[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=B22222]Vladimir Alexandrov[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/3068ada6-2525-4e47-b1a8-14d98dfb6177.jpg[/img][h3][color=firebrick][b][i]"[u]The Great Bazhooli[/u]"[/i][/b][/color][/h3][/center][hr][hr][center][color=B22222][b]Location:[/b][/color] Bristol Ship 
[color=B22222][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Fal'shbort[/i] (Passive), [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] (Passive), English [/center][hr]

	The prospect of rest was apparently short-lived and dreamless. No sooner had Vladimir's eyes closed, it seemed, than they opened one again with what felt like a mild dose of the sickness that commonly visits heavy drinkers in the morning hours. Between the headache and vague feeling of disorientation, it was necessary for the primarily land-bound Russian to roll to the side and place both feet firmly upon the ground. Unfortunately, the support of solid earth underneath him was not to be had while upon a ship at sea. Still, Vladimir was not vomiting, nor did he feel that he was in danger of it imminently. 

	All the same, Vlad needed to get his bearings. Clear his head. Why, he hadn't even had the benefit of the gift of [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] in what seemed like a long while, in comparison to others of his people with that particular gift. Perhaps it was indicative of something. An imbalance perhaps, or something blocking him from glimpsing that which his forebearers would wish to show. Perhaps even the mere gift of that extra sight might be enough to cripple him in some way or cause him to rethink a course of action that, for whatever reason, the fates decreed must be so. It was puzzling. He raised his head to ask Constantin about just that, in an academic sense purely, when he realized that he was alone in the cabin. Funny, he was rarely ever alone. 

	The oft dramatic Russian slowly pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself against the pitch and sway of the ship. Once he found his rhythm, he ventured as far as to pull two of his many knives from off his person, one for each hand, and give them a little twirl. It was a thing that he did to center himself. Child's play, really, a basic exercise to acquaint one's reflexes with the weight and balance of the blades, which he often used for the purpose of focusing his intentions. Around each finger and back, ever spinning until they went from an overhanded grip to an underhanded one, and then back into their sheaths again. Vladimir blew out a breath and shook some residual soreness from his arms, straightened his clothes as best he could, and strode purposefully from the cabin in search of his traveling companions.  

	The sight that greeted him on the main deck was a little surprising, though not altogether unexpected. The mad German fellow was passed out, arms tangled upon the railing and legs akimbo. Vlad didn't blame him, he was in a position not utterly dissimilar earlier. It did strike him as humorous, however. Far be it for him to toss small, hard objects at a man unable to defend himself nor appreciate the sport of it; Vladimir decided that simply leaving him alone to sleep was the best course of action in the meantime. On the other hand, the crew seemed to be out of sorts about something. 

	Swiftly locating Constantin, Vlad spoke to him with some seriousness, [color=B22222]"Константин, что случилось? Почему экипаж нервничает?"[/color][sub]1[/sub]

[hider=Translations]
1	=	"Constantin, what has happened? Why does the crew look nervous?"
[/hider]