Name: Aleksey Kravchuk, goes by Alex
Age: 18
Gender: Male
Appearance: Aleskey is tall, 6’3”, and broad-shouldered, but he has an otherwise average build from past years of boxing. He has a medium, sunkissed complexion, but distinctly Russian facial features. If people don’t peg him for being Russian at first hearing his accent, they tend to think he’s some kind of Eastern European. His eyes are a light brown, like two polished pennies, and his hair is dark and shaggy, but he has a natural white Mallen streak on his hairline. Sometimes he’ll have fun and dye it different colors, but for the most part, it remains white.
He has his eyebrow and his nose pierced, both with studs, and small gauges in his ear lobes. He has the beginnings of a sleeve of tattoos that starts on his shoulder and ends just above his elbow. It isn’t usually seen when he has a shirt on. His wardrobe hasn’t changed much, so it’s mostly old band t-shirts with Russian text or long-sleeved polos and jeans. All of the shirts are mostly dark colors; Red and blues.
Personality: Aleskey is, above all else, a nonconformist. He likes to swim against the current and take chances, even if the odds may not be in his favor. It’s natural for him to do things his own way and if people are willing to join him on his adventures; The more the merrier. He’s a social creature which is why his English improved so quickly in his short time in America. He makes friends in unlikely because he’s so open-minded and enthusiastic about Americans.
However, he still has a lot of pride in his country and doesn’t take any shit from anybody who disses him for being Russian or Russia in general. He has a low tolerance for ignorance, but he’s not quick to anger or violence unless he’s drunk. More often, he’ll walk away from an aggressor with a few harsh words than fight over it. His sense of humor can be a little mocking, but he means well by it.
Biography: Aleskey was born and raised in the deep, dark depths of mother Russia’s bosom and he’s always dreamed of getting out. At school, he was always a bit of pragmatist and tended to think outside of the box. Some of his teachers appreciated this quality, but many did not and he was soon forced to behave. He was an average student. Not exceptional. Not barely passing. Just middle of the range, nondescript, and extremely uninspired.
He needed an outlet, but in his family, it was always about doing what was best for the community and society and the family business and blah, blah, blah. He wanted to do something for himself. So, at eleven years old, he used his allowance money to buy himself a guitar. He taught himself, got good enough to play some gigs and invited to parties, but when it started taking pretense over the family business, his parents told him to stop. They were getting old and preparing to hand him, the oldest of three, the reigns of the bar his family owned.
He was almost eighteen when he packed a bag and bought a ticket to America, the land of opportunity. All he had was a guitar, a duffle bag full of clothes, and a pocket full of rubles. He English was already pretty decent, so now, a few months in, he’s getting by playing solo, but he’s still soul-searching. And dying for a drink and gasping for a real cigarette. Not this weak American bullshit.
Style: Definitely an alternative, maybe even a little bit of a punk rocker.
Instrument(s): His baby, Valentina.
A black Gibson kept in good condition for several years. He’s got a dozen stickers on the case it comes in, but not the guitar itself. He recently bought an
acoustic as well. He calls it Iskra.
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