?

Log in

Stories Unfold RP

Character Request (specify what work they're from): PB Request:…

Stories Unfold RP

Share Next Entry
Character Request (specify what work they're from):
PB Request:
Contact (e-mail or AIM):
How much RP experience you have:
Sample post: [You may also request to do a trial RP with the mod if you have an AIM screenname]
  • Re: One of two;

    Sample post: [Russkaya Mafiya] The first thing Iliya Belikov felt as he exited the gargantuan aircraft was an intense wave of heat that set him rocking on his heels with something akin to nausea. A little over two years had withered away since the weather had been this sickeningly benign to him. Twenty-six months of relentless cold followed by stiflingly humid periods of warmth in the world‘s northernmost major city had definitely eroded his tolerance for the Californian ambiance. He had thought to dress lightly for the series of plane rides that brought him back to the United States, but even the thin suede jacket he wore was enough to trigger a mild sweat as he marched through the airport. Pursing his brow in a slight irritation, he removed the jacket and draped it over the arm that was not straining to drag along his one and only piece of luggage.

    The disheartening sight of the long line to pass through customs caused a longer string of curses in an unholy fusion of Russian and English to slip discreetly from Iliya’s mouth as he merged with the tail. The very animated multi-lingual blather surrounding him intermingling with something maudlin by Céline Dion playing on the loudspeakers quickly melded into a dull and hypnotizing roar, and soon Iliya was lost in his thoughts and uncertainties. From the instant he had left the base in St. Petersburg, the bitter memory of his last few days in the city of Los Angeles would not leave his mind. A combination of anger and alcohol had greatly blurred and distorted it, but what he did retain he recalled with brutal clarity. The thing he remembered most distinctly was the cold look of deep disappointment in his brother’s eyes, a look that had once belonged to his father, a look he hoped not to see this day.

    His reflections had eaten enough of time and space to take him to the very front of the line, and he mumbled an apology as he handed Aleksey Naryshkin’s passport to the wide-eyed and expectant customs agent behind the counter before him. Normally, he did not put forth the effort required to acquire a false identity, especially when tending to personal business, but in this case he wished to remain undetected by both those he left in Russia and those he would be confronting in America. And so, the man who did not exist passed through customs without a flaw and fast found himself trying his best to suppress his impatience while giving directions to a bumbling Indian taxi driver. After an hour and forty-five minutes of listening to the Indian man (who obstinately believed his passenger was French) recite six different variations of La Marseillaise, Iliya carelessly handed over a one-hundred dollar bill and irately slammed the car door.

    It took him what seemed like half a day to navigate the mazelike suburbs, but at long last he found himself staring up at the looming fortress that was the Belikov Estate. With a tremulous sigh, he steeled himself and advanced upon the iron-wrought gates at the center of the massive stone wall before him. In a liquid black flash of metal and a rapid succession of click clacks, four automatics were poised in perfect position to blow his brains or guts or a dreadful combination of both into oblivion. From their resting place upon the paved ground, Iliya lifted his eyes to the familiar faces before him. The four guards exchanged uneasy glances and at the faltering command of the superior among them, they lowered their weapons.

    Iliya was quickly ushered up through the mansion to Dominik’s office as not to raise suspicion, and on the way his escort informed him that his brother was tending to some business in the city at the moment and would be arriving shortly. With an uncomfortable smile and a curt bow, the mafia member closed the double doors noiselessly and left Iliya to drown in his solitude. Muttering beneath his breath, he reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket for a cigarette and lit it unceremoniously. Immersing himself in the surrealistically blue coils of smoke, he began to pace back and forth in front of the great arched window overlooking the courtyard and the stone wall surrounding it. “Come on, Dominik.”
    • Re: One of two;

      Accepted! Please do the following:

      1. Make an in-character journal
      2. Join the comm with your character's journal
      3. Go the members list and add everyone to your buddy list/journal friends list
      4. Make your first entry, which should show your character's entrance into the City
Powered by LiveJournal.com