doors, then they would have to look some place other than the bedroom that the two often hid in. Although, hiding was much too soft a word to use. Viktor often grabbed him by the throat and dragged him into the darkness, Dmitri all too willing and all too eager to follow the barbed words and guttural growls that often times led the way. But perhaps, just perhaps he deserved them -- for the satisfied smirk that seemed ever-present on his lips and the smugness with which he wiped the corner of his mouth after. Poor Viktor thought himself above his carnal desires, so it was fitting that Dmitri should show him that he was not without. 

ISKRA RAEVSKY: There are not many people within the white walls and polished floors that he would qualify as “amusing”. But she is one of the few -- for the way that she isolates herself from her own kind, following the bastard prince around like the wolves do their druskelle. For the way that words tumble from her mouth like water from a waterfall -- unheeding and uninhibited in the way which it pours over the rocks. There are times when he approaches her in his errands to and from the Grand Palace, goading her and coaxing her into a fury. He seeks to belittle her and remind her of something that she had learned a long time ago: one cannot be both a wolf and a lion. A human or a Grisha. Pick one or the other, but a person can never be both. 

ALEKSANDER MOROZOVA: He calls him his liege, but knows him as his lord. There was a time when he thought himself to be the prize of the Darkling’s eyes, but those days are long past. He is not sure where he went wrong -- what brought on this cold reprimand. But whatever the penance be, he has been trying to fulfill it for too long a time. They call him the Darkling’s bitch when they think he doesn’t hear -- and that just might be true -- but he will one day prove himself to be his left hand while Altan be his right. How sad -- pitiable, even -- is it that a creature who has never known mercy, asks for it to be put upon them. 

INTRODUCTION

LOYALTY: Ravka/Dime Lions

STATUS: Taken by Stevie

FACECLAIM: Michiel Huisman

There is a storm, vicious and mighty, that resonates beneath your skin. It’s as wild as the winter in which you remember last of all. Born of a pauper and his wife, the world had owed you nothing and in turn it had given you such. No more than a tender child when it happened. A hollow scream echoing through the night as blood coursed from your mother and fathers eyes. As their hearts came to a stop and you found yourself ripped from your bed, kicking and screaming all the while you’d watched those monsters murder a village. Kerch was your birthplace, but it was Ravka that you’d called home. Wooden swords had soon turned into cold steele and you yourself had climbed from pauper to prince of sorts. It was a coincidence, they say, that you ended up within the Little Palace alongside the heir of Ravka. Alongside the same villainous things that murdered your family, that destroyed a life you’d once known if only to give you this, a life you’d yearned for. No longer was your stomach crying out in hunger, no longer did you lay your head to rest shivering. This was the life you’d once dreamed of, to live amongst kings and their consorts. Hatred grew into something likened to gratitude towards the man who he’d called father, something of a second son to Alexander Lantsov and his wife. An orphan of lowly blood who’d found himself adorned in the finest of weaponry and armour to fight for a country that treated monsters as equals and magic as if it were something worth saint hood. Adorned with furs and sharpened blades, you seek revenge upon those who’d harmed the crown you are now sworn to protect. They call you the shadow, praise you for your tact and skill. A boy with a knack, neigh talent, for murder as if he’d been exposed to it, as if he’d been born for it.

Heart swathed in nothing short of anger, in something likened to disgust. You fight alongside your future king, the palace praises you for murdering men who remind you of your father and in turn you bow to the crown. Bruises cover every inch of your body and for a moment they question if you like the pain, if you feel as though you deserve it. Blood thirst itches at your throat, for it isn’t villages you wish to burn down but the temples that worship the Grisha, the churches that boast over the Saints that haunt your dreams. The world around you begins to crumble, and soon you cannot help but stand firm in your loyalty to Ravka. It was this, or death, you remember. You wear every medal with honour and think yourself a traitor to your families name –– a pity you simply cannot remember it, they gave you a new one the moment you’d slid through those gates. Years as a soldier prepare you for the worst, for the murder of your brother, for the country that was never truly yours to turn on you for it entirely. There is nothing short of fear in your eyes as you carefully plot the demise of the Lantsov bloodline alongside a grisha, a heartrender. Ravka will mourn King Nikolai, but you will only be remembered as a traitor, as a coward. This thought alone fears you more than the uncertainty that lies ahead. Setting sail across the True Sea if only to find solace in Ketterdam, in a place you’d once called home as a child. Nose slightly slimmer and jaw more defined, there’s an air of roughness that surrounds you, swallows you whole as if you’ve been battle bred since birth. The town is filled with gutter rats and the men and women low enough to consider themselves much of the same, so much so that it haunts you. You’d followed a dead king and his grisha right hand into the midst of a war that was not your own, a foolish action by a foolish man. How you’d failed to learn your lesson over the years. Kissed by death, the shadows are something in which you resonate with, something that makes you feel whole. Lucky for you, they seem to believe the same of you.

CONNECTIONS

NIKOLAI LANTSOV & ANYA RESNIKOV ( The Triumvirate ) : Runaways, traitors,murderers. In the middle of a snowfall, together they’d plotted the death of a king and the birth of a revolution. It’s Nikolai who has Dmitri’s trust, who he considers family. Anya simply comes along. Their hatred for one another is put aside if only for Nikolai and their devotion to him, the trust they both seem to place within his hands. He’d fought in the front line beside Nikolai, had found a brotherhood in the dead king even.Many a night spent within the war room with the king and his right hand, a grisha lieutenant of the Second Army with whom he simply couldn’t respect. Yet, he’d found himself following nonetheless. For Ravka, they whisper, candles flickering in the dead of night as they march on, not to hide but to plan.

HENRIK VAN ECK ( Lock and Key ) : Lay low, they’d told him. Find something and fight for it. To blend in to Ketterdam was to allow oneself to sin, to let go of inhibitions and morals. Something in which Dmitri had struggled with, to give up control. Yet, it’s Henrik who throws sacks of kruge at him, it’s Henrik who spreads the word that there is a new boxer within the underground. The world yells, taunts and torments him as he steps into the ring, blood pouring from cut lip. They call him a feral wolf, someone to bet upon if you’d like to keep your millions. He wears the title well if only to survive, if only to uncover.