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Realistic or Modern New Oasis: Monochrome Dreams CS Thread

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  • NORTHERN STAR SYNDICATE
    HAWKER
    NIKOLOZ "NIKA" METREVELI
    LEGAL NAME
    Nikoloz Metreveli
    AGE & BIRTH
    18 (May 5th, 1924)
    ALIAS
    Hawker
    GENDER
    Male
    HEIGHT | WEIGHT
    6'02" (188 cm) | 180 lb (82 kg)
    GANG & RANK
    Rookie of the Northern Star Syndicate [6 Points]
    ACTIVE SINCE
    1940
    Homeland
    Skarteri
    REPUTATION
    Errand Boy
    Resident Ward
    North Ward
    GENERAL DESCRIPTION
    TBA
    PERSONALITY
    Nika is an affable and humble man, careful to not try to offend others and not a fan of creating confrontation. He would rather surrender than risk a battle and rarely resorts to violence. The affability that he exudes has an air of fakeness to it, as if he is pretending to be nice to everyone. In reality, Nika despises the Northern Star Syndicate, and he openly laments his actions that led him to be in it.

    In Nika's opinion, the best weapon is rapport. He will aim to establish good rapport with others, whether that is to eventually manipulate them, capitalize off of them, or use their trust to hurt them. Despite his affability and gentleness, Nika is a rather serious person.

    Rather bafflingly, Nika tends to say rather cringe uwu shit in the most deadpan voice. He has no issues with wandering into enemy territory unless it is with the Hydras.
    HISTORICAL BIOGRAPHY
    Nika was a member of the Metreveli family, a small crime family in Skarteri. Being born into a crime family made Nika audacious and bold, and he was quite the violent youth. However, when he was 12, the Metreveli family was engulfed in, causing its dissolution, with both of Nika's parents dying in the gang war.

    With that, Nika realized that if he was to survive, he was going to need to change his attitude, so bit by bit, he adopted a kind, easy to approach demeanor. Nika joined the Northern Star Syndicate and found a role as a guy who would do small errands and deliver messages, posing as a newspaper hawker normally, being exceptionally good at delivering messages considering he didn't need them to be written down. He was also a go-to information broker in the Syndicate.
    RELATIONSHIPS
    TBA
 
Last edited:
MAIN PROFILE
POTENTIALITY


  • NORTHERN STAR SYNDICATE
    METEOR MOLOTOV
    You want a chat? Then say hello to my little friend.
    LEGAL NAME
    Grigori Anatolyevich Zharkov
    AKA
    Grisha
    AGE & BIRTH
    28 (April 18th, 1914)
    GENDER
    M
    HEIGHT | WEIGHT
    6'3" (190.5 cm) | 224 lb (101.6 kg)
    GANG & RANK
    Veteran of the Northern Star Syndicate [Six Points]
    ACTIVE SINCE
    1930's, in N.O since 1939
    Homeland
    Ruthenia
    REPUTATION
    The Red Menace // The Red-Hot Ruthski
    Resident Ward
    North Ward
    GENERAL DESCRIPTION
    In appearance, Grisha cuts a stark figure. He sports a utilitarian and practical style of clothing, leaning towards functional work attire such as plain dress suits or simple, unadorned uniforms. More often than not, he is seen in his signature black trenchcoat and ushanka. Even in warmer temperatures, due to poor circulation in his extremities, Grisha keeps a pair of leather gloves on his person at all times. Not one to indulge in pointless bourgeois aesthetics and frivolity, he keeps facial hair and accessories to an absolute minimum, maintaining a clean-shaven look that speaks to the discipline and stoicism he picked up from his time in the Ruthenian Navy. His reading glasses, when worn, are straightforward and functional, reflecting his focus on the pragmatic. A faded sailor's knot bracelet adorns his wrist, a weathered gift from his foster father. His favorite footwear are a pair of worn-in sea boots that tread the line between socialist simplicity and maritime nostalgia. In the pockets of his trenchcoat, one might find small trinkets – sea-polished stones or fragments of driftwood, each carrying the essence of the coastal life he left behind.
    PERSONALITY
    With steel in his veins and a fire stoked for every occasion, Grisha Zharkov is a man known for his unwavering conviction to the communist cause. The quintessential bold bolshevik, his fervor runs as red as the blood that courses through his veins, and then some. His fiery hair serves not only as a striking visual feature but also as a subtle emblem of the egalitarian-collectivist vision he tirelessly strives to realize under the banner of his beloved Northern Star Syndicate.

    Grisha's belief in communism is rooted in a profound desire for social equality and the eradication of class distinctions. To him, the Northern Star Syndicate symbolizes a collective journey toward a utopian society, where every individual contributes according to their ability and receives according to their needs. His red-hot conviction propels him to champion the cause with an unyielding spirit, seeing the Syndicate as the guiding star that can lead Ruthenia to a brighter, more egalitarian future. Conversely, Zharkov's disdain for unchecked, industrial capitalism burns bright as his comets and is well-known. To him, the relentless pursuit of profit at the expense of the working class epitomizes the exploitative nature of the capitalist system. The glittering skyscrapers and opulent mansions, symbols of capitalist excess, stand in stark contrast to his vision of a society where wealth is shared and no one is left behind.

    Just as the red in his hair boldly announces his allegiance, Grisha aims to be a living embodiment of the socialist ideals he holds dear. His forthright and blunt communication style reflects his disdain for obfuscation, a refusal to dilute the message he believes the people need to hear. As such, subtlety comes as naturally to Grisha as flight does to the penguins that populate the Ruthenian Pole. A spade is a spade in his eyes, and stubbornly so; sugar-coating or using sappy euphemisms in his day-to-day communication just isn't his style. There are exceptions however—nautical terms and sayings from his Ruthenian Navy days find a natural home in his speech, adding a distinct maritime flair to his expressions. It also isn't uncommon to hear Grisha occasionally slip into a soulful Ruthenian sea shanty or two when alone, just like he used to in the evenings by the docks of his home village. Paradoxically, alongside his commitment to communist principles and pragmatic outlook, whether it's a muttered phrase or a cautious glance over his shoulder at the sight of a black cat, Grisha's actions sometimes betray a lingering streak of the superstition that was ingrained in him during his formative years. Furthermore, Grisha harbors a deep love and finds solace in the whimsy of folklore, a nostalgic connection to the sea stories once woven to him in childhood. In quiet moments, one might catch the Red Menace lost in the pages of a well-worn book of Ruthenian folktales, allowing the enchantment of those tales to momentarily transport him beyond the harsh realities of the present.

    HISTORICAL BIOGRAPHY

    Once, in a seaside hamlet nestled along the coast of Ruthenia, a star fell from the night sky. On its back was a baby boy, hair burnt fiery orange as the comet entered the atmosphere and disappeared beneath the waves. At an hour so late, the only soul to see this was the old fisherman Anatoly Zharkov. Out and about on his boat, his nets had been thrown in the hope for fish; instead, they caught themselves cradling the milk white form of a floating newborn. Sobs filled the air, lips and limbs quivered as the seasoned fisherman hurriedly draped his worn scarf around the child. Peace settled only when the boy's watchful, coal-dark eyes met the stars in the sky, comforted by the rhythm of Anatoly's oars guiding toward shore, toward his new home...
    "Anatoly Ivanovich, you rascal. You never struck me as such a storyteller!"
    Raucous laughter. Lips whetted in whiskey wrapped around the slim oak of a tobacco pipe. Anatoly watched his old Navy friend, Illya Mikhailov, inhale and shake his head. "I'll never understand you small-towners. Always choosing to mythologize over simple fact. Over simple truth!"
    Anatoly leaned back, avoiding the vapors. "A star did fall the night I found him in my boat. I don't see the harm in letting him believe a little while longer."
    "For Heaven's sake, Anatoly," Illya waved his pipe. "The boy is about to enlist! Fifteen years of age. Good stock, orphan or not. I doubt he even fully believes it anymore. Let him fight for the Motherland with a clear head, free from fanciful stories like that. So what, his mother was a debt-riddled city whore who drowned herself the minute they cut him from the cord?"
    Anatoly sighed deeply. "So what? So what of his father? Have you found out anything else?"
    Illya let the pipe out from his mouth and shook the excess out. "No. Not one of us. Deserted early on in the war, but records say he was caught and shot. Serves the bastard right."
    "Bastard or not," Anatoly cut in. "You see why a story like this has merit. It keeps him anchored, in a world where so much has been taken from him..."
    Illya leaned forward, the tobacco's ember casting shadows on his face. "You're attached, Anatoly. The boy's like a son to you. But—"
    "Illya." Anatoly's eyes locked onto his friend, an unreadable gleam in them. "Believe me when I say there's something extraordinary about Grisha. It goes even beyond how highly that Communist Youth League speaks of him, beyond all his talk of equality and class struggle. He's got a spark, a fire that cannot be extinguished. And now, he's bound for a war that threatens that very flame. A war we started, a war our children now fight."
    Illya raised an eyebrow and then squinted at his old comrade, eyes penetrating like the cold Ruthenian wind. "You've certainly changed, Tolik. The old you in the Syndicate would have laughed. For all his lofty ideals, the boy is a sharp one. And besides, the League can't stop conscripted service. Soon he will be part of something greater than himself."
    Anatoly's gaze softened, memories of their past exploits flickering in his mind like flakes of snow. "Perhaps you're right, Illya. But I can't shake this feeling. There's darkness on the horizon, a storm gathering strength. And Grisha... he's at the center of it all."
    Illya chuckled, a hint of sadness tinging his voice. "Always the superstitious one, Tolik. But you're not alone in your concerns. The Syndicate has been monitoring the situation closely. We'll keep an eye on young Grisha, ensure he doesn't stray too far from the Path."
    As they sat in silence, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air. Anatoly raised his glass, a solemn toast to the future. "To Grisha then."
    Illya nodded, mirroring the gesture. "To Grisha, and to the Syndicate. May the One Star bless them both."
    THEME
    RELATIONSHIPS
    TBA
    PHOTOS







 
  • TREVISANI FAMIGLIA
    CADUCEO
    ANGELO
    LEGAL NAME
    Angelo
    AGE & BIRTH
    23-26
    ALIAS
    Caduceo
    GENDER
    Male
    HEIGHT | WEIGHT
    6' 4" (193 cm) | 203 lb (92 kg)
    GANG & RANK
    Guardian of the Luciano Family
    ACTIVE SINCE
    1928
    Homeland
    Fusilli
    REPUTATION
    The right hand of the Luciano Don, or more accurately, his shadow. Stoic and loyal, he proves to be useful and reliable despite his lack of sociability. Better described as a machine than a person.
    Resident Ward
    West Ward
    GENERAL DESCRIPTION
    Angelo possesses a tall and muscular build that is suited for taking and dealing out punishment. Coupled with a usually unchanging expression that borders on a scowl, he comes across as intimidating to some.

    His body is host to quite a few a scars, most of which stretch across his back and chest.
    PERSONALITY
    Angelo could be described as the strong and silent type, fitting for the bodyguard of a don. However, some could say that he takes it a step too far, rarely saying anything if not prompted by someone else to do so. When he does speak, he is almost always curt, as if he was burdened with a word limit. His voice gives very little in terms of emotion, typically set in slightly gruff monotone. It forms a matching set with a face near-permanently void of expression, etched with a dreary gaze that only ever seeks out potential threats.

    Because of his deamonor and build, Angelo is often compared to a rock. He flinches at nothing, as if he lacks the capacity to feel fear or pain. No matter what the world gives him, he will never give anything back. However, like a rock, he will still budge when given a proper push by someone. Most often, that person is Reevan, the man who holds his leash.

    Angelo's duty is to keep guard over the boss and carry out any order, everything else a tertiary concern or below. He only listens to Reevan or those who have been granted the proper authority by him. The only time he leaves the man's side is when he is ordered to do so, leaving almost every waking moment to be spent keeping watch over the Don.

    While extremely loyal to the Don, there is no particularly deep reason for his devotion. It is not something that is exclusive to the Luciano head. Angelo would extend the same blind fealty to anyone who he acknowledges as his "owner".

    Having been conditioned to always obey and never question, regardless of the consequences, Angelo has been stripped of the autonomy most people have. He does not think or act for himself, only ever doing so for someone else's sake. Rather than a person, he is a tool meant to be used by others, and his life permanently revolves around whoever has possession of him.

    His devotion is as weak as it is strong. If a new individual claims ownership of him through some means, he will regard them as his new handler, feeling no attachment to the previous one whatsoever. It is a process that has been repeated many times, so much so that he assumes his new position instantly without needing to hear a single word.

    Angelo only knows how to function when given specific instruction or if he's convinced a certain action is in the best interest of his superior. Without either, he does and is nothing. He will simply find a quiet space and wait until he is needed again.

    HISTORICAL BIOGRAPHY
    Shortly after being born, Angelo was left on the doorstep of a small church in Fussili. His young, poor mother believed that the kind father and his faith could give a child a much better life than she ever could, and for a period of time, she was correct. A rather short period, regrettably.

    In the beginning, things went as one would hope. Father Donato welcomed Angelo with open arms, inviting what he perceived as a duty to be upheld according to both his morals and his religion. He could not in good conscience turn away a child that had been entrusted to him by a desperate parent and potentially the lord himself.

    Donato treated Angelo quite well, doing his best to help him grow into a kind and gentle soul. Despite being faced with hardship from times of economic woe, he kept the young boy happy and healthy. Naturally, he also did his best to provide an education, both in general and religious subjects.

    As a result of his upbringing, Angelo became quite devout at a young age, doing his best to embody the values his guardian instilled. He saw Donato as a true father, possessing a love any child would for their parent. It was that very love that caused him to become aware of his "blessing".

    One day, when the poor old priest received a nasty cut while preparing dinner, the sight of blood pushed Angelo to act. Completely unaware of what he was doing or how he was doing it, he reached out and touched his father's injury. Within moments, the wound vanished, not leaving a single trace behind. Not a trace on Donato's body, at least.

    As soon as the shocked elder was freed from his pain, it was passed along to Angelo. The very same cut appeared on the young boy's body, just as fresh and deep as it seemed on its previous host. While the event caused a stir of panic, worry, and fear, there was something else far more concerning brewing in Donato's mind. There was a flicker of inspiration.

    With time and the aid of his father, Angelo became more aware of how his blessing functioned. He could relieve others of their pain, but in exchange, he would take it on himself. The small tests Donato convinced him to go through helped the two of them figure out that the burdens Angelo took on were much quicker to heal. He could recover from things that would ordinarily take a week or so to vanish within a day or two. However, injuries he endured without the involvement of his blessing took even longer.

    Angelo didn't like the tests. He still felt pain, and his blessing forced him to take on more than his fair share. However, his father's words pushed him to keep going. He was told that he could be a savior to the people who were suffering in their community. It was a duty people like him had to live up to, a fate for the chosen. It was hard to say no to that line of reasoning.

    From then on, people who came to the sermons began to receive divine healing. It started off small, mere showcases to prove that God had truly chosen a messenger, and that it was no deformity like those observed in similar circumstances. Angelo smiled through it all, dressed in large robes to conceal the burdens being forced on him. The smiles of the people around him and the relief on their faces made it all worth it, as did the approval he received from Donato. However, things quickly began to spiral out of control.

    The afflictions people begged to be cured of became more serious over time. Things as simple as cuts and infections turned to broken limbs and diseases. While Angelo was capable of recovering from these things with time, the pain and suffering still had to be endured. It became even more grueling as he was expected to stand right back on his podium every Sunday.

    The relieved faces and cheers from the community quickly became something to fear. The crowds overwhelmed and terrified him, always pressing in like a pack of vicious predators. It was no longer something he could do out of the kindness of his own heart, and as terribly selfish as it was, he wanted to stop. But Donato wouldn't allow that.

    The small parish had grown substantially. Even in a downtrodden community, donations and praise flooded in. Donato was hailed as the father to one of God's chosen, the one who had made such miracles possible. He became addicted to the feeling of being so much more than a mere messenger. He wanted more, needed and demanded it. There was no room for God in his avarice-filled heart, and he refused to let go of something he believed he and only he deserved.

    Whenever Angelo came to him, begging and pleading to bring things to an end, Donato shut him down immediately. He manipulated the boy, convincing him that only a devil in human skin would turn away the poor and desperate when they had the ability to help. A selfish creature wasn't worthy of love. They were to be reviled. He broke the boy down emotionally and physically, asking whether he preferred to feel pain because he chose to save or because he chose not to. Terrified to his core, Angelo chose the former.

    What was once a small community of the faithful became nothing more than a cult. People came from long ways from all over to be cured, offering both praise and coin to Donato. When satisfied, he graced them with the healing they sought. The blind gained sight, the immobile could rise to their own feet, and the diseased could finally breathe with ease. While they fueled the priest's ego and filled his coffers, the boy suffered.

    Angelo always recovered in time, but said time was spent in utter agony. He could not cry for fear of being silenced, and he could not whine for fear of being judged. No matter how much his body resisted, no matter how far removed his mind was from reality, he was expected to arrive just in time for Sunday service.

    After one of these services, when the masses had come and gone, a particularly affluent wheelchair-bound man came to see the famed miracle worker in person. Donato quickly recognized the man as a local crime boss, and while not nearly as powerful as others who operated in similar circles, he was no less wealthy. It seemed like a golden opportunity to secure influence and riches, so the cult leader did not hesitate to oblige.

    As requested, Angelo was brought forward. No longer able or willing to put up any form of resistance, he placed his hands on the criminal and removed the polio that had stolen his ability to walk. Immediately after, Angelo felt its effects, falling to his knees.

    Seeing how Impressed and grateful the crime boss was, Donato expected to receive a generous donation or even an invitation to some inner fold. All the old man got in return was a bullet to the head. Having seen what Angelo could do, the crime boss decided to simply take the boy for himself. A tool like that could have its uses.

    This was a cycle that repeated many times over the years. Due to the value Angelo possessed, he was highly sought after as a cure-all for any affliction, capable of bringing back people from any state barring death. He was passed around from owner to owner, either by transaction or by force. Some treated him kindly, caring for him like a delicate ornament that could fracture at any moment. Others took a rougher approach, keeping him permanently close to danger or purposefully testing the limits of his Potential.

    His impressive constitution was often mistaken for invulnerability. As a result, he was occasionally made to act as a human shield, facing barrages of blades and bullets. He'd then take on the wounds that made their way to anyone not fortunate enough to stand behind him.

    No matter how his various handlers chose to treat him, Angelo regarded all of them with indifference and obedience. He'd become numb in every senses of the word, only knowing how to answer to commands and nothing else. When he was needed, he would act. When he wasn't, he would do nothing.

    The cycle continued without change until the final days he spent with one particular owner. Said individual was another crime boss who preferred to keep him locked away like a piece of fine jewelry in a safety deposit box. He was confined to a small room with no sound and hardly any light. There was to be no chance of the golden goose being harmed, so he was shut away from the world.

    The only time Angelo budged was when he was permitted to eat and use the restroom, or when his Potential was needed. It was an instance of the latter that finally broke the cycle. When his owner hurriedly undid the locks and practically crawled into the vault, bleeding and broken. There were no questions or even the slightest hints of a reaction from Angelo. He just responded to an order to heal.

    While stripping the boss of every last wound, he could hear gunshots and screaming throughout the rest of the compound. He never looked away from his duty, though. He simply focused on doing as he was told, barely registering any presence as he tended to his owner with empty eyes. Then there was a final gunshot, one that sounded far louder than the others. It took him several seconds to finally realize that the man he was trying to repair was already dead.

    That was when he met Reevan, the man who shot and killed the person he belonged to up until that moment. Not a single word was uttered as the young boy pushed himself to his feet, his body marred by bullet holes and blood. Without any knowledge of the grudge the Luciano boss had against the people who had possession over him, he made his way to the murderer's side, conditioned to do so after many years of the same routine. In his mind, the transfer of ownership was complete, signed by the smoking gun.

    RELATIONSHIPS
    Reevan: Don of the Luciano family and Angelo's current handler. Reevan has had possession of Angelo for over decade, far longer than anyone else. During that time, Angelo has followed the Don everywhere and through everything, both in the public eye and in the underworld. He obeys the man's every command without hesitation and keeps near-constant watch over him, practically chained.

    Despite being fiercely loyal, willing to kill and die for the man, Angelo feels nothing toward Reevan. He acts without thinking, fulfilling his only purpose. Reevan is not special in that regard. Should the Don be taken out of the picture or decide to send him away, Angelo would show the same treatment to the next person in line.

 
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