12-10-2014, 10:46 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-11-2014, 12:26 AM by Slovakiani.)
*As a note, I thought quotes made it easier to distinguish between sections. I can change it back, if necessary.
I am an experienced writer with something close to 11 years of experience in 'Roleplay' (If the things that happened on Demise of Brotherhood maps could be considered such). I started off in 3D graphics based role playing games though I quickly moved on to more unconditional forms such as Dungeons and Dragons tabletop, GURPs and GURPs Traveler, and even Rogue Trader and Dark Heresy.
Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos and The Frozen Throne saw a (slightly) more mature brain, and it was there that I really got into Roleplay--I was eleven at the time. Oh, the good days, though I can't remember much of them. I remember the Demise of Brotherhood maps, I remember the billions of DotA maps, Life of a Peasant maps. Rocked that restaurant job all day long, man. But, as fun as all the custom roleplaying maps were, Warcraft III was most important to me for it's private chat rooms; It was here that I got heavily into Text based roleplay, and I still roleplay purely in text for most of my entertainment. Variety is, of course, the spice of life.
And then World of Warcraft came out. My father got it for me on Christmas the year it came out, paid my subscription fees for several months, only to find out.. that I wasn't even interested in it. Don't get me wrong, Classic WoW was probably really good, but at the time I just couldn't understand the whole MMORPG thing. They were bland, they were repetitive, they were grind fests, how was that supposed to be fun? I only got to level 36 on a mage before I gave up.
It took me years to get into MMORPGs. The first wasn't even a roleplaying game, per-say--at least, I've never seen any roleplay from it. EVE Online was the first subscription based game that I ever got anywhere worthwhile in. A Minmatari Hurricane pilot, blowing up carebears in nullsec with a group of raiders. It was the most fun I'd ever had in an MMORPG, and that got me wondering what I was missing out of others. The next one I played was Everquest.. and, bleh. No. It has it's charms, but they're not for me.
I only got into World of Warcraft again when a friend prompted me about a private server. Molten WoW, of all things; The Wrath of the Lichking. Zurakai the orc warrior, I leveled him all the way up to eighty and became very involved with Raiding--both PUG and as a guild. The amount of times I ran Naxxramas would probably make your head spin, though I bet a select few of you know that feeling. When Cataclysm came out, I bought the subscription.. and it wasn't even the same game anymore. No. It was better. Repetitive gather quest, pointless animal cullings--mostly gone. Replaced with--dare I say it?--story. Real story that didn't seem like a whole bunch of pointless filler in between you and the end game raiding.
Cataclysm reignited my interest in the World of Warcraft lore, and I carried that interest through into Mists of Pandaria as well. I have not had the chance to see the new expansion, though I admit that I'm a bit leery about the idea of time traveling back to Draenor before it was shattered..
I enjoy a great variety of settings, most of which are inapplicable to Conquest of the Horde. In fact, I run a roleplaying server of my own based off of a free game called 'Space Station 13'. I am the host of Hypatia Station, one of the moderately popular roleplaying stations that feature persistent universes. Science Fiction is one of my greater interests; particularly of the military sort.
But, not to be distracted from the question at hand; Freeform roleplay, utmost. Textbased excels in this, and I've honed all of my skills as a writer, narrator and story teller out of things like Dungeons and Dragons, GURPs and Dark Heresy.
Cataclysm? Worgen. Worgen fascinate me. A whole kingdom of humans, isolated by a massive wall from the rest of the world; mostly protected by the Scourge by a weapon of their own creation, but in the end, being undone by the very thing that saved them. I always wondered what the ramifications of that would be on a real roleplaying server; The Alliance accepting the Gilnaesians into the fold, even after they refused to help them in their direst need. Cutting themselves off from the world, ignoring everyone outside their walls.. how were there not riots over that? They were refugees, sure, but why help them when they wouldn't in return?
Class? Warrior, of course. Who can even debate it?
Zakhail Igorev was daydreaming. His eyes were lidded, gazing up at the dim light the bare bulb on his ceiling cast through the ancient ship's compartment. Rust covered most of the metal bulkheads, painting the room a depressing orange-brown. Debris and old bottles were scattered about the room, and it was barren except for a small cot with a ragged blanket, a rickety table, a locked, rusted locker, and the decrepit lawn chair that Igorev sat on. The hatch was open in the vain attempt to coax a breeze into the sweltering compartment, but night should be falling soon, and with it, blessed coolness.
Zakhail was dreaming of a lady. A pretty lady with platinum blonde hair, and ice blue eyes, in a light blue dianen dress. She was happy, and when she smiled, a small strip of her white teeth showed and gave her mirthful look a charm that no one could match, in Zakhail's opinion. She was smiling at him, and he could feel himself smiling back at her. She was so beautiful, like the orchid flowers in the hydroponics cavern. She was coming closer. He could smell the sweet scent of her hair. The rest of the world wasn't even there. It was just a plane of white, with her. She was so close they were nearly touching forms, his wiry, leanly muscled build to her thin, delicate..
"You're going in the rift, tomorrow."
Zakhail jolted awake, and a hand half-drew the machete from his boot as his eyes searched; there. In the open hatch, his father stood.
He was Victor Igorev, the Mayor of Rift City, descended from the lineage of the captain who had crash landed on this planet four generations ago. Barrel chested and broad shouldered, he stood at five foot nine inches. He wore dusty, patched overalls and a red flannel shirt with its sleeves rolled up to bare his hairy arms. His balding head was hidden behind the cap of his office; a black cap with a visor that might of been glossy once, but was no more. Old gold piping met at the crease from the visor to the black cloth of the cap itself, and at the center, a centimeter above the piping was an ancient red star.
They say that the star belonged to a great nation somewhere in the stars, and that the survivors of Rift City were descendants of those people. The cap and it's star had belonged to the Captain of the ship, and it was passed down from father to first born son, and with it, the responsibility of keeping Rift City alive. The first Captain, Iosef Igorev had believed that rescue would be on the way, but after four generations, the Red Star and the nation it once belonged to was just a myth. A superstition.
"You're sending me into the rift?" Zakhail would repeat dumbly, as his mind tried to wrap itself around that statement; the fingers had already released the hilt of the blade, and he leaned forward in the ancient, creaky chair.
The Rift was the colony's life. Many millennium ago, their planet had been savaged by an asteroid strike that wiped out most of the life on this world. The strike left the planet's surface dry, dusty and nigh inhospitable thanks to the searing temperatures of the day, and the freezing cold of the night, but it had also sundered the surface of the planet to form a massive ravine that stretched for nearly a thousand kilometers along the equator of the dusty planet, and revealed the porous, water laden core. From these massive aquifers, too far down to affect the surface, life had started again. The porous core of the planet was teeming with life and danger, and humans did not often traverse it's dark depths because of the creatures that inhabited it, and Rift City was built right onto the sheer cliff sides that formed this entrance to this Underworld.
The city, if it could be called that, surrounded an ancient, rusting colony ship that was embedded into the cliff side after it's crash. It was not a city spread across the horizontal, but rather, the vertical. A sprawling human civilization of rusted metal and carved stone. Floors of metal grating set with sturdy girders, homes and shops carved out of the sandstone cliff side, with massive cable bridges connecting to the far ravine walls and another populated portion of the city.
Roughly twenty-two thousand people of the fifty thousand survived the crash to populate the Rift, and they had made a life for themselves here, as harsh as it was.
"That's what I said," His father replied gruffly in that resonating, deep voice. "You will join the Rakers on their ascent tomorrow, and you will provide for your people." The tone became harder near the end of his statement.
The Rakers were essential to the survival of Rift City. No one wanted to go into the Rift, anymore, not the unexplored, unsecured places. Not anyone that was sane, at any rate. But without exploring the Rift, the city would wither and die, for The Rift was the only source of water on this dry, dust-ball of a planet. It was the only source of the fauna and flora the city required to sustain itself, the source of the glowing biox crystals that now powered the ancient generators within the colony ship and its city.
Because of this, the Rakers were created. They were scouts, machinists, and soldiers, driven pride, a desire to explore something more than the lofty heights of their city, or perhaps just pure stupidity. Probably all three. They were the surveyors of the Underworld, more at home in the belly of this savage planet than in the City of their birth.
And Zakhail Igorev had absolutely no desire to be one of those morons.
He sat, speechless for a moment. He knew his mouth was gaping open and he hated it, but he couldn't help himself. How could his father betray him like that? He could never be a Raker!
It wasn't that Zakhail wasn't fit for the job, physically at least; he had a wirey build with lean, tough muscle covering his legs and arms from climbing through the city. He'd been rapelling down ropes, climbing sheer rockfaces and leaping from precarious ledge to even more precarious ones since he was a young boy.
"But fathe-" Zakhail whined; how he hated his voice when he did that, but he couldn't help it.
"Be quiet." Came a stern command from Victor. It almost sounded like a warning. "You don't get to voice an opinion. You are a disappointment."
Zakhail blinked, dazed. His hands gripped the arm rest of the shoddy lawn chair tightly, uncertain of what to say or what to do, or even if there was anything to be done about this. Victor was as stubborn as a mule when he made up his mind, and there was geniune wrath in his voice. What could he have possibly done wrong to deserve this?
"Zakhail, I raised you to put the City first over anything. Even yourself," Victor growled. He stood in the hatch, his face dark due to the poor lighting of the compartment. It didn't take Zakhail much imagination to picture the wrinkles creasing on his forehead, or his big, bushy black eyebrows slanting downwards. "And what do I get? A spoiled brat. A bully. Picks on others for your own amusement, the people who are to trust your judgement when the cap passes!"
That was what this was about? Stars, maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought.
"They were just homel--" He began, only to be cut off by a thunderous roar.
"BE QUIET, BOY. I've had enough of your insolence. It does not matter if they are homeless. It does not matter if they're Rakers, or the Sariat. It does not matter if they have a political agenda that differs from your own, they are still your responsibility. You will be responsible for the well being of every man, woman and child in this city, boy, and I fear for them! I do."
Zakhail was quiet again, listening. His face contorted into that of annoyance and he could feel his upper lip trembling in a pout. "But you can't send me down as a Raker, that's dangerous!" He whined again. Stars, he hated that tone.
"No. You won't be going down as part of a Raker team, you will be -leading- a Raker team." He replied.
"What, how is that any better!?"
"You will report to the Senior Praporshchik tonight. You will take no clothing or possessions," Victor continued on, ignoring his outburst. "You will have a brief night of preparation and orientation with the squad you will be taking over, and then you will take your people into the Underworld."
"Why!"
"Because, boy, one way or another, you need to learn to respect the people who follow you. You're an arrogant little spoiled child, and you're not fit to wear this Cap. And boy, you'd better not return until you are." A slashing motion from his father's hand cut off any response, and with that, Victor Igorev turned and stormed down the passageway.
Zakhail Igorev sat in stunned silence for a few moments, unable to comprehend what just happened. He was being forced into this duty against his will. He was going into the Underworld. He was going to -die- down there.
"Hooy na ny!" He cursed out, his tone still shocked and incredulous. "Poshol nahuj! Eede vhad e sgadie kak malinkey suka!" He spat out strings of the mother tongue as his voice filled with rage. He would stand, his left hand reaching out, seizing the edge of that table and flipping it with a loud banging clatter. "Eto loshad' der'mo!" Another exclaimation, as he reached down to grab the legs of that lawn chair. He jerked it off the floor twisted in place to slam it against the bulkhead once. Twice. Three times, over and over, and each time it slammed home it caused a loud, resonating thud to travel through the metal.
The chair would end up a mangled mess, and Zakhail panting and wheezing as he dropped the chair to lean against the wall. Oh, Stars. How was he going to explain this to Nadezhda?
* * * * *
Quote:First and foremost: Tell us about yourself, as a playerMy name is Slovakiani, though most end up shortening my name to Slovak or Slova; I respond to any of them. I am a twenty two year old from the United States of America, and aspiring Medical Student, god save my wallet from the bills.
I am an experienced writer with something close to 11 years of experience in 'Roleplay' (If the things that happened on Demise of Brotherhood maps could be considered such). I started off in 3D graphics based role playing games though I quickly moved on to more unconditional forms such as Dungeons and Dragons tabletop, GURPs and GURPs Traveler, and even Rogue Trader and Dark Heresy.
Quote:What country do you come from? What is your primary language?The United States of America, and English. I do know some Russian.
Quote:How did you get into Warcraft?My father owned a copy of Warcraft II: Tides of Darkness that I started to play when I was six. There was only one computer back then, before my folks got hooked on Dragon Realms, and it tended to go unused; every day I'd come home from school and sit there with the Map Editor and draw out these massive siege maps for hours, voicing out characters. For instance, I remember my favorite character, one I'd always bring back when I was murdering trolls; the elven ranger, 'Frank'--yes, I know, Frank, I was six leave me alone. He wasn't exactly the most developed character, I believe his most used line was 'Die die die!' But, such are elves. Vicious things.
Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos and The Frozen Throne saw a (slightly) more mature brain, and it was there that I really got into Roleplay--I was eleven at the time. Oh, the good days, though I can't remember much of them. I remember the Demise of Brotherhood maps, I remember the billions of DotA maps, Life of a Peasant maps. Rocked that restaurant job all day long, man. But, as fun as all the custom roleplaying maps were, Warcraft III was most important to me for it's private chat rooms; It was here that I got heavily into Text based roleplay, and I still roleplay purely in text for most of my entertainment. Variety is, of course, the spice of life.
And then World of Warcraft came out. My father got it for me on Christmas the year it came out, paid my subscription fees for several months, only to find out.. that I wasn't even interested in it. Don't get me wrong, Classic WoW was probably really good, but at the time I just couldn't understand the whole MMORPG thing. They were bland, they were repetitive, they were grind fests, how was that supposed to be fun? I only got to level 36 on a mage before I gave up.
It took me years to get into MMORPGs. The first wasn't even a roleplaying game, per-say--at least, I've never seen any roleplay from it. EVE Online was the first subscription based game that I ever got anywhere worthwhile in. A Minmatari Hurricane pilot, blowing up carebears in nullsec with a group of raiders. It was the most fun I'd ever had in an MMORPG, and that got me wondering what I was missing out of others. The next one I played was Everquest.. and, bleh. No. It has it's charms, but they're not for me.
I only got into World of Warcraft again when a friend prompted me about a private server. Molten WoW, of all things; The Wrath of the Lichking. Zurakai the orc warrior, I leveled him all the way up to eighty and became very involved with Raiding--both PUG and as a guild. The amount of times I ran Naxxramas would probably make your head spin, though I bet a select few of you know that feeling. When Cataclysm came out, I bought the subscription.. and it wasn't even the same game anymore. No. It was better. Repetitive gather quest, pointless animal cullings--mostly gone. Replaced with--dare I say it?--story. Real story that didn't seem like a whole bunch of pointless filler in between you and the end game raiding.
Cataclysm reignited my interest in the World of Warcraft lore, and I carried that interest through into Mists of Pandaria as well. I have not had the chance to see the new expansion, though I admit that I'm a bit leery about the idea of time traveling back to Draenor before it was shattered..
Quote:How did you find us? Did anything in particular draw you to the server?I used to roleplay here on a different account a long, long time ago, actually. That's how I know about the server. How did I find it back then? Heck if I know. Google?
Quote:What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy?All kinds. I like risk, especially. Danger excites, keeps things interesting. It's not to say there are no merits in a casual conversation between characters, of course; but only when such characters actually manage to have interesting things to talk about!
I enjoy a great variety of settings, most of which are inapplicable to Conquest of the Horde. In fact, I run a roleplaying server of my own based off of a free game called 'Space Station 13'. I am the host of Hypatia Station, one of the moderately popular roleplaying stations that feature persistent universes. Science Fiction is one of my greater interests; particularly of the military sort.
But, not to be distracted from the question at hand; Freeform roleplay, utmost. Textbased excels in this, and I've honed all of my skills as a writer, narrator and story teller out of things like Dungeons and Dragons, GURPs and Dark Heresy.
Quote:What is your favorite race/class? Why?As of Mists of Pandaria? Pandaren. Why? Their mildly isolationist tendencies and obvious oriental heritage remind me (again, for obvious reasons) of the Ming and Qing dynasties, and the history of the orient has always been an interest of mine.
Cataclysm? Worgen. Worgen fascinate me. A whole kingdom of humans, isolated by a massive wall from the rest of the world; mostly protected by the Scourge by a weapon of their own creation, but in the end, being undone by the very thing that saved them. I always wondered what the ramifications of that would be on a real roleplaying server; The Alliance accepting the Gilnaesians into the fold, even after they refused to help them in their direst need. Cutting themselves off from the world, ignoring everyone outside their walls.. how were there not riots over that? They were refugees, sure, but why help them when they wouldn't in return?
Class? Warrior, of course. Who can even debate it?
Quote:What are your expectations of this server?What I expect of every server; Rationality and diplomacy, and a fair amount of drama. Don't get me wrong, I'm not here to seek out drama--I hate the stuff. But you know it happens, and I'd be a fool not to expect it. Trust me, I know how it goes; when you run a roleplaying server on a free-to-play game, you learn really quick.
Quote:Out of all of our rules and regulations listed on our server, which appeals to you the most?Death. Your life shouldn't be a game. Besides, that makes risking it all the more entertaining, doesn't it?
Quote:Did you know that we have a Mentor Program? It's entirely voluntary and you as a new player can sign up for it right now in your introduction! Are you interested in signing up to be assigned a Mentor? If so, say so here (Please enter at least "Yes" or "No")Sure, why not? I have a few odd questions, I could use a mentor. We have the same program on Hypatia. Sort of.
Quote:Lastly, tell us a story! It can be short, it can be long; but most importantly, we want to see your work in action. Go!Does a somewhat rough draft of a prompt count? This was written mostly to get ideas brainstorming for something I did in a Traveler tabletop game.
Zakhail Igorev was daydreaming. His eyes were lidded, gazing up at the dim light the bare bulb on his ceiling cast through the ancient ship's compartment. Rust covered most of the metal bulkheads, painting the room a depressing orange-brown. Debris and old bottles were scattered about the room, and it was barren except for a small cot with a ragged blanket, a rickety table, a locked, rusted locker, and the decrepit lawn chair that Igorev sat on. The hatch was open in the vain attempt to coax a breeze into the sweltering compartment, but night should be falling soon, and with it, blessed coolness.
Zakhail was dreaming of a lady. A pretty lady with platinum blonde hair, and ice blue eyes, in a light blue dianen dress. She was happy, and when she smiled, a small strip of her white teeth showed and gave her mirthful look a charm that no one could match, in Zakhail's opinion. She was smiling at him, and he could feel himself smiling back at her. She was so beautiful, like the orchid flowers in the hydroponics cavern. She was coming closer. He could smell the sweet scent of her hair. The rest of the world wasn't even there. It was just a plane of white, with her. She was so close they were nearly touching forms, his wiry, leanly muscled build to her thin, delicate..
"You're going in the rift, tomorrow."
Zakhail jolted awake, and a hand half-drew the machete from his boot as his eyes searched; there. In the open hatch, his father stood.
He was Victor Igorev, the Mayor of Rift City, descended from the lineage of the captain who had crash landed on this planet four generations ago. Barrel chested and broad shouldered, he stood at five foot nine inches. He wore dusty, patched overalls and a red flannel shirt with its sleeves rolled up to bare his hairy arms. His balding head was hidden behind the cap of his office; a black cap with a visor that might of been glossy once, but was no more. Old gold piping met at the crease from the visor to the black cloth of the cap itself, and at the center, a centimeter above the piping was an ancient red star.
They say that the star belonged to a great nation somewhere in the stars, and that the survivors of Rift City were descendants of those people. The cap and it's star had belonged to the Captain of the ship, and it was passed down from father to first born son, and with it, the responsibility of keeping Rift City alive. The first Captain, Iosef Igorev had believed that rescue would be on the way, but after four generations, the Red Star and the nation it once belonged to was just a myth. A superstition.
"You're sending me into the rift?" Zakhail would repeat dumbly, as his mind tried to wrap itself around that statement; the fingers had already released the hilt of the blade, and he leaned forward in the ancient, creaky chair.
The Rift was the colony's life. Many millennium ago, their planet had been savaged by an asteroid strike that wiped out most of the life on this world. The strike left the planet's surface dry, dusty and nigh inhospitable thanks to the searing temperatures of the day, and the freezing cold of the night, but it had also sundered the surface of the planet to form a massive ravine that stretched for nearly a thousand kilometers along the equator of the dusty planet, and revealed the porous, water laden core. From these massive aquifers, too far down to affect the surface, life had started again. The porous core of the planet was teeming with life and danger, and humans did not often traverse it's dark depths because of the creatures that inhabited it, and Rift City was built right onto the sheer cliff sides that formed this entrance to this Underworld.
The city, if it could be called that, surrounded an ancient, rusting colony ship that was embedded into the cliff side after it's crash. It was not a city spread across the horizontal, but rather, the vertical. A sprawling human civilization of rusted metal and carved stone. Floors of metal grating set with sturdy girders, homes and shops carved out of the sandstone cliff side, with massive cable bridges connecting to the far ravine walls and another populated portion of the city.
Roughly twenty-two thousand people of the fifty thousand survived the crash to populate the Rift, and they had made a life for themselves here, as harsh as it was.
"That's what I said," His father replied gruffly in that resonating, deep voice. "You will join the Rakers on their ascent tomorrow, and you will provide for your people." The tone became harder near the end of his statement.
The Rakers were essential to the survival of Rift City. No one wanted to go into the Rift, anymore, not the unexplored, unsecured places. Not anyone that was sane, at any rate. But without exploring the Rift, the city would wither and die, for The Rift was the only source of water on this dry, dust-ball of a planet. It was the only source of the fauna and flora the city required to sustain itself, the source of the glowing biox crystals that now powered the ancient generators within the colony ship and its city.
Because of this, the Rakers were created. They were scouts, machinists, and soldiers, driven pride, a desire to explore something more than the lofty heights of their city, or perhaps just pure stupidity. Probably all three. They were the surveyors of the Underworld, more at home in the belly of this savage planet than in the City of their birth.
And Zakhail Igorev had absolutely no desire to be one of those morons.
He sat, speechless for a moment. He knew his mouth was gaping open and he hated it, but he couldn't help himself. How could his father betray him like that? He could never be a Raker!
It wasn't that Zakhail wasn't fit for the job, physically at least; he had a wirey build with lean, tough muscle covering his legs and arms from climbing through the city. He'd been rapelling down ropes, climbing sheer rockfaces and leaping from precarious ledge to even more precarious ones since he was a young boy.
"But fathe-" Zakhail whined; how he hated his voice when he did that, but he couldn't help it.
"Be quiet." Came a stern command from Victor. It almost sounded like a warning. "You don't get to voice an opinion. You are a disappointment."
Zakhail blinked, dazed. His hands gripped the arm rest of the shoddy lawn chair tightly, uncertain of what to say or what to do, or even if there was anything to be done about this. Victor was as stubborn as a mule when he made up his mind, and there was geniune wrath in his voice. What could he have possibly done wrong to deserve this?
"Zakhail, I raised you to put the City first over anything. Even yourself," Victor growled. He stood in the hatch, his face dark due to the poor lighting of the compartment. It didn't take Zakhail much imagination to picture the wrinkles creasing on his forehead, or his big, bushy black eyebrows slanting downwards. "And what do I get? A spoiled brat. A bully. Picks on others for your own amusement, the people who are to trust your judgement when the cap passes!"
That was what this was about? Stars, maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought.
"They were just homel--" He began, only to be cut off by a thunderous roar.
"BE QUIET, BOY. I've had enough of your insolence. It does not matter if they are homeless. It does not matter if they're Rakers, or the Sariat. It does not matter if they have a political agenda that differs from your own, they are still your responsibility. You will be responsible for the well being of every man, woman and child in this city, boy, and I fear for them! I do."
Zakhail was quiet again, listening. His face contorted into that of annoyance and he could feel his upper lip trembling in a pout. "But you can't send me down as a Raker, that's dangerous!" He whined again. Stars, he hated that tone.
"No. You won't be going down as part of a Raker team, you will be -leading- a Raker team." He replied.
"What, how is that any better!?"
"You will report to the Senior Praporshchik tonight. You will take no clothing or possessions," Victor continued on, ignoring his outburst. "You will have a brief night of preparation and orientation with the squad you will be taking over, and then you will take your people into the Underworld."
"Why!"
"Because, boy, one way or another, you need to learn to respect the people who follow you. You're an arrogant little spoiled child, and you're not fit to wear this Cap. And boy, you'd better not return until you are." A slashing motion from his father's hand cut off any response, and with that, Victor Igorev turned and stormed down the passageway.
Zakhail Igorev sat in stunned silence for a few moments, unable to comprehend what just happened. He was being forced into this duty against his will. He was going into the Underworld. He was going to -die- down there.
"Hooy na ny!" He cursed out, his tone still shocked and incredulous. "Poshol nahuj! Eede vhad e sgadie kak malinkey suka!" He spat out strings of the mother tongue as his voice filled with rage. He would stand, his left hand reaching out, seizing the edge of that table and flipping it with a loud banging clatter. "Eto loshad' der'mo!" Another exclaimation, as he reached down to grab the legs of that lawn chair. He jerked it off the floor twisted in place to slam it against the bulkhead once. Twice. Three times, over and over, and each time it slammed home it caused a loud, resonating thud to travel through the metal.
The chair would end up a mangled mess, and Zakhail panting and wheezing as he dropped the chair to lean against the wall. Oh, Stars. How was he going to explain this to Nadezhda?
* * * * *
Quote:Is there anything else you would like to add, ask, or otherwise clarify?Anything I have to ask, I'm sure I can ask the fancy-dancy Mentor person.